Dear Diary,
«Ques quis passe¿¡»? I don't know. Oh yes! As I strolled into town, a hail from behind me hollered across the road. T'was none other than the legendary Artist extrodinarre: Mike Taylor. We spent a quiet time reminiscing by the riverside. Aye. Good times.
Next came Jake, back from Canada, then off to see Janie, where I am now. Too much hath transpired to recount here and now, too sloshed et cetera. Soz. Gonne recall what happened exactely some other time, not now. Sweet Santa Maria calls. Siren. Mermaid. Dashed on the rocks.
Maximus Fleximus.
Friday, 31 August 2012
Thursday, 30 August 2012
O.U. Anthem
My old school song, written by Mr. Perne, taught by Mr. Manners, and rearranged by Mr. Maxwell Lewis Latham, 2012 © The Open University, all rights reserved.
Max's Art Collection
Dear Diary,
Here are some choice art-works for you.
Firstly, here is the portrait I've been harping on about all this time:
Maxwell Laments Kathryn by David Williams-Henham, 2012 © Maxwell Lewis Latham, 2012 (all rights reserved)
Still Life with Sardines by Grant Scot McCormick, 2011 (a.k.a. 'Stan Miguel') © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Grant Scot McCormick (Artist and doner)
Loch Lomond by Grant Scot McCormick, 2010 © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Grant Scot McCormick (Artist and doner)
Satan Himself by Anthony Dover, 2009 © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Anthony Dover (Artist and doner)
Rabbits in Love by Anthony Dover, 2009 © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Anthony Dover (Artist and doner)
Here are some choice art-works for you.
Firstly, here is the portrait I've been harping on about all this time:
Maxwell Laments Kathryn by David Williams-Henham, 2012 © Maxwell Lewis Latham, 2012 (all rights reserved)
Still Life with Sardines by Grant Scot McCormick, 2011 (a.k.a. 'Stan Miguel') © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Grant Scot McCormick (Artist and doner)
Loch Lomond by Grant Scot McCormick, 2010 © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Grant Scot McCormick (Artist and doner)
Satan Himself by Anthony Dover, 2009 © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Anthony Dover (Artist and doner)
Rabbits in Love by Anthony Dover, 2009 © Maxwell Lewis Latham's personal art collection, all rights reserved, intellectual property rights owned by Anthony Dover (Artist and doner)
Music Thang
Dear Diary,
I could've gone away, but I chose instead to stay, I'm feeling the last residual traces of "the siege" day before payday. Sobriety. No cigarettes. Nothing. Hard-core.
Stress levels are low, at least with myself, if not some of those about me as I sit, and 'text' this diary entry (or "blog post" as they're now known, lol) from my smart-phone. Everybody should have one.
Anyway, I sit here, awaiting the moment when I get to edit down these rock 'n roll band snippets. It will no doubt take an age, or at least, what seems like it. Stress. No fags. You'd think t'was they who are having to go without.
Things here are ... calmer now.
An old friend who's recently returned from across 'the pond' and I are going for a short road trip tomorrow. The weather be clement, and things shall undoubtably be ... more On the Flex.
I found some raspberry canes today, and shall make a hedge out of them where the fence at the far end of my English country garden has collapsed. For now though, as the firey golden orb kisses the green hilltops, I await the use of the editing software so I can listen to the tracks we put down. Awesome.
Stay On the Flex.
Maximus.
I could've gone away, but I chose instead to stay, I'm feeling the last residual traces of "the siege" day before payday. Sobriety. No cigarettes. Nothing. Hard-core.
Stress levels are low, at least with myself, if not some of those about me as I sit, and 'text' this diary entry (or "blog post" as they're now known, lol) from my smart-phone. Everybody should have one.
Anyway, I sit here, awaiting the moment when I get to edit down these rock 'n roll band snippets. It will no doubt take an age, or at least, what seems like it. Stress. No fags. You'd think t'was they who are having to go without.
Things here are ... calmer now.
An old friend who's recently returned from across 'the pond' and I are going for a short road trip tomorrow. The weather be clement, and things shall undoubtably be ... more On the Flex.
I found some raspberry canes today, and shall make a hedge out of them where the fence at the far end of my English country garden has collapsed. For now though, as the firey golden orb kisses the green hilltops, I await the use of the editing software so I can listen to the tracks we put down. Awesome.
