Light at the end of the tunnel (unless that's a train coming)

Got a lovely and very supportive e-mail from Lynne today (thanks, much appreciated!), very insightful too. Few can know and understand the quirks of the Clean-Air System clan like another Clean-Air System.

We discussed the virtues of assorted drugs (of the legal variety -- stop that), and I told Lynne that despite the fact that many sympathetic friends and colleagues here in London have kindly loaded me up to the gunwhales with assorted packets of Valium, sleeping pills, etc., I always prefer the non-medicated route wherever possible. For one thing I don't ever want to get hooked on those insidious things, and for another it's only ever a temporary relief -- albeit potentially enough to get me home in one piece until I can actually get some proper rest and get proper medical or psychiatric help.

In short, I prefer to meditate or do breathing exercises or whatever. (I've had to stop the yoga as the pain prevented me from doing any of the postures, much less sitting still.) But as the nurse said, if you're severely sleep-deprived all the strength of will in the world won't stop your mind playing tricks on you, because your mind simply winds up doing in the daytime what it would normally do at night -- if I was allowed to sleep, that is.

I've basically stopped working over the last couple of days, partly because I simply couldn't focus anyway and partly to give my arms, neck and shoulders a break. That seems to be helping enormously. Mounting the laptop on a box and dropping a USB keyboard into my lap have definitely cut down on the upper body and extremity pain. (Here I pause to acknowledge myself for the amazing intuitive insight that allowed me to self-diagnose that particular worrisome problem.) Now, if I can just figure out what those pains in my chest are all about and get them to stop too, all will be peachy-creamy.

* * *

I had a meeting yesterday with the halls management, finally. It seems you only really get attention around here when you start threatening lawsuits; funny, that. (I suppose one of the advantages of being constantly mistaken for an American is that the locals assume I am congenitally litigious.)

One of the many ironies of the situation was that I was summoned to the meeting by a phone call that woke me up in the middle of the first protracted period of functional sleep I'd had in the previous 24 hours.

But I wasn't in much of a laughing mood when halls management feigned ignorance of previous complaints. I mean, it's not like neither I nor other residents haven't complained before. Oh, I managed to write off most of the first term; I reckoned the guilty parties would eventually tire of their antics, get beaten up by someone with less patience, or die in tragicomic circumstances due to their own monumental stupidity. I even said that I did not come to halls totally naive, and I expected a certain amount of rambunctiousness and disobedience, even from fellow postgraduates. (I was alarmed to learn that the main miscreants in question are allegedly postgraduates, although I have serious doubts about the veracity of this claim.) Once or twice a week, especially on weekends, was easily forgivable, I said. But once the crepuscular disturbances accelerated early in the second term, to three or four nights per week and usually in midweek, the gloves came off. I decided to play hardball. Within the span of the first two or three weeks I had filed at least four or five written complaints, and several others had been called in overnight to the security staff. Of course halls management denied all knowledge of these.

"Don't your night and weekend staff take reports?" I asked, incredulously. I almost followed that up with, "And don't you know how to INTERPRET THEM?" The response seemed to imply that I needed to physically write and submit multiple complaints about a single particular offender in order for any action to be taken whatsoever. Apparently a general complaint about massive parties breaking out at ungodly hours of the morning and bouncing from room to room simply isn't specific enough. I don't know how -- perhaps it was because I was too tired and lacking in energy, having been so recently awoken out of a modicum of sleep -- but I managed to maintain my cool and did not so much as raise my voice. (Fortunately I had rehearsed the conversation several times previously, just to ensure I did not undermine my own credibility or haul off and slug somebody.)

To cut a long, painful story short, I was promised that decisive and effective action would be taken! (Of course there was no mention of the false accusations of cooker vandalism, but that's another story I will save for another day.)

Later yesterday afternoon, as I was lying on my bed trying to focus on my books, a little frisson of excitement ran through me as a notice was slipped under my door. I assumed this was a stern -- and final --warning to all potential troublemakers. Triumphantly I practically leapt out of bed to snatch the paper up and read it.

