the art of kicking ass.

I rarely stay up past 2am to write papers - by the time that rolls around, I've been spending every 30 seconds alternating between reloading e-mail and checking websites I know haven't been updated in the last 2 minutes and writing a tepid, measley sentence or two. And yet, last night, after failing to fall asleep to the sweet sounds of Mariah & Madonna (you'd think by this time the beats through the wall would be like a lullaby) I woke up and by the light of my faulty and slowly dying fluorescent desk light, finished the whole damn essay. And it's just about enough bullcrap on debunking Nicolas Bourriaud's relational aesthetic theory to sound pretty damn smart. I wake up - skip a 10am lecture because, gosh darnit, I earned it - buy a pizza and some Diet Coke and I'm good to go.

My mom's been in town since Saturday and I've been stressed about finishing this paper, among other things. But 2500 words later, suddenly the sun is out and I'm looking forward to going into the city and telling my mom about how smart I am. We did something beautiful the first day she was here - walked around Kensington Gardens, Hyde Park, and looked at the fashion exhibits in the V&A. While we were there, a small film crew was filming an older man speaking French and pointing to items within the JC de Castelbajac exhibit. As I strained to listen with my tepid French skills, I realized he was saying "J'ai commence" and other phrases in the first person, and, examining family photographs, realized that this was indeed the designer. Ah, my first brush with fame in London. Eccentric designer today, Gwyneth tomorrow!

Went to the St. Patrick's Day celebrations around Trafalgar Square too, despite the fact that St. Patrick's Day doesn't happen until Friday. I suppose the only day the city can half shut down is on Sunday, when nothing is open anyways. The parade was less than exciting, although the little girls dancing in curls and the dogs dyed green might have been worth all the cold, as well as the group shouting "WE WANT OUR COUNTRY BACK!" which was uncomfortable, because they were in London. We trudged to Trafalgar Square where the Mayor of London was once again celebrating the Irish people and ignoring everything political, and all the guys from Ireland were smiling and nodding along. Then they released balloons the color of the Irish flag and Gemma Hayes sang lots of pretty songs.

Went to Hampstead. Saw John Keats' house (maybe exciting for English nerds like Geoff, I've never read the guy) and it was a very nice house. Impeccable neighborhood. Friendly neighbors! Too bad about the tuberculosis. Still want to move there and own a black lab and let it run all throughout the Heath and then take it with to pick up my small child from some hoity toity fancy brick school. While somebody else makes all the money for me while I write my novel, run a small gallery, and hang out with my kittens.

"In the more fugitive, trivial association of the word exotic, the charm of a foreign places arises from the simple idea of novelty and change: from finding camels where at home there had been horses; from finding unadorned apartment buildings where at home they had had pillars. But there may be a more profound pleasure: we may value foreign elements not only because they are new, but because they seem to accord more faithfully with our identity and commitments than anything our homeland could provide." - The Art of Travel, a book singlehandedly bringing me comfort on my journeys to and from on the Underground.

I still love Henry VIII.