Stay On the Flex.
Maximus.
Latino Amigo
Dear Diary,
After much deliberation in mine own mind, toying with Hume and Roussou, I've decided against going From Enlightenment to Romanticism and will be Reading Classical Latin instead. All after completing my next mod' Mediæval to modern history. On the Flex, naturally. I will need another tutor, a personal pedogogue, Pangloss. The wisest mind in all Westphælia, Franconia, and Frestonia. Aye. The Master.
I surmise I shall most defnately require his tutelage if I am to tackle learning Etymology, Syntax, Prosaic Challanges ahead. But why? Because I heard this morning from a potential venue, a gig, that calligraphic text be usually penned in Latin; I was also toying with the notion of penning work in an Illuminated Manuscript, full of art, also music, and of course mine flowery handwriting. Aye. I shall do that methinks.
Not for an essay, but for mine own amusement which should surely provide some slight mirth in a world otherwise devoid of stimulation: intellectually. Pangloss is a veritable powerhouse intellectually. Mass debate or intellectual intercourse aside...
It has been anything but boring these past few days, weeks, daze; most stimulating sexually, if not intellectually, as making love is no good distraction from focusing on my task. It's a great distraction, but not unlike art history itself: «une bonne maladie» as Pangloss quite rightly said.
I hate to be so far from Janie for so long, but the near insurmountable task of learning Latin cannot be done without his instruction. Help in understanding, writing - and speaking - all in French, then Latin. Aye. «Oui, Si». Anyhow, I gotta get goin'. Later baby.
Maximus Fleximus.
After much deliberation in mine own mind, toying with Hume and Roussou, I've decided against going From Enlightenment to Romanticism and will be Reading Classical Latin instead. All after completing my next mod' Mediæval to modern history. On the Flex, naturally. I will need another tutor, a personal pedogogue, Pangloss. The wisest mind in all Westphælia, Franconia, and Frestonia. Aye. The Master.
I surmise I shall most defnately require his tutelage if I am to tackle learning Etymology, Syntax, Prosaic Challanges ahead. But why? Because I heard this morning from a potential venue, a gig, that calligraphic text be usually penned in Latin; I was also toying with the notion of penning work in an Illuminated Manuscript, full of art, also music, and of course mine flowery handwriting. Aye. I shall do that methinks.
Not for an essay, but for mine own amusement which should surely provide some slight mirth in a world otherwise devoid of stimulation: intellectually. Pangloss is a veritable powerhouse intellectually. Mass debate or intellectual intercourse aside...
It has been anything but boring these past few days, weeks, daze; most stimulating sexually, if not intellectually, as making love is no good distraction from focusing on my task. It's a great distraction, but not unlike art history itself: «une bonne maladie» as Pangloss quite rightly said.
I hate to be so far from Janie for so long, but the near insurmountable task of learning Latin cannot be done without his instruction. Help in understanding, writing - and speaking - all in French, then Latin. Aye. «Oui, Si». Anyhow, I gotta get goin'. Later baby.
Maximus Fleximus.
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
Hard Times
Dear Diary,
Well, now I have a mountain of other people's junk, and mine own, cluttering up the whole of upstairs. One cannot move for the space that hath been created.
Beside's Fiona the violinists affairs, and the past tenant's affects, it was pleasant to pore through artefacts not yet catagorised or sorted into any semblance of order. I found paintings, charcoals, an old hat, a minidisc recorder, a flatscreen, loads of garments and bed-clothes: to name but a few off the oddly assortment that is my attic, an emporium of a loft, like some giant car-boot sale, frozen in time.
Now is the Hard Time: fasting until Freyasday's bountiful harvest. Aye. Æquinamitate. The Latham family creed: Equinamity. I've been through far tougher times than this. Be thankful for 1) Being alive. and 2) Not being rained on.