It was, of course, a notice (with headline written in extra-large, red font) indicating that the window in flat 92 -- the one broken two weeks ago when some intellectually impoverished twat tried unsuccessfully to burn the place down -- was to be repaired, and would we all kindly keep our windows closed so as to not allow dust and debris to enter the building.

I am so overcome with... I don't know, gratitude hardly seems the word... that I want to somehow repay halls management's graciousness. Perhaps I will do this by saving them time, money and trouble. Perhaps while the repair crew is still on premises and the warning letter is still in effect, I may just decide to throw myself out of my own fucking window.

It is February 28 today. D-day -- for Departure day -- is exactly 31 days from now.

Laugh? I'm dying

Rude awakening: 3:15 AM.
Internet connectivity: Minimal.
Days to departure: 33.

I remember not so long ago images on television of a disheveled Manuel Noriega emerging from his villa after several consecutive days of unrelenting bombardment by light and noise. Confused and disoriented, he finally succumbed to the psychological warfare waged by U.S. troops and gave himself up -- the former Panamanian general's opinion obviously being that anything, including captivity at the hands of American troops, is better than constant barrage of the senses.

This is how psychological warfare works: don't' let those under siege sleep. Keep them awake and on edge. Grind them down. Eventually they will beg for mercy.

That's how I feel. I am worn down. At wit's end.

Except I won't beg for mercy. Because if I did, no one would listen anyway. The Harrow campus of the University of Westminster is a lot like outer space that way: a complete and utter vacuum in which no one can hear you scream, except of course the good and gentle folk who are trying to sleep. The other arseholes are too busy making the noise to be able to hear, and those who enable them -- hello, halls management! -- are far too ineffectual to do anything about it. Or perhaps they just don't care. Evidence is strong on the latter.

As a direct result of all this my body and brain are at war with each other. I don't know if it's my fragile mental health that makes me more vulnerable to the strange new pains I feel, or if it's those new and worrisome pains that are aggravating my rapidly deteriorating mental condition. But every day the panic attacks increase, more frequent, more terrifying. And every day the pains in my arms, neck, chest and elsewhere become more intense. And there are more of them in odd places.

As I told the school nurse last week, the irony is that the school work itself -- were I able to actually do it -- is the least of my concerns. I am quite confident that I can handle it and have, under the most difficult of circumstances, made rather heroic efforts to stay on top of it. I'm actually excited about and looking forward to writing my final project (if only because it means I'll be out of here). So I'm not at all stressing about the work. Far from it.

A second irony is the fact that if I were forced to withdraw from the school because of failure or for any other extenuating circumstances, I would have the balance of my rent money cheerfully refunded. If it weren't for the fact that I have already invested roughly $40,000 and have come this far, I would withdraw tomorrow. This kind of abuse simply isn't worth it.

Here's a funny one: this morning I went down to the laundrette and, passing by the halls reception on the way back to pick up yet another complaint form, engaged in this conversation with the receptionist:

"Another complaint? But we had our night crew patrol almost every hour on Friday, Saturday and Sunday night."

"Well, this latest violation didn't take place on the weekend. It was this morning, Tuesday morning, at about 3:15."

"Oh."

"Yes, it was strangely quiet all weekend. "

"That's good, isn't it?"

"Of course it wasn't quiet enough to allow me to work or sleep. And the only reason it was so quiet Friday and Saturday night was that the extremely obnoxious and arrogant little shit across the hall who makes most of the worst noise ran home to mummy and daddy for the weekend."

And another thing

Help me to understand this. Please. Clearly there is something I must be missing.

Why, when otherwise well-meaning people hear my (true) tales of woe, do they say things like the following:

"Have you tried sleeping with earplugs?"

"Couldn't you ask to be moved to another flat?"

"Have you tried Valium?"

