saintadatha

tonight is my last shift at the mac cocking bar.
saturday we hand over the keys to the house in camden.

and thus it is that on sunday i shall be:
unemployed, and living in a one bedroom flat.
well, pad, really...

oh the bachelor existence.
isn't it horrible (yet sometimes frighteningly exhilirating) when one realises how easy it is to become a cliche...?

if you haven't read it, and the word "graphic" doesn't scare you off (and by graphic i mean with pictures, or illustrated, as opposed to excessively violent/sexual/etc.) then i recommend heartily grant morisson's the invisibles series. so there you go.

on a somewhat related tip (in that it refers to me and literature) i was sifting through reams and files of stuff from my first degree when i stumbled across a handful of old essays!

let me first explain why this is so deserving of exclamatory status.

i smoked my way clean through my second year - and i do mean "clean through". i don't remember a thing. i only know which courses i took because i have a piece of paper declaring that i passed them all. i don't remember my tutors, anything more than a handful of books that i read, and i have no idea with whom i was studying. i received three official 'you fuck up again and you're out' notices during that year (though the fact that i received three of them, instead of one, demonstrates how good i am at grovelling). my third year was a little better, but still not great. and then, one month after finishing my last exam, after handing in my last paper, after completing my degree in english literature and language, my PC died. everything. gone.

every essay, every poem, every note, every random exclamation, explanation, or analysis over the last three years. everything. gone.

what can you do? (yes, okay, so i should have backed it all up. we live and learn. what can i say?)

so, finding between letters of warning and threats of potential expulsion that i actually wrote something and that the majority of it was above that petulant line of mediocrity made me smile.

and the loveliest of all was from my course on new york and los angeles in literature and film, in an essay on walker evans in which, failing to proof-read it before i handed it in (as was then usual) i hadn't spotted a handful of whatthefuckwashisnames and ohshiticantrememberwhatthisiscalleds. and i still got a 2:1 for it, though with a note to try and read what i write, if only briefly before handing it in...

and even lovelier, in an essay on interaction between pagan and christian ideas among essentially "mid-conversion" anglo-saxons was a scrawled addendum from one of my favourite tutors (a specialist in anglo-saxon literature, feminism, and the body in literature... what a cool selection of specialities!) declaring that:

you have a wonderfully lush style which can at times be useful. but please try to avoid such gross generalizations...

it's like a grown-up "good, but you can do better" which is what all my old school reports said. i used to get the "most enthusiastic" badge at football for something ridiculous like three years in a row, before i came to the realization that, perhaps, ball games just weren't my thing...

so, my internet account dies in three days, and i shall be buying myself some webspace. i fear i must be boring... saintadatha.com would make sense to you fellows, but scarcely more. and astorytellingofravens.com, whilst beautiful, is hardly more memorable. which, boringly, leaves addiechinn.com, that being my name, i should add.

opinions? (and quick-like)

love and lollipops to one and all,
and blessings and salutations galore.

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xxx