12.02.05..12:54 am

I thought about half an hour ago that I was starting to get a grasp on this essay. Clasped hold of it�s lapels and given it a threatening shake (as M rejoiced I was), but now I'm not sure it's so much a 'threatening shake' as a tentative poke in the ribs. I'm all weird and bore. I can't seem to concentrate. I NEED DIRECTION! I need someone to tell me what the POINT on this fucking thing is, because I just don't know. My usual begin-with-the-conclusion method isn't working. I have no conclusion, just a vague sort of maybe thought that I've begun in the middle and don't know how to read. I think I'm looking at too much, but I don't know what I've got most of. What I need is to print it all out and have it in front of me. Typed. Not scrawled illegibly in smudged pencil as it currently is.

I need snack foods too. I'm nibbly and there's nothing upon which I may nibble. Not even M�s ears. I could really do with some lobenibble right now. Mmmmmm..... lobes..... frontal lobes...... CAN I NEVER LEAVE THE ZOMBIE??? My inner zombie is cannibalising. In its desperate need for lobe it's turning on the one brain that will kill it. Stupid zombie.

I need a computer that is pixelated properly. My laptop is currently without proper pixelation and it�s giving me headaches. I had it �fixed� last year after the harddrive smashed patooie all over it�s inner circuits, but it was �left� with this awful inability to recognise more than 16 colours or anything over 600x800 pixels. It sucks far more than a rotten lemon on a body shot. Especially as I�ve FINALLY got some internet at home!! Huzzah! Internet! Can�t read a fucking thing or see anything not a primary colour! Huzzah! However, internet. That�s the main thing. And MC will be popping round next week to fix me up with some pixels that will make your head spin. Or make mine stop spinning.

I think half the problem is that my room feels tiny. Irene and I dragged her ENORMOUS telly (fifteen years if it�s a day) in here for M�s entertainment after he was suddenly mugged by the flu Monday night. For the past four days my room has been filled with drying laundry, steaming mugs of various hot liquids and more cables than a ship has rigging. Rather than essay my way through the day, I�ve been fixing Lemsips, refilling pint glasses with water, fetching dry toast, buttered toast, peanut-butter-honey and toast. Peeling off bedlinens, washing bedlinens, sweatlogged fuzzy-bunny pink pants (Mod-robes) and t-shirts, persuading gently the benefits on a weary body of showering, digging my heels in to keep the window open.

And selfishly harbouring at the back of my head this fretful hand-wringing voice dancing on the tips of its (?) toes has been whimpering: I�ve two weeks to get this fucking essay that has no beginning, if a lot of middle, and no end in sight finished and I cannot get sick. I hate that voice. I�ve been utterly torn by wanting, needing to look after M, to mop his brow, to bring him anything and everything that might make him feel even a little better, and knowing that it�s making me sick in turn and taking me away from this essay. This essay that my future depends on. That selfish voice that breeds resentment when the person you�re so desperate to be there for isn�t even conscious of the fact that YOU�RE the one that brings water and Lemsip, only that water and Lemsip are there. That voice kills me. I don�t enjoy being nothing more than an invisible hand that is the bearer of drinkable substances. But I enjoy still less the thought of my M, my beautiful giving M, being sick. Being so unable to climb out of bed, let alone turn on the tap.

It�s now Friday and he�s still in and out of fever, but went to work this morning regardless, because the work of a music promoter is never done, and now he's gone home for the night so he can get all his shit together to go into the studio to record (RECORD!) tomorrow, and now I�m restless. I've been restless all day. I couldn't concentrate on this while knowing he�s out there, in spittling grey London, without any mitts (even if he was in an office and is now at home, he still doesn�t have any mitts, and what if the heater breaks?). It�s so weird being at home without him here to stink up the place and look woeful. And man did he stink up the place. Three loads of laundry and aromatic candles are no match for the pervading stench of M the Sickly.

Right. Lapel shaking commences now. I need direction. Give me direction: Derrida, obscurative play with literature, perspective, absence, differance, elongated syntactical tactics that dismantle conventional modes of literariness: GO! Should I stay with the three texts I'm looking at (The Sound and the Fury, Ulysses and Three Lives) or remember that this is supposed to be a primarily philosophical essay (and stick to Of Grammatology, Margins of Philosophy, Writing and Difference and generally, deconstruction as an explication of absent narrative)(which would mean I�d need the texts? Do I look at cubism in literature as a 'writing' in absence to 'flatten' perspective back into true 'pluridimensional' by employing several 'voices'? Do I go literature as philosophy or philosophy as literature?

I need help.

****meep, hooked on phonics and not much else