(ad nauseum)

...hmmm? Any takers? Because I'm stumped. I mean, WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO DO ANYTHING? I'M THE INJURED PARTY HERE. I'M NOT THE ONE WHO HAS BEEN DRINKING HIS POST-PUBESCENT PUSS OFF AND LOUDLY CRASHING ABOUT UNTIL INHUMANE HOURS OF THE MORNING, ANNOYING THE LIVING SNOT OUT OF EVERYONE ELSE.

Asking me to put myself at even greater discomfort when it's the jumped-up little twerp across the hall who should be fucking moving? Hello? As far as I'm concerned he should have been executed evicted long ago, but halls management are far too ineffectual to do anything. I don't see why it should be my responsibility to further inconvenience myself because some intellectually short-sheeted twat is pathologically antisocial.

And before you say it, no, I don't like being in my righteous indignation. I'd rather just have an end to the anxiety attacks and a jolly good night's sleep. If that's an unreasonable request, by all means, tell me.

But c'mon, the craptacular little pimple across the corridor signed the same lease that I did. (Probably with an X. In crayon.) We should both be bound by the same rules -- not just me.

Change the channel, I don't like this movie

Rude awakening: 3:30 AM, until 5:00 AM or thereabouts
Fire alarms (false): Two, while I'm in the shower (naturally)
Days to departure: Far too fucking many

The good news is that I went to see the school nurse today who told me that my increasing anxiety attacks are probably "just" the result of severe sleep deprivation, and that the numbness in my hands, the pains in my arms and the sore neck are probably nothing fatal.

Thinking that the latter are probably symptoms of incredibly poor posture (i.e. too much hunching over a hot laptop), I went out and bought a cheap USB keyboard today so I can at least drop my hands into my lap instead of keeping them up at an artificial angle on the desktop. Now if I can just get used to the damn spacing, particularly the shift key which for some reason on U.K. keyboards is a whole extra key away...

I also took the box that used to contain the inflatable bed -- see, there's an upside to being a pack rat sometimes! -- and have used it to prop up my laptop, so the screen is now more or less eye level. I don't have to look down anymore, I'm pretty much looking straight ahead. Let's see if this helps alleviate those worrisome symptoms. I can't wait to get home to a proper, ergonomically designed chair (as opposed to these cheap-ass medieval torture devices I'm sitting on now), proper desks, proper monitors, the lot. Oh yes, and more than two hours of sleep per night.

Honestly, these days I feel like I'm in some sort of race against time. Will I make it home before I'm driven utterly mad? Or die of some tragic, wasting illness? Or, driven to a homicidal rage, rip someone's head off and shit down their neck (prime candidate being that miserable little shit Sonny who lives across the hall)? Only it's nowhere near as fun as the races against time you usually see in a movie. 'Cause at least you know that for all the ups, downs and near-misses, it'll turn out okay in the end.

The countdown begins in earnest

Rude awakening: 2:30 AM. (Miserable dicktards.)
Internet connectivity: Dial-up slow.
Days to departure: 41.

Booked my return flight today for Saturday, April 7. It's at a sensible hour, too, so I don't have to get up too early, nor do I get into YVR too late. I am genuinely excited, particularly since our seminar group (Group 5) has made good progress on our two assignments and we had our one and only exam for the term (in Innovation & Technology) yesterday. Progress! I now turn my attention more fully to my individual assignments, for which I've done the bulk of the research; now all I really need to do is sit down and write. Which for me is usually harder than it sounds, although much of that difficulty exists -- where else? -- in my head.

I am also hopeful that I can avoid paying the last portion of the rent, since it is due at the end of April and I shall be gone long before then. I'll find out soon enough as I have left word with the housing officer, but even if I can't it's a small price to pay for returning to civilization and peace of mind.

