RESULT!

Oct. 12th, 2011 01:29 pm
x_los: (OMG)
So, um, on Friday I got me MA thesis results back, and I got a Distinction. Not a very high one, but why quibble? I don't feel like the thesis didn't deserve it so much as I'm ASTOUNDED Goldsmiths bestirred themselves to give a fuck. Frustratingly, it seems more like random luck than the proportionate response to the work done. I don't feel like I learned anything really this year about how to perform academically (though I appreciated my readings and seminars and the new material they introduced me to or the old material they enhanced my appreciation of) and as such it's a bit difficult for me to really have a sense of pedagogical progression from my relentlessly 2.1 essays to my first!thesis, but you know what, what the fuck ever. My Overall grade will be probably a high 2.1, it can be no lower (there's a miracle!chance that weighting and exit-velocity grading will drag it to a first overall, but I'm not counting on it), with a first on the Thesis (which is the main component). It's not QUITE as well as I wanted to do or felt I showed willing to work for, but it's almost there, and now I have a real chance at entering better PhD unis/competing for funds.

Also I guess now I can post the final version of the thesis.

Side-note:

Dear NSPCC,

I realize you're trying to raise awareness of child abuse and garner funds to fight it. That's very worthy and good. But I can't watch some old Doctor Who on Dailymotion while doing dishes without your ads flickering demandingly at me. Said ads are pictures of sad small children and shifting words like 'burned' or 'beaten', or insults. It's certainly attention-catching, but as an abuse survivor, I find that uncomfortable and unnecessary. Also, as someone currently drastically under-employed, living off her student loans, I find the guilt-trip heartbreakingly pointless. Maybe recalculate the ad-formula.

Stuff I Have Been Doing Since Friday )
x_los: (Default)
Do you remember the bit in Frida, Taymor's Kahlo biopic, after she's been injured in the bus accident and her boyfriend's bringing her books to read? "Spengler, because you love him. Schopenhauer, because it's good for you."

While this interchange is terribly sweet, it's always made me feel disgustingly inadequate--when I'm ill, really ill, I'm good for so little. I find it difficult to read, nearly impossible to write. I've spent the last few days embroiled in a relapse of whatever it is I have, drifting along, accomplishing almost nothing. I'm frustrated and a bit panicked because, from all appearances, I'd been slowly but surely mending, and would be well enough to move, for work or school, by December--well enough to plan to travel to London for interviews and to visit my girlfriend by October's end without fear of plane travel (which always rests uneasily with my system) reducing me to a wreck a thousand miles from home, spoiling my time with my girlfriend and my scheduled engagements alike. I haven't changed my diet, haven't done anything that could explain a sudden, sharp, week-long downturn--and I'm worried.

Today I poked at editing my remix and sourly realized how much of it still needed written--a least another 10,000 words, so I'm only half way through at best. Not impossible, but irritating given that lately I've been too ill to think clearly enough for it. I didn't even watch anything all day, just idly talked to people and let whole hours slip away.

I did manage to finish Lieutenant Hornblower, at last, though it took an embarrassingly long time. I should pick up Hotspur tomorrow. And Atropos, to see if I can get through them both this week.

I'm now almost done with everything the miniseries covered--Katy had warned me Bush was essentially a whole new person, but I'm satisfied by his growly shoutiness, and I actually think McGann does a pretty good Bush. I really like Bush as a character, which is a testament to how well and sympathetically written he is, because Bush is in so many ways such a product of the sensibilities of his era. He's strictly defined by his limitations--which is interesting, because he's our narrator, and so our perspective of Hornblower's more complex maneuverings and moods in necessarily filtered through Bush's relentless pragmatism and occasionally nigh-Russian cautious fatalism. Bush, for example, will never really come to a judgment on what happened to Captain Sawyer, and his perspective leaves the question elegantly ambiguous--though as readers we know without having to be directly told that Hornblower is your pusher.

