Bad lyrics good life
I’ve been listening to a lot of music with very bad lyrics lately. Interpol and The Rentals. I love, love, love this music; you just have to plug your ears and go “la la la” when you start thinking about the words (“Would you like to be my missus and in future with child?”) you’re singing.

Things both are and are not as stressful as I’ve made them out to be here. I have a number of ideas for the thesis, and I’m plugging away on quite a few. It’s just that something someone said yesterday in a class, is true: Researching and writing are polar opposite activities. So while I’m all into the research end of things, I see no daily output in the writing, and that… Well, it’s just a big ol’ bummer when everyone around me is coming to workshops with pages and pages and with gleaming faces, “Oh, the writing was just so great, this weekend.” This weekend, for me? Well, the writing About Things Completely Unrelated to the Thesis was pretty good. But even that didn’t amount to much, quantitatively. And the poets. The poets-! With their, “Oh, I wrote two poems this week.” A poem. I am jealous of that unit of measurement. Gah-. Fucking poets with their beautiful, perfect, gifted fucking writing.

This year is weird, altogether. I’m a lot more solitary than I’ve ever been, and I don’t care. It’s that knowledge of people in the next rooms. People who are kindred. I need not talk with them, however, to get along with them. It reminds me of those odd sexual relationships where you don’t have anything to say to the other person. Except I’m not sleeping with my roommates. And we have plenty to say when we come up for air. So I guess that’s a bad analogy. Boy, it’s a good thing I’m a writer. I’m so obviously a writer.

Okay, to bed.