Had a good commiseration with Meagan at lunch today. Meagan is my next door neighbour to the east; she lives in room M. (Kate, my neighbour to the west, lives in K. And I live in L. Which makes it harder to remember than either of theirs, since it's not my initial, but I usually manage to find my way home OK. Although it makes me wonder what the L stands for.)

Meagan is very sharp; she can produce an insightful and instantaneous, post-modern political-economic critique -- on virtually any topic -- at the drop of a hat, as she did today. I have a lot of time for Meagan. We have a lot of values in common, not the least of which is our mutual respect for sleep -- hence our commiseration, following last night's hallway shoutfest. We are both finding it marginally easier to take, even though we both agree it's getting worse by the day, because we are both taking off like bats out of hell as soon as we can. She's going back to her native Washington, DC, whereas I am going to take a couple of days off to visit Scotland and Ireland before taking a direct flight back home.

Part of me actually wants to skip that and just go straight home, but I'd be remiss if I did not take this one last opportunity. It may be the last time I'm in this neck of the woods for quite a while, although I'm thinking of using some frequent flyer points to get me back here at least for the weekend of the graduation ceremony this fall (though I'm not sure exactly when it is). After all, this is kind of the culmination of a longstanding dream for me. So I'd like to celebrate it, officially. We'll see.

Kyoto Protocol? That's a sushi joint, isn't it?

Better yet, let's just burn Gordon Campbell:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w_DXOTYKy_g

UPDATE: On second thought, Campbell's hot air contributes far too much to global warming and greenhouse gas emissions anyway...

Happy birthday Danika!

Rude awakenings: N/A*
Internet connectivity: Yesterday: None whatsoever. Today: slow.
Days to departure: 43.

* This doesn't mean sleep was not lost. Au contraire, it simply meant that I stayed up long enough so that the noisemaking died down enough to allow me to sleep. Thursday night wasn't too bad (it mellowed out around 1:15 or so) but last night was much later, around 2:00. It was a Friday night 'n' all, and I'd had a long, productive day (working until about 1:00) and it was hard to be upset because some of the louder ones were the very same people who bought me a cake earlier in the evening to help me celebrate the 4th (!!!) anniversary of my wedding to Danika (in absentia).

Still, I was very tired. So I put on the headphones and listened to soothing music on my iPod until the noise abated. But that meant rousing myself from a near-slumber to remove the 'phones around 3:00, so my sleep was somewhat disrupted.

But a day like today makes it hard to remain bent out of shape for long. It's gorgeous. Sunny. Warm, springlike. I'm going for a walk soon, while it's still light out.

Got an e-mail from Tony Wilson today. This is extremely exciting -- imagine getting an e-mail from one of your most-cherished role models (and you know how inured I am to celebrity) -- although I wish it were under happier circumstances. We wish you a speedy recovery, Tony.

Next, the proverbial cat is out of the bag and henceforth I'll have to watch what I write. Sarah (a/k/a Stripey Amoeba, or L'Aurora) is a friend and fellow journalism student of one of my flatmates, Kate. She also happens to have a blog. She found out about mine -- more specifically, that I've been using it to keep a meticulous record of the way things are around here lately -- and she has indicated that it might make useful source material for an expose on the (mis)management of Harrow halls. I'll consider myself warned. And I'll have to remove those things I said about Kate (just kidding).

Oh, and happy belated anniversary too baby!!! xoxoxoxox

Classic literature: read it. Live it.

Rude awakening: 2:40 AM.
Internet connectivity: Minimal.
Days to departure: 45.

Woke up (the second or third and final time this morning) to the atonal, nails-on-a-chalkboard sounds of Ms. Pig-Squealer down the hall. As per usual she was squawking about nothing in particular to no one in particular. Like the fire alarm, one day something evil will befall her and no one will come running to save her. How on earth did these people every manage to get accepted into university? It's not as if they've ever read their childhood cautionary fables, apparently. More on those in a moment.

