There will be no post tonight. Why? Because I just accidentally deleted three paragraphs and NOW I CAN'T GET THEM BACK. Ahem. Suffice it to say that there was general discussion of the last week's events.
I now find myself fuming about those lost paragraphs. They were really going somewhere, I felt. I had covered the activities of my leisurely Friday, including my television watching and what I had for dessert, and had just settled into a history of my time at uni this week. But it's all gone now.
Perhaps it's mildly appropriate that they were erased, as it forms somewhat of a link to what I was planning on writing about: a thought I had while out last night, in the cubicle of a public toilet at a bar.
(Which is not to say that the location of the thought bears much relation to the thought itself. But on with the post, which seems to have taken place after all.)
I think my fear at the moment, if fear is not too strong a word, is of not being able to express myself. I find myself being shrill, trailing off, not being able to find the right words. This was particularly the case a little over two weeks ago, when I delivered a particularly regrettable presentation in my political philosophy tutorial. The horribleness of it all was, I am certain, largely resultant from three factors: my lack of preparation; the simmering cold I was developing; and the fact that I was attempting to put forward a feminist critique of the readings, that would have required much more groundwork to be covered than would have been possible in a flimsy, ten-minute presentation. But no matter how hard I try to rationalise all this, I can't deny it: I couldn't get my point across. I couldn't even make my points seem relevant. I came across as a reactionary, moaning feminist of the "it's all the patriarchy, maaaaaan" variety. Ugh.
Which was exacerbated last night, when a guy at the Builders Arms told me that I spoke too fast and had a habit of trailing off at the end of my sentences, like I was embarrassed by what I had to say.
This can't be me! I was a debater, I tell myself. I am articulate, I am insightful, I am adept at structuring my thoughts, I am... etcetera.
So, it looks like I need to slow down. I blame Kafka for this. Inherent contradictions... prose that runs against itself and runs the characters into the ground... it's all freaking Kafka's fault.
Meanwhile, I note that I am very aware of the sensitivities I have developed from doing this contemporary feminist theory subject. Am I a feminist, I ask myself? At this point, only technically. While I may have thoughts that are completely consistent with what would be considered a feminist point of view, I don't think I would want to call myself a feminist. For reasons of 'fashion', so to speak? Probably so. I hate people like that. Oh well.
Should go to bed... Mmm... holiday sleep-in awaits. How I love leisure. Have been listening to the new White Stripes album, incidentally - I think I like the White Stripes, though Jack White's vocals so often remind me of Frank Black in the Pixies days. Which, I should add, is not a bad thing, by any means.
(I'll get some structure in the next post. I promise.)
PS. I might just add that tonight, for the first time ever, I watched a whole episode of Seinfeld and enjoyed doing so. I actually laughed at it. It's obviously just one of those things that you develop a taste for, like olives and blue cheese and whatnot. Goodnight.
I now find myself fuming about those lost paragraphs. They were really going somewhere, I felt. I had covered the activities of my leisurely Friday, including my television watching and what I had for dessert, and had just settled into a history of my time at uni this week. But it's all gone now.
Perhaps it's mildly appropriate that they were erased, as it forms somewhat of a link to what I was planning on writing about: a thought I had while out last night, in the cubicle of a public toilet at a bar.
(Which is not to say that the location of the thought bears much relation to the thought itself. But on with the post, which seems to have taken place after all.)
I think my fear at the moment, if fear is not too strong a word, is of not being able to express myself. I find myself being shrill, trailing off, not being able to find the right words. This was particularly the case a little over two weeks ago, when I delivered a particularly regrettable presentation in my political philosophy tutorial. The horribleness of it all was, I am certain, largely resultant from three factors: my lack of preparation; the simmering cold I was developing; and the fact that I was attempting to put forward a feminist critique of the readings, that would have required much more groundwork to be covered than would have been possible in a flimsy, ten-minute presentation. But no matter how hard I try to rationalise all this, I can't deny it: I couldn't get my point across. I couldn't even make my points seem relevant. I came across as a reactionary, moaning feminist of the "it's all the patriarchy, maaaaaan" variety. Ugh.
Which was exacerbated last night, when a guy at the Builders Arms told me that I spoke too fast and had a habit of trailing off at the end of my sentences, like I was embarrassed by what I had to say.
This can't be me! I was a debater, I tell myself. I am articulate, I am insightful, I am adept at structuring my thoughts, I am... etcetera.
So, it looks like I need to slow down. I blame Kafka for this. Inherent contradictions... prose that runs against itself and runs the characters into the ground... it's all freaking Kafka's fault.
Meanwhile, I note that I am very aware of the sensitivities I have developed from doing this contemporary feminist theory subject. Am I a feminist, I ask myself? At this point, only technically. While I may have thoughts that are completely consistent with what would be considered a feminist point of view, I don't think I would want to call myself a feminist. For reasons of 'fashion', so to speak? Probably so. I hate people like that. Oh well.
Should go to bed... Mmm... holiday sleep-in awaits. How I love leisure. Have been listening to the new White Stripes album, incidentally - I think I like the White Stripes, though Jack White's vocals so often remind me of Frank Black in the Pixies days. Which, I should add, is not a bad thing, by any means.
(I'll get some structure in the next post. I promise.)
PS. I might just add that tonight, for the first time ever, I watched a whole episode of Seinfeld and enjoyed doing so. I actually laughed at it. It's obviously just one of those things that you develop a taste for, like olives and blue cheese and whatnot. Goodnight.
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