23.04.05..4:30 pm

Sometimes, all it takes is a peanut butter, banana and Penguin* sandwich to make you feel better. It doesn't feel like much, but everyday for the past couple of weeks I've worked solidly each day between 5-7 hours straight. I keep forgetting though that when I'm not sitting, staring at my laptop while the words keep accumulating, I'm reading: on the bus, walking down the road (a childhood habit I just can't shake), over breakfast, after dinner, before going to bed.. Yesterday at just gone 4pm I found myself negotiating with the part of my brain self-castrates. I wasn't typing, I was actually avoiding looking at the screen. I couldn't remember what I had just written, I couldn't remember what I had just edited. I kept staring blankly at my notes hoping there might be some neon key buried within that would open up the blockage. Finally I agreed that if I just managed to read this chapter (this being "Dominant Fictions" of Kaja Silverman's wonderful Male Subjectivity at the Margins) I could then go home and finish up. If I just could. Read that chapter. That single chapter. That one. But I couldn't. I read the same three words over and over again, and somehow "Yes, it's really me!" (20) wasn't the hog-wheeling gravel-cruncher I was looking for.

This morning M and I woke up far later than I intended (how do I sleep through THREE ALARMS?) We giggled and wriggled wonderfully (the first time in nearly a week when he's not been at work while I'm horny, nor I fretting and passing out while he is), and went to the cafe down the street> for breakfast. That place is my sanctuary. I can sit in there for hours on end with no disturbance just reading, writing, mulling. Very little fretting ever goes on in there, which these days is a bloody miracle. I was talking about that with a friend of mine recently. My flatmate has a theory that the reason she sits up late studying, or sketching or designing is because later at night there aren't as many people awake which means that there're not as many conflicting brainwaves fighting for cosmic space to unfold, stretch out, expand into. I tend to collapse a bit if I stay up too late to study, but I can study anywhere where there's lots of noise and hubbub. Cafe's, pubs, shopping markets. These are the places I do my best thinking. My theory, if you can call it such, is that these places tend to have high and wide ceilings, which lets my creativity soar and dance unhindered. And I guess, in keeping with Lula's theory, because their aren't as many people in those places looking to do some seriously deep thinking, the high and wide doesn't get as cluttered. It's a bit of a daft theory, I'll grant you; but it does make me feel a bit justified in picking up a pint on my way to the table in the back/at the side/next to the window/out of the way of people wanting to talk.

Regardless, M very kindly drove me up to Farringdon so I could sit here in the Betsey and essay away. He pulled up just as I threw the Weekend down and he looked over at me and said, "Ready?"

I was looking down at my fingers as they tried to work a hole into the hem of my shirt, "Are you ok?" And I managed to choke out, "No," before I burst into tears. Heaving, gasping sobs.

It was a good ten, fifteen minutes before I could break out of his arms and hold up my head.

"I've spent so much money and I'm terrified I'm going to fail."

"You're not going to fail. Believe me. You're not going to fail." He just pulled me close again and I cried and cried some more.

"How much have you got to do?"

"Well I'm over the word count on everything, but.."

"Hang on. You're OVER the wordcount? Well, that's half of it sorted right there!"

"Except that it's not because it's all a mess and I've still got to make it perfect..I need help. I don't know where to go anymore."

"Honey, you've got two whole weeks to do it! You'll be fine, I promise. Have you ask you're dad about it yet?"

"That's half the problem. I realised while I was writing the last essay... I know more then he does now." Matthew laughed and tickled me until I smiled, "If I was worried about knowing more than my dad, I'd have collapsed a long time ago!"

I know he's right. But my dad has always been the guy I go to. He's the best editor I've ever had, he's poetic and fluid when it comes to how to structure, how to put my words together to make them sound right, to make my arguments as concise as possible. But now I'm sending him stuff to look at expecting opinions and responses he's no longer equipped to give. How weird is it to know you've surpassed the one person you've held higher than anyone else since you were a little girl.

I think the fact it ended up coming down to that, to feeling so isolated and alone in all this has more to do with my feelings of failure than my actual ability. I don't really know how to handle it, I guess.

On a slightly happier note: My birthday stretched into ten and it's been lovely, thanks for asking! I've actually got another one to attend tonight (an old friend of mine Jon Q has moved to London for six months and we're having a quick pintipint) so I'd best end off here. Get a little more done before I meet him.

****meep, ...

ps, I Couldn't find the proper Penguin site for it, but did find this: 'World's most comprehensive all penguin shopping destination' apparently. For all penguin apparel, nibbles and accessory needs.
Also this: The Biscuit Union. I'm not kidding.