Frenchie passed me in the hall without so much as a grunt this morning, which means either he’s hung over again (so it may have been him and his knuckle-dragging, mono-browed, mouth-breathing friends who were bouncing off the walls at all hours this morning) or he’s found out that it was I who formally lodged a complaint against him with the halls management. (I doubt it’s the latter, though, because they really don’t give a shit about much of anything and generally don’t do anything about the complaints received anyway.) Either way, it works for me. I won’t have to talk to him now, and/or he’s developing a dim awareness of the fact that we have a limited tolerance for his puerile undergraduate shit. (And I do mean the royal "we.")

There are thieves among us. Day by day, more things are going missing. First it was food, then it was kitchen implements, now it’s even broken kitchen implements like the pot I (used to) use to make my porridge.

This place is becoming more and more like Lord of the Flies every day: things are constantly devolving into a state of anarchy. What better way to study classics of English literature than to live it, right here on a university campus?

* * *

On the bright side -- and it's always bright when I'm away from the halls -- Ian took me to see a production of the Ramayana at the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith last night. I quite enjoyed it; the pace never flagged, even though it was 2.5 hours long (including a 15-minute intermission roughly halfway through). Having attended live theatre and familiarized myself with a sacred Hindu scripture simultaneously, I feel doubly edified.

My bloody Valentine

Rude awakening: 3:40 AM.
Internet connectivity: S... l... o... w... and my mail server's been down most of the day.
Days to departure: 46.

Managed to get some work done today, which is little short of miraculous given how tired I am. Ian took me to see another show tonight in Hammersmith, which I'll write up tomorrow -- assuming I manage a night's sleep.

If not, look for me in the morning newspaper headlines. I'll be the one described as the crazed Canadian who flipped out and committed unspeakable acts of violent horror on his flatmates, but who was exonerated because no jury in the world would convict him, given the circumstances...
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

Nil illegitimi carborundum

Rude awakening: 2:35 AM.
Internet connectivity status: Nonexistent.
Days to departure: 47.

There can be no doubt about it: instead of feeling younger for being constantly surrounded by all this youth, I have aged disproportionately to the time I have spent here. There is no shortage of people who are keen to tell me how terrible I look on a daily basis. When I dare glance into the mirror, even I notice the changes that would under normal circumstances be imperceptible. My colour is grayer, my skin saggier, my wrinkles deeper. Injuries that once took days to heal now take months. I wish this were the setup for a joke; there isn't one. I wish I could say this is an exaggeration. It's not.

This whole experience has taken a dramatic toll on my health. Most, if not all of this, I ascribe to lack of sleep. Sleep is how our bodies and minds restore themselves; and I have been chronically deprived of it since my arrival here. Looking back, I doubt that I have slept more than one full, 7- or 8-hour night -- without the benefit of artificial aid, of course -- per week. This is not a particularly healthy ratio. How is a body supposed to repair itself without the thing it most desperately requires, next to food and oxygen?

Fortunately, despite their best efforts (stealing food, smoking cigarettes and lighting the halls on fire) the bastards have not yet managed to deprive me of those necessities.

Bullshit level: excessive

Rude awakening: 1:30 AM.
Internet connectivity status: None.
Connectivity in library to essential resources: Nil.
Nerves: Frayed.
Days to departure: 48.

If I had a hammer, there'd be no more undergrads

Today's rude awakening: 3:45 AM (The French undergrads.)
Internet connectivity status: Dodgy.
Days to departure: 49.

Beam me up Scotty, there's no intelligent life here

Today’s fire alarm (false): 5:25 AM.
Internet connectivity status: Unavailable.
Countdown to departure: 50 days.

Eerie

Fromage de la semaine: Shropshire Blue.

It's quiet around here. Too quiet. It's very spooky, unnerving. (If you've followed this blog at all in the last little while, you'll know it's anything but quiet around here at the best of times.)