Everything a modern reader might find discomforting about the period's rigid notions of station and the pursuant easy assumptions of superiority comes out in Bush's perspective, but he's still really lovable. He's very capable, endearingly loyal, straightforward and genuine. He has awesome moments like these: "To him it was really excellent news; he leaned over and patted Hornblower's shoulder. He knew his face was one big smile, and he put his head on one side and his shoulder on the table so that Hornblower should get the full benefit of it."* Despite his caution and automatic disregard for whole swathes of people he perceives to be so below him as to be unworthy of consideration, Bush is capable of selfless kindness. Plus characters that are really in love are always rendered appealing by the intensity of their emotional engagement.

On that note, without any sex, Lieutenant is a love story. The basic arc of the book is Bush meeting Hornblower, getting to know him, and coming to understand that Hornblower is essentially the most important thing in his life. In their world of narrow sensibilities, the care the men demonstrate for each other becomes unspeakably important, like how contrast becomes more significant when you're working with a reduced color palate. None of the Lieutenants seem to have a lot of real friends. Bush is so long and far removed from his home life that the females who make up the family he might be expected to cherish affection for are rendered alien, domestic figures of obligation.

Tons of empathy for Hornblower--all his decisions and the processes by which he comes to them feel natural and correct. If I were like EIGHTY MILLION times cooler and a bit nicer, he is who I'd be.

Maria is interesting and well-drawn here without having to be as awesome and endearing as the protags. Wellard--gets weirdly killed off screen. I guess Naval Life is dangerous, but damn, Wellard was a Character We Knew, and got a glancing "mentioned in the naval paper" death. IN OTHER NEWS THIS BOOK WOULD HAVE BEEN GREATLY IMPROVED BY MOAR PELLEW.

* Admittedly he's WASTED there, but trust me, he can be great sober too.
x_los: (Default)
Do you remember the bit in Frida, Taymor's Kahlo biopic, after she's been injured in the bus accident and her boyfriend's bringing her books to read? "Spengler, because you love him. Schopenhauer, because it's good for you."

While this interchange is terribly sweet, it's always made me feel disgustingly inadequate--when I'm ill, really ill, I'm good for so little. I find it difficult to read, nearly impossible to write. I've spent the last few days embroiled in a relapse of whatever it is I have, drifting along, accomplishing almost nothing. I'm frustrated and a bit panicked because, from all appearances, I'd been slowly but surely mending, and would be well enough to move, for work or school, by December--well enough to plan to travel to London for interviews and to visit my girlfriend by October's end without fear of plane travel (which always rests uneasily with my system) reducing me to a wreck a thousand miles from home, spoiling my time with my girlfriend and my scheduled engagements alike. I haven't changed my diet, haven't done anything that could explain a sudden, sharp, week-long downturn--and I'm worried.

Today I poked at editing my remix and sourly realized how much of it still needed written--a least another 10,000 words, so I'm only half way through at best. Not impossible, but irritating given that lately I've been too ill to think clearly enough for it. I didn't even watch anything all day, just idly talked to people and let whole hours slip away.

I did manage to finish Lieutenant Hornblower, at last, though it took an embarrassingly long time. I should pick up Hotspur tomorrow. And Atropos, to see if I can get through them both this week.

I'm now almost done with everything the miniseries covered--Katy had warned me Bush was essentially a whole new person, but I'm satisfied by his growly shoutiness, and I actually think McGann does a pretty good Bush. I really like Bush as a character, which is a testament to how well and sympathetically written he is, because Bush is in so many ways such a product of the sensibilities of his era. He's strictly defined by his limitations--which is interesting, because he's our narrator, and so our perspective of Hornblower's more complex maneuverings and moods in necessarily filtered through Bush's relentless pragmatism and occasionally nigh-Russian cautious fatalism. Bush, for example, will never really come to a judgment on what happened to Captain Sawyer, and his perspective leaves the question elegantly ambiguous--though as readers we know without having to be directly told that Hornblower is your pusher.