If it is true that one "only goes as low as one allows oneself to go" (David, an artist I once knew, he's dead now) and another trueism be taught to me, in the army (cadets) which was a quote from John Barrie, "Once courage is gone, all is lost". Rather, re-phrased "If you think you're beat, then you are beat." So. Given that the power of the mind be unlimited (whereas the power of the body: limited; Ueshiba, The Art of Peace) therefore it stands to reason that having an inflated sense of self, a courageous spirit, and dauntless attitude can only benefit oneself. I am great. Yes. Aristotle was arrogant (one might even say aristocratic) because he knew he was clever. Anyone who is intellectually astute has at least something of an ego. If you've got it... Flaunt it!
On the other hand, there may be something said for humility and idiocy. Being a humble idiot is ... perhaps wise, as I've lost count of the many times I had wish I had been more humble. Fcuk it. That time is passed. It is now time to learn from past mistakes, be humble when necessary, and the rest of the time: just be yourself.
Maximus.
Well, now I have a mountain of other people's junk, and mine own, cluttering up the whole of upstairs. One cannot move for the space that hath been created.
Beside's Fiona the violinists affairs, and the past tenant's affects, it was pleasant to pore through artefacts not yet catagorised or sorted into any semblance of order. I found paintings, charcoals, an old hat, a minidisc recorder, a flatscreen, loads of garments and bed-clothes: to name but a few off the oddly assortment that is my attic, an emporium of a loft, like some giant car-boot sale, frozen in time.
Now is the Hard Time: fasting until Freyasday's bountiful harvest. Aye. Æquinamitate. The Latham family creed: Equinamity. I've been through far tougher times than this. Be thankful for 1) Being alive. and 2) Not being rained on.
If it is true that one "only goes as low as one allows oneself to go" (David, an artist I once knew, he's dead now) and another trueism be taught to me, in the army (cadets) which was a quote from John Barrie, "Once courage is gone, all is lost". Rather, re-phrased "If you think you're beat, then you are beat." So. Given that the power of the mind be unlimited (whereas the power of the body: limited; Ueshiba, The Art of Peace) therefore it stands to reason that having an inflated sense of self, a courageous spirit, and dauntless attitude can only benefit oneself. I am great. Yes. Aristotle was arrogant (one might even say aristocratic) because he knew he was clever. Anyone who is intellectually astute has at least something of an ego. If you've got it... Flaunt it!
On the other hand, there may be something said for humility and idiocy. Being a humble idiot is ... perhaps wise, as I've lost count of the many times I had wish I had been more humble. Fcuk it. That time is passed. It is now time to learn from past mistakes, be humble when necessary, and the rest of the time: just be yourself.
Maximus.
Late as always
Dear Diary,
Rudely awoken by the loft guy, I nurse a hazy head, recalling what happened yesterday in reverse chronological order. Aye. First off I went to Uncle's place. As I neared his home I heard loud and most discordant keyboard playing. After a ten minute rigmarole of answering the door, I noticed it wasn't infact Uncle at all, making a dreadful racket. The cacophony was reported from a bull of a man, a tall guy with the look of an ex-con about him. A tough, ugly face, and as strong as an ox. Even though I was invited to stay, drink, smoke: I just had to leave, so dinful was the cacophony.
I went to see Stig. I watched some weird re-runs with him, 60's films about psychics. Then went home. Hazy.
I woke up late, and have been clearing out the attic. I'm almost there. Only a dozen more bags to go. Janie will be round in a few hours I expect. It's all good. Back to the grind for me, after this cup of tea. Mission time methinks.
Don't lose it.
Maxx.
Rudely awoken by the loft guy, I nurse a hazy head, recalling what happened yesterday in reverse chronological order. Aye. First off I went to Uncle's place. As I neared his home I heard loud and most discordant keyboard playing. After a ten minute rigmarole of answering the door, I noticed it wasn't infact Uncle at all, making a dreadful racket. The cacophony was reported from a bull of a man, a tall guy with the look of an ex-con about him. A tough, ugly face, and as strong as an ox. Even though I was invited to stay, drink, smoke: I just had to leave, so dinful was the cacophony.
I went to see Stig. I watched some weird re-runs with him, 60's films about psychics. Then went home. Hazy.
I woke up late, and have been clearing out the attic. I'm almost there. Only a dozen more bags to go. Janie will be round in a few hours I expect. It's all good. Back to the grind for me, after this cup of tea. Mission time methinks.
Don't lose it.
Maxx.
Tuesday, 28 August 2012
yAy 200
Dear Diary,
A stroll beneath azured skies.
