Sometimes I wish we'd celebrate Easter. And Christmas. The fact that the former fell on a Sunday - THIS Sunday, to be specific - makes me pine for an excuse for chocolate and celebration even more.
Still, I don't think that family lunches and a fed up stomach will make the evening any easier to bear than it is now.

Now, I am bloated with Keats biographies and looming doom. I guess the two are made to go together; and I guess I should appreciate that and suck it up as part of my thesis-writing experience. The fact is, Keats is infinitely relatable, too relatable, that I wonder how obvious any work I do on him within the context of my topic (the romanticisation of poets who die young) would come off as just very DUH!

I just love coming of age stories though. I'm a total sucker for them. Don't know when it started exactly, but it must have been at some point during my teens, obviously. Being a Spider-Man fan must have played a part somehow.

This staying indoors must be remedied. But I am dealing with Christians celebrating their Resurrection Man festival and therefore they have to undergo family lunches; and we would have to wrestle with inept public transport, we who are too lazy, too broke, too hesitant and too busy to start driving. Driving is a phallic activity.

I love how Sundays shuffle things up into inconsequence, though. I got back into drawing and realized how much my neuroses on drawing the body were for naught. Sure, you can never learn enough, but as long as you got your basic proportions right you can start heading towards SOMETHING. Am still drawing in that spindly body style. Looked back at some of my old sketchbooks. That's always a heartening experience, actually - not the painfully embarrassing one you would think (although that probably speaks volumes about my non-progress in that department in the last couple of years). So yeah, Sundays can leave me doodling and actually enjoying it. Feeling the fullness of being and doing things by accident.

Not much of my upcoming dissertation and finals deadlines can be helped by accident though. Despite the hellish six-week or so assignementating period, I can honestly say I have not as yet encountered as final, as excruciating a time, school-wise, since the A-Levels. Perhaps my final year finals will be as final as it gets and make me swallow my words with sadistic glee.

Not much to do today except skim over a few pages and browse around. 'The energy isn't right.' Yes, in spite of my persistent shooting down of other's half-baked ideas, I foetusize back into The Dude when things get tough. I'm not too impressive a person, integrity-wise, I suppose.

Back to the usual monsters: will I get that second upper? Will my dissertation be a last-minute mish-mash that flies widely off the mark of...well, anything? Will I ever leave this island and if so, will I remain alive for long?

Death and resurrection. Adonis was a resurrection myth too. I'm doing Adonais for my dissertation as well, and I found this book on Shelley's use of Goddesses which looks interesting. A look at a male's poet's obsession with maternality (especially interesting when you remember that his squeeze had written Frankenstein). Speaking of motherhood, watched Juno and was predictably smitten. I will re-watch in crises along with Garden State (and maybe Chasing Amy). Americans are good at warm coming-of-age stories, the kind I need. Brits aren't good at warmth.

Death, consolation, warmth, resurrection. Tags.

Happy Easter, all.