Everything a modern reader might find discomforting about the period's rigid notions of station and the pursuant easy assumptions of superiority comes out in Bush's perspective, but he's still really lovable. He's very capable, endearingly loyal, straightforward and genuine. He has awesome moments like these: "To him it was really excellent news; he leaned over and patted Hornblower's shoulder. He knew his face was one big smile, and he put his head on one side and his shoulder on the table so that Hornblower should get the full benefit of it."* Despite his caution and automatic disregard for whole swathes of people he perceives to be so below him as to be unworthy of consideration, Bush is capable of selfless kindness. Plus characters that are really in love are always rendered appealing by the intensity of their emotional engagement.

On that note, without any sex, Lieutenant is a love story. The basic arc of the book is Bush meeting Hornblower, getting to know him, and coming to understand that Hornblower is essentially the most important thing in his life. In their world of narrow sensibilities, the care the men demonstrate for each other becomes unspeakably important, like how contrast becomes more significant when you're working with a reduced color palate. None of the Lieutenants seem to have a lot of real friends. Bush is so long and far removed from his home life that the females who make up the family he might be expected to cherish affection for are rendered alien, domestic figures of obligation.

Tons of empathy for Hornblower--all his decisions and the processes by which he comes to them feel natural and correct. If I were like EIGHTY MILLION times cooler and a bit nicer, he is who I'd be.

Maria is interesting and well-drawn here without having to be as awesome and endearing as the protags. Wellard--gets weirdly killed off screen. I guess Naval Life is dangerous, but damn, Wellard was a Character We Knew, and got a glancing "mentioned in the naval paper" death. IN OTHER NEWS THIS BOOK WOULD HAVE BEEN GREATLY IMPROVED BY MOAR PELLEW.

* Admittedly he's WASTED there, but trust me, he can be great sober too.
x_los: (Default)
Today in a nutshell:

Oh the coughing. The flem! Why won't my nose stop bleeding! Allergies, no! No! The Woman Time! The Woman Time! I can't go to classes because I'm a courpse! Why hasn't X emailed me back? Oh my god, does he not like me?! Or am I over-reacting to his inconsequential failure to reply instantaneously because of SADS? SADS IS IN UR PHSYCOLOGY, MAKING HIM JUST NOT THAT INTO U! I'll stay home despite looking forward to plans with Christina and Alisa, who I haven't seen in forever, because I am too hideously bloated and sick to be seen by humans-- Oh, Ben's here randomly from Illinois with no notice. Fuck. Well, I'll get some Chinese, but by god, I refuse to eat it out. I'll bring it back to the couch and sulk with my illnesses.

The End.

And I didn't get any fucking homework done, so I have to do it now. Lame like Tiny Tim.

I'm really into Piranesi's "Carceri"/Imaginary Prisons series right now. I used to have haunting nightmeres about these eerie etchings when I was a kid and recently rediscovered them. I like their vast, strange use of space in the upper reaches, and their unbridled uncanny quality of detail. I think Therese might like them.
x_los: (Default)
Today in a nutshell:

Oh the coughing. The flem! Why won't my nose stop bleeding! Allergies, no! No! The Woman Time! The Woman Time! I can't go to classes because I'm a courpse! Why hasn't X emailed me back? Oh my god, does he not like me?! Or am I over-reacting to his inconsequential failure to reply instantaneously because of SADS? SADS IS IN UR PHSYCOLOGY, MAKING HIM JUST NOT THAT INTO U! I'll stay home despite looking forward to plans with Christina and Alisa, who I haven't seen in forever, because I am too hideously bloated and sick to be seen by humans-- Oh, Ben's here randomly from Illinois with no notice. Fuck. Well, I'll get some Chinese, but by god, I refuse to eat it out. I'll bring it back to the couch and sulk with my illnesses.

The End.

And I didn't get any fucking homework done, so I have to do it now. Lame like Tiny Tim.

I'm really into Piranesi's "Carceri"/Imaginary Prisons series right now. I used to have haunting nightmeres about these eerie etchings when I was a kid and recently rediscovered them. I like their vast, strange use of space in the upper reaches, and their unbridled uncanny quality of detail. I think Therese might like them.

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