After my paramour took off, I sat, cup of tea, the assignment open, ready to work (forget the loft and stuff, I figure it's all throwing stuff down, out the window. I can do that quickly.) Easy-life. Anyway.
Suddenly, a knock at the door, who could that be? It was the courier. My O.U. materials had arrived for Exploring History: medieval... 1400's... [onwards]. mEnTaL! AWEsome man! That's so cool! All six books, three discs. This has to be good. Come on!
I don't wanna get distracted from the main Flex: TMA 3, Mortuary analysis, the ethical debate surrounding cosmopolitanism and cultural patrimony - repatriation. Anyway, meanwhile, Back On the Flex Maxwell needs another cup of green tea and blueberries.
A stroll beneath azured skies.
After my paramour took off, I sat, cup of tea, the assignment open, ready to work (forget the loft and stuff, I figure it's all throwing stuff down, out the window. I can do that quickly.) Easy-life. Anyway.
Suddenly, a knock at the door, who could that be? It was the courier. My O.U. materials had arrived for Exploring History: medieval... 1400's... [onwards]. mEnTaL! AWEsome man! That's so cool! All six books, three discs. This has to be good. Come on!
I don't wanna get distracted from the main Flex: TMA 3, Mortuary analysis, the ethical debate surrounding cosmopolitanism and cultural patrimony - repatriation. Anyway, meanwhile, Back On the Flex Maxwell needs another cup of green tea and blueberries.
Keeping Busy Bee
Dear Diary,
After another wasted daze and nights, meeting Janie's mate, then an exhausting night, I'm just about ready to stroll up the road, and catch the line home, where, this busy-bee must scramble frantically to tidy-up the gaff. Why bother? Because both the loft and windows are being done first thing the morrow. Dash. Rush. Phrenetic madash about shifting the lot, out the top window, into the outside storage space (backyard). I want to sit down, have a cup of tea, and finish working on my assignment, but alas, I can't. Bugger.
I am also having issues logging in to Encyclopedia Brittanica Online, but only because I don't have a 'puter and net connection. I will have to sort that out as soon as possible, level-two looming and all. Netbook contract solution perhaps.
Stay On the Flex Maximus.
After another wasted daze and nights, meeting Janie's mate, then an exhausting night, I'm just about ready to stroll up the road, and catch the line home, where, this busy-bee must scramble frantically to tidy-up the gaff. Why bother? Because both the loft and windows are being done first thing the morrow. Dash. Rush. Phrenetic madash about shifting the lot, out the top window, into the outside storage space (backyard). I want to sit down, have a cup of tea, and finish working on my assignment, but alas, I can't. Bugger.
I am also having issues logging in to Encyclopedia Brittanica Online, but only because I don't have a 'puter and net connection. I will have to sort that out as soon as possible, level-two looming and all. Netbook contract solution perhaps.
Stay On the Flex Maximus.
Monday, 27 August 2012
Repose
Dear Diary,
Taking the day off from doing my essay, I justified enjoying Carry On Behind as it had the plot premise of an achæological excavation. Now watching Cold Comfort Farm, and thoroughly enjoying every minute of it. Not having a television at my home means when I watch other people's I'm often transfixed, when watching something I like (usually History documentaries). Lounging around in front of Time Team.
Taking the day off from doing my essay, I justified enjoying Carry On Behind as it had the plot premise of an achæological excavation. Now watching Cold Comfort Farm, and thoroughly enjoying every minute of it. Not having a television at my home means when I watch other people's I'm often transfixed, when watching something I like (usually History documentaries). Lounging around in front of Time Team.
Sunday, 26 August 2012
You cannot imagine...
Oops.. Got too drunk at the gig last night... x
Dear Diary,
For I was wasted. Aye. Running for the bus by Willie Make-it, illustrated by Bettie won't. Aye. Booze and such flowed high. The place was filled with loveable rogues. Dodgy folk, the likes of which you can't possibly imagine. Banter at the bar. I dazzled them with ditties, never before heard of, by mine sweet guitar. Aye. I miss you. No-one knows me save the Universe.
