I'm taking a break at the moment from an assignment I have to write on Marxist Literary Criticism for my degree course. It's a tough one, and it's going to take some time. Not because Marxism is hard to understand, but because the text we have to apply it to is a difficult one: the opening pages of Charles Dickens' Bleak House, which at first sight has almost nothing meaty in it for me to use. Yes, the High Court of Chancery is an institution supported by a particularly capitalist ideology which itself is supported by agreement rather than enforcement which itself might be an example of interpellation since it doesn't seem to be helping very many people etc. etc. etc.; but how the hell to word that on a cold, grey Monday with a 1000 word limit and only 6 days left to complete it?
F**k knows. I was ruined over the weekend by the purchase of a cd which closed with a 1961 reading by Allen Ginsberg of his poem "Auto Poesy to Nebraska". Such freedom! such humour in that! ("How big is the prick of the president?") Reminded me there are jewels out there the academic world can't begin to understand; and that I'm an artist too. A poet, albeit one who has written hardly anything for a couple of years because of poor health and catastrophic loss of confidence and direction; loss of spiritual balance which I'm only now beginning to recover (trying to anyway). When am I going to write again and recover some of the talent I once had instead of sitting in cold libraries writing formalistic essays for the approval of teachers who don't even know of the existence of Ron Whitehead or Wild Bill Blackolive?
Today's as good a day to start as any, Hodder, once you wrestle Karl Marx to the ground and get home to the Bard Gaff.