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[13 Nov 2004|08:30am] |
Full of the stretches and yawnings of morning. I got up at about seven fucking thirty. Stomach screwing itself up like a paper ball. No point trying to get back to sleep.
So hello fucking there. Last night I did some writing and drank some Guiness. Apart from this you'll get little else outta me. I did watch "Peep Show", which was very funny too.
Nothing but work today, and a visit from another uncle. Fuck.
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[13 Nov 2004|08:45am] |
Right then. I've burnt some mp3's, which should provide some clearance to the hard drive if only temporary. Also been writing an e-mail.
My god, I never wrote like that before, ever. I didn't think those things were in me. I must be finally growing up. And getting very very naughty.
A bit like throwing beach balls into the face of a combine harvester driver, but with much more sexuality involved.
Yea.
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[13 Nov 2004|10:03am] |
Got an hour to smash out some bullshit about Wuthering Heights again, as if I know what the hell i'm doing. Must do more this afternoon, between the inevitable hell of work, which today comprises a fucking buffet at 6:30 tonight. Great.
Two tables of five this afternoon. I am so looking forward to my day. How about you? Working weekdays sounds fucking ace from my point of view.
Okay, more hard drive purging.
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[13 Nov 2004|10:53am] |
What the hell am I doing? Here's my rather unorthadox essay. It's the first chapter of Wuthering Heights, turned into a very tongue in cheek play. I'm either going to be bashed down like a chimp, or the tutor will love it.
It's not finished yet...here's what I gots so fars, sees?
Rampantly cheeky manipulation of prose.
After writing several pieces about Wuthering Heights, trying to analyse separate meanings and the teeth yanking sized frustration of trying to pull apart a novel with such a depth of vocabulary and human thought, I decided to have a bit of fun with this one, as I’m in a bit of a end of term mentality. I want to show an understanding of the text, as well as providing an utterly personal and humorous spin on it. Or possibly completely providing enough evidence to the contrary. The question I posed myself is “How would I re-write the opening paragraphs of Wuthering Heights, to take into account personal understanding on it, and how it would appear if I took it on and played with it. Like a broken drunk, sniggering around some clay on a wheel, trying to fashion a beautiful thing into his own astoundingly damaged image. In a play format. Maybe.
Or something. Let’s get started.
Chapter One
Lockwood: Come, Haversacks. Let us gallop! We have a meeting with the gentleman who is to become my landlord and trusted companion! Despite the fact that I’ve not met him I’m absolutely sure that we’ll combine our chortling merry countenances and spend cold wintry Yorkshire evenings getting rampantly hammered on wine and prodding our feet at coal fires, whilst a servant man roasts a pig on a spit! My god, good steed, what a vista of white! It almost makes one feel warm with visual heavens, though the creeping frostbite threatening to freeze my foot to a piece of granite would suggest otherwise.
Horse: Why are you talking to me? Am I not a mere equine, bereft of human thought and the ability to communicate in anything other than nasal splutterings, hoof bashing abrupt, frightening movements? Why do you personify me, man!
Lockwood: I am sorry, Briggete.
Horse: What did you call me? I’m a bloody stallion man!
Lockwood: My apologies, dear long head. I will trouble you for counsel no further. Despite there being utterly no explanation whatsoever of your apparent discovering of such a gift as being able to speak English.
Horse: That’s good then. We shall continue.
Lockwood: My god! What sights greet such tired eyes! And what bitter winds blowing through the Heights! Such an image tainted with evil. On a completely unrelated matter, this hostile looking man with eyes receding into his sockets like black coals sinking into molten lava must be the good Mister Heathcliff! Why sir! I am glad to finally meet you! Glowing, happy and all other kinds of social niceties to you sir! I am your new and cheerily optimistic tenant! I do hope your reservations on my assuming the property have been roundly dashed against the rocks of my genial countenan…..
Heathcliff: That place is mine, sir. If I truly was to have reservations about anybody living there, I should not allow it to be leased to such a bag of guffaws as the gentleman sitting atop a horse no bigger than a small Shetland pony who sits red faced in front of me now, like a recently crying schoolboy. Good god man! Have you got a license for that overgrown mouse? Or may I suggest that you received it as included gift in a bag of oats!
Lockwood: This is my favourite horse, sir!
Heathcliff: It’s smaller than a bacteria in a barely contained sneeze. Enter!
Lockwood: Come on, Briggette (Horse steals icy glare at him), away!
(Briggette shunts tiredly against the gate, whilst Heathcliff shakes his head and lifts the latch….the horse carries on pushing against the post…still cannot open it. Heathcliff sniggers quietly whilst still trying to look nonchalant and annoyed, whilst Lockwood embarrassedly carries on shunting the post)
Lockwood: Now come on Briggette….you’re not a loser…COME……come on….COME ON!
(Five minutes later they’re through).
Heathcliff: Joseph! We have guests, you lazy faux gardener! Get you spindly old frame out here and tether this…*snort*….horse…if you can see it…
Lockwood: She’s supposed to be this size!
Heathcliff: Yeah, whatever you say mate. And some WINE Joseph. Make it decent this time, I’m not drinking Lambrusco again, you cheap shot.
Joseph: I’ll happen to suggest sir that the gardenin’ might be in need of doin’….there are triffids growing through the walls…a venus fly trap ate one of your dogs yesterday. But still I am expected to cater to this mockery of social interaction…
Heathcliff: Yes, well plants lend an air of rural ambience, even if they are staring to kill. Besides, haven’t you ever heard of weed killer?
Joseph: ………….er…
Heathcliff: EXACTLY……here’s some cash, you can buy some later.
Joseph: This is Monopoly money….rural bitterness edition…
Heathcliff: Christ, you’re such a moaner…..what are you, my wife?
Joseph: Actually…..
Heathcliff: MOVE, man!
Lockwood: Don’t you think that was a bit harsh?
Heathcliff: What do I look like? Santa Claus? Come, let’s go and drink wine from bottles without labels! And corks made out of seal fat!
Lockwood: Sounds oddly enticing.
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[13 Nov 2004|10:59am] |
Okay, later on...more writing...more lazy tired staring...and hopefully some Suzie Speak (TM). Yes.
See you all later. Must go and do what becomes a man with dry brittle hands.
No, not artificial insemination of cows. Washing up.
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[13 Nov 2004|04:21pm] |
Hello there. We are here again for the afternoon tenure, in which I get to chat to wonderful Suz and type some more flippant WH sketch.
Got another wondeful message. Temperature is rising, heat against the outside rush of ice. I am having a nice afternoon. Just talking.
Work was rushed, rowdy and rumbunctious. Buffet preperation for tonight means lots of work, which I got the bulk of out of the way in good time, before screaming some U2 songs like some berk on a camel.
Right, must ammend my document. Er...I mean write more things.
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[13 Nov 2004|06:48pm] |
I am very late....I have to work very soon and have been having too much fun on the IM to notice the time. I've got some homework done though. Sling me the hooks to fill the books!
Bye for now.
I'm off! Get out of my way!
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