(no subject)
Apr. 14th, 2005 10:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cblj_backupWell, the thesis is formatted for submission, the forms are all printed out, my nice clothes are hanging unwrinkled by the door, and I've located the graduate office I need to take the forms to once they're signed.
The glue is drying on the Thesis Mask -- a physical execution of some of the theories I discuss towards the end of the final chapter. A nice visual, and a prop to hide behind.
Thank goodness the ribbon for the ties showed up today, or it would have been leather bootlaces bought from Walgreens on the way to school tomorrow.
I'm not moving on in education this time; I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I know that it means tomorrow is the culmination of seven years' work, which began with the phrase "Why don't you stop fucking around and admit you're a theatre major?" and the injunction to buy The Empty Space. My copy has at least three separate shades of ink in it -- first-reading underlines, annotations after study, and highlighting from a time I wrote a paper on it.
In that slim volume, Peter Brook says that "A word does not start as a word -- it is an end product which begins as an impulse, stimulated by attitude and behaviour which dictate the need for expression." The words I'm defending tomorrow -- thirty-two thousand and one of them, to be precise -- began as an impulse seven years ago to do not what was merely bearable because I was good at it, but what I could build a passion for -- what fulfilled my need for expression.
And I would have made a wretched psychologist, anyway.
I suppose I ought to be nervous, but I'm just numb, other than not being able to sleep. If I fail now it's going to be tragically anticlimactic.
The glue is drying on the Thesis Mask -- a physical execution of some of the theories I discuss towards the end of the final chapter. A nice visual, and a prop to hide behind.
Thank goodness the ribbon for the ties showed up today, or it would have been leather bootlaces bought from Walgreens on the way to school tomorrow.
I'm not moving on in education this time; I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I know that it means tomorrow is the culmination of seven years' work, which began with the phrase "Why don't you stop fucking around and admit you're a theatre major?" and the injunction to buy The Empty Space. My copy has at least three separate shades of ink in it -- first-reading underlines, annotations after study, and highlighting from a time I wrote a paper on it.
In that slim volume, Peter Brook says that "A word does not start as a word -- it is an end product which begins as an impulse, stimulated by attitude and behaviour which dictate the need for expression." The words I'm defending tomorrow -- thirty-two thousand and one of them, to be precise -- began as an impulse seven years ago to do not what was merely bearable because I was good at it, but what I could build a passion for -- what fulfilled my need for expression.
And I would have made a wretched psychologist, anyway.
I suppose I ought to be nervous, but I'm just numb, other than not being able to sleep. If I fail now it's going to be tragically anticlimactic.