More later,
For I am spent tonight,
Aye,
I love y'all,
Maxy Waxy. xxxx
Dear Diary,
For I was wasted. Aye. Running for the bus by Willie Make-it, illustrated by Bettie won't. Aye. Booze and such flowed high. The place was filled with loveable rogues. Dodgy folk, the likes of which you can't possibly imagine. Banter at the bar. I dazzled them with ditties, never before heard of, by mine sweet guitar. Aye. I miss you. No-one knows me save the Universe.
More later,
For I am spent tonight,
Aye,
I love y'all,
Maxy Waxy. xxxx
Friday, 24 August 2012
Gaze
Dear Diary,
I be gazing in adoration at the picture and mine paramour. We're both very pissed (in the Anglo-Saxon sense of the word not the God bless America sense, it's all good). Anyway. Where were we. Oh yes! Back On the Flex. I've been gazing in adoration, at my portrait, and my paramour, through the haze vegeterian paradise and picturesque vanity borne of musical accomplishment and trystesse. Aye. Another day shall I show thee t'painting lad. Aye
Maxx.
I be gazing in adoration at the picture and mine paramour. We're both very pissed (in the Anglo-Saxon sense of the word not the God bless America sense, it's all good). Anyway. Where were we. Oh yes! Back On the Flex. I've been gazing in adoration, at my portrait, and my paramour, through the haze vegeterian paradise and picturesque vanity borne of musical accomplishment and trystesse. Aye. Another day shall I show thee t'painting lad. Aye
Maxx.
The Pub
Dear Diary,
Where am I? Somewhere out beyond the haze, an afternoon blitzed away. I took my guitar with me, the cheap-ass bitch-maker which Janie solemnly dubbed 'Lucy'. I call her (the guitar) Juicy Lucy. The strings are worth more than the half-size travellling guitar. I've played two impromptu gigs already. As t'other Classical guitarist said, "It's nice to have a ctural ambassador [from the east]". Aye. I'm wasted right now. Had a ... weird night. Emotions. Guitar. The Masters. All rolled into one, Stay the f- On the Flex, whatever you do,
Maxx.
Where am I? Somewhere out beyond the haze, an afternoon blitzed away. I took my guitar with me, the cheap-ass bitch-maker which Janie solemnly dubbed 'Lucy'. I call her (the guitar) Juicy Lucy. The strings are worth more than the half-size travellling guitar. I've played two impromptu gigs already. As t'other Classical guitarist said, "It's nice to have a ctural ambassador [from the east]". Aye. I'm wasted right now. Had a ... weird night. Emotions. Guitar. The Masters. All rolled into one, Stay the f- On the Flex, whatever you do,
Maxx.
Portrait
Dear Diary,
It is too much (the price) for a small oil-canvas of yours truly. Yet, can one put a price on art? I think not. Two tonne in cash for a tiny painting seems a small price to pay for such a masterfully wrought piece of art. The only painting of me in existence. I love it. (Art, well .. and 'that') You should see it. It's amazing and will be the centre-piece of my already swelling collection. It kicks ass. I am over the moon with it, even if Janie says I should have haggled the price. Maybe so, but Marx didn't care about money, neither do I. Art is all: money means nothing. What of humanity?
Anarcomunitarist ideology,
Comrade Max.
It is too much (the price) for a small oil-canvas of yours truly. Yet, can one put a price on art? I think not. Two tonne in cash for a tiny painting seems a small price to pay for such a masterfully wrought piece of art. The only painting of me in existence. I love it. (Art, well .. and 'that') You should see it. It's amazing and will be the centre-piece of my already swelling collection. It kicks ass. I am over the moon with it, even if Janie says I should have haggled the price. Maybe so, but Marx didn't care about money, neither do I. Art is all: money means nothing. What of humanity?
Anarcomunitarist ideology,
Comrade Max.
Thursday, 23 August 2012
Vanity
Dear Diary,
I just had the quote for the oil painting portrait of me, it's dear, but I adore paintings of musicians, especially when they're of me! It means some serious busking and gigging to pay for the masterpiece. I've arranged to meet him at an old Tudor brothel, the house of another master guitarist. Both these guys paint, and both are adept at playing Classical guitar. I am going to be a poor church mouse for the next month or two, but it's a small price to pay for art. I am a lucky man, and it's simply through moving in artistic circles. It's all down to the founders of Frestonia (an area like Christiania in Copenhagen or Berkeley campus in the States) and of course, through that lot, thanks to Janie. Without her this may not have been possible. I'm gonna busk my little bum off this week, rain or shine.