It could have something to do with the weather; it's cold (though still above zero) and grey here. Maybe everyone's just hibernating. Or given that we're a month into the new term (!) everyone's hitting the books. Either way it's snowing lightly -- big, wet flakes -- but it's not clear if it really wants to rain or snow. Much of what we had yesterday (see photos below) has already melted, but then it froze overnight, so most pathways are icy and bumpy, not easily navigated. Maybe that's why it's so calm out there: no one wants to venture outside.

In this regard London reminds me very much of Vancouver in the winter time. When it snows with any significant accumulation (i.e. over 2-3cm), as it does on rare occasions, the whole city freaks out. No one seems prepared for it. Few drivers have winter tires; few homes or businesses have shovels, salt, sand or other snow removal gear. The transit system can't cope and trains run slowly if service isn't completely disrupted. Chaos ensues.

Here's what we woke up to yesterday:


It's interesting to watch all the international students -- that is, those who aren't from places like Canada or Minnesota -- react to the snow. Especially the ones from the warmer climates that rarely, if ever, see the stuff. They were like little kids, only on tequila and beer and spliffs.

Actually it was kind of funny seeing the wonder and amazement on their faces. Naturally, snowball fights erupted everywhere and the snow was perfectly suited for making snowmen. I should have taken more shots of the fields of Northwick Park -- they so were filled with figures it looked like a standing army dressed in winter camouflage. One group of enterprising youngsters rolled a massive ball right up to the portal leading to the underground station, nearly sealing it right off.

Gratitude

It's been an eventful week, what with fire alarms -- yesterday's two false ones, and the real one from the day before -- and the continued disruptions to my precious sleep cycles. But today, as tired as I am, I have a lot to be grateful for.

Having just met with the course leader I have been given the green light to:

1. Come home once the course works is over, i.e., at the end of March, and work on my thesis from home.
2. Write the music marketing textbook I have always wanted to write and submit it as my thesis.

You can't imagine how happy I am at this very moment. And you certainly can't see the resulting tears in my eyes. But they're there, and they're real.

Darwin's waiting room

Not to put too fine a point on it, the intellectually challenged See-You-Next-Tuesday across the hall -- Sonny, or Sammy, or whatever his name is -- partied like it was 1999 last night. Or should I say this morning. Ho hum.

The real story of the day (because being awoken 2:30 - 4:30 AM on a nightly basis is no longer news) is that the fire alarm went off just now. Twice. In a row. And of course by now we've become so inured to the false alarms that no one wanted to leave. Least of all myself, who was in the shower at the time.

Except this time there was a real fire. Naturally.

Apparently some arsehole on the 4th floor decided to light a candle and put it in the window sill, naturally in direct contravention of the terms of the lease. And naturally the dickwad's curtain caught fire, but the scum-sucking, mono-browed, knuckle-dragging mouth-breather had covered over the smoke alarm (naturally in contravention of the law, as well as the lease terms) so as not to get caught doing something she/he/it shouldn't have been doing in the first place. Hence the fire. Resulting in the eventual arrival of three big-ass fire trucks and everything.

Welcome to Flat 88, Harrow Hall of Residence: Darwin's waiting room, where we engage daily in experiments in adaptive living to determine the fittest of the species -- who will survive and who will race to extinct themselves by acts of the sheerest bald-faced, dim-witted, numb-nutted stupidity.

Let's hope they don't accidentally drag some of the rest of us with them.

Semi-improved

To follow up yesterday's post regarding the demolition on the grounds of the neighbouring St. Marks and Northwick Park hospitals: I stand corrected. Only one of the smokestacks is now gone. Completely and utterly gone. The other one was still standing as of today, and in fact earlier this morning was observed emitting smoke.

Oh well. One smokestack is better than two, I suppose. The view -- and the air -- is better already.

Home improvements

I was quite surprised the other day to find that workmen had sealed off Proyer's Path and the shortcut to the Northwick Park and St. Mark's Hospitals the other day -- in order dismantle the two unsightly smokestacks next to the Harrow campus. Hooray!

I strongly suspect they were, at one time, used for burning biohazardous waste or some such, so all the more reason to be happy to see them go, although they haven't been in use since at least some time before I moved in here. Anyway, the one chimney stack that's being dismantled right now is actually a metal tube of sorts wrapped around three separate, but equally ugly, pipes, full of rust and filth and dirt and death. So the workers are cutting open sections with oxyacetylene torches, then the crane lifts the section off; from there they remove the inner pipes (though how that is accomplished I haven't seen yet). I suspect they just knock it over, since little is salvageable. Not sure how they'll tackle the other stack; it looks like it's made of brick, and they may need to just knock it over or implode it. More later.

Below are a couple of "before" shots. In the first one you can see them starting to lift the outer steel section off the core; in the second shot it's been completely removed and is about to be set down on the ground, exposing the pipes underneath.

I'll post the "after" shots after the thing has been fully demolished.

A dish best served cold*

* (To be bellowed aggressively and drunkenly in the hallways after 4:00 AM, through a rented bullhorn, during the week of undergrad final exams, to the tune of "Maggie May" by Rod Stewart):

Wake up maggots, you know I've got shomething to shay to you
It's 4:15 and before long you'll be back in school
I know you're probably tired, but I'm just getting wired
Oh maggots you don't know the pain you've caused...
You disturbed my sleep more often than I care to count.

Your puerile stunts and hangovers really show your age
Inconsiderate prats, in my eyes you're wastes of space
You laugh at all your own jokes, you burp and fart and smoke
Oh childish brats you're Darwin's evidence...
Wiped off the planet soon, a slow and painful doom,
A hopeful thought that keeps me going strong.

All I needed was at least one night of restful sleep
But you pinheaded twisted pigfuckers, you wore me out
Stumbling in shouting the odds
at all hours and slamming doors,
Oh assholes you couldn't have tried anymore.
You woke me from my sleep 'cause if your brains were TNT
You lot would not have enough to blow your nose...

(to be continued)

How did it get to be February?

Currently grooving to: Mazarin, Watch It Happen. (Thanks, Vinita!). I know Baby will like it; imagine a sound somewhere between Magnetic Fields and Modest Mouse, only nowhere near as annoying as the latter. With admirers like me issuing crap comparisons like that, it's no wonder they've called it a day. (I love it that Gracenote returns "folk" as the genre when I fire up iTunes.)

Can't believe we are now already into February, the shortest month of the year, and that there are barely 8 weeks left in the course. Which throws me into a mild panic, considering I spent most of January poking the proverbial pooch (academically anyway) and trying to decide -- unsuccessfully, as it turns out -- what the hell to write for my thesis.

Yup, the problem persists. But I've just got to pull my finger out, make a decision and stick to it. Because the other assignments are starting to pile up behind it, and they won't write themselves. I've got an outline due on Monday; maybe the Fear will put the wind in my sails.

I should be so lucky.

Actually, let me contradict myself here on a couple of points. One, I haven't exactly been slacking off; au contraire, I've been reading like a man possessed. On average I've read 5 books per week since the Christmas break. Unfortunately none of it has helped shed light on what to tackle as my thesis. If anything, it has only led me further down the rabbit hole and into a warren of dead ends.

The other thing is that I misplaced an entire week of my life somewhere. I now appreciate -- with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, of course -- that I was terribly ill, but did not realize it at the time. I came to that conclusion after (a) remembering that one night during my week-long bout of insomnia I actually fell asleep but woke up shortly thereafter, completely and utterly drenched in sweat, head to toe, as if I had taken a shower while sleepwalking, and (b) hearing everyone I know talk of this mysterious ailment that has been circulating recently.

Things are much better now. Oh, I still don't sleep at night; my entire spinal system is so contorted and wracked with so much pain that I keep getting jabbed awake by stabbing pains up and down my extremities, thanks to the medieval torture devices they call beds here. But at least the quality of my catnaps is getting better.

Getting old sucks.