Max.
I just had the quote for the oil painting portrait of me, it's dear, but I adore paintings of musicians, especially when they're of me! It means some serious busking and gigging to pay for the masterpiece. I've arranged to meet him at an old Tudor brothel, the house of another master guitarist. Both these guys paint, and both are adept at playing Classical guitar. I am going to be a poor church mouse for the next month or two, but it's a small price to pay for art. I am a lucky man, and it's simply through moving in artistic circles. It's all down to the founders of Frestonia (an area like Christiania in Copenhagen or Berkeley campus in the States) and of course, through that lot, thanks to Janie. Without her this may not have been possible. I'm gonna busk my little bum off this week, rain or shine.
Max.
Wednesday, 22 August 2012
Stay On the Flex
Dear Diary,
Today has been ... interesting. The market was called-off, I manage to scrounge a little bit of tobacco, if only for looking after the dogs for them.
I was well into engaging on the forums, and decided to take a day off from the assignment. Reading about the mcabre is finally getting to me. All work and no play... and all that jive. [Pub crawl followed by meeting Janie]
...the next day... {Today}
I would like to have get stuck back into my assignment but was shattered after seeing Janie yesterday. I had a siesta after walking her into town, did some shopping with all of three squid, then finally crashed out. I was awoken by Uncle, gave him some books on philosophy I had borrowed, and am now feeling fuzzy. The final residual trace of a hazy daze leaves my body and spirit. My misty mind clears slowly, finding motivation to finish this elusive essay, I just want to get this module finished.
Yesterday I recieved notification of reserving a place on the next tier of learning: Mediæval to modern history. Nice.
Just prior to this I had dissapointed my tutor because of a controvertial forum post regarding blood, sugar, sex, magic. Not the Chillies, but voicing views on the sanctity of sex. Alas, I was crestfallen when I read the good Doctor's words, but immediately toned-down my previous post, and I hope this is more suitable for academic circles. I must learn to not be so ... kinky, fruity, with the content of my forum posts. It's all a learning curve, and I am reasonably confident that I can tackle this next module with a better outlook. Take scholsticism more seriously, not be to On the Flex, but more objective and moderate, stoic, use guarded language, and try not to be so radical, but my anarcomunitarist ideology will ever be my psyche. I am fully indoctrinated: education in philosophy, namely Hume and Roussou when I go on to tackle the module: from Enlightenment to Romanticism. If I try hard enough I can attain my goal: distinction. Even if I fall short of my desired aim, I can but try my best. Merit, pass, 2:1, 2:2, it's all good. I would like a first as it would be a first for my family, my well-educated brothers. Scoring marks of 85% consistently is tough. I know others, perhaps intellectually my superiors have tried and succeeded. Yet two things keep me going, 1) When Pangloss (who has an I.Q. in excess of 195!) said, "It's not often I meet someone who is gifted - intellectually - but when I meet such a person, I know straight away. You Maxwell, are one of those precious few." I am not 139 like the test I took, the test was wrong.
2) My marks have improved consistently, getting better all the time.
So, although my grades are a good ten to fifteen percent lower than is needed, I can try and try and try to attain distinction, honours, and one day, a Doctorate. Master of Arts. Professor of History. Ambition and motivation are wedded.
Stay On the Flex,
Maximus.
Today has been ... interesting. The market was called-off, I manage to scrounge a little bit of tobacco, if only for looking after the dogs for them.
I was well into engaging on the forums, and decided to take a day off from the assignment. Reading about the mcabre is finally getting to me. All work and no play... and all that jive. [Pub crawl followed by meeting Janie]
...the next day... {Today}
I would like to have get stuck back into my assignment but was shattered after seeing Janie yesterday. I had a siesta after walking her into town, did some shopping with all of three squid, then finally crashed out. I was awoken by Uncle, gave him some books on philosophy I had borrowed, and am now feeling fuzzy. The final residual trace of a hazy daze leaves my body and spirit. My misty mind clears slowly, finding motivation to finish this elusive essay, I just want to get this module finished.
Yesterday I recieved notification of reserving a place on the next tier of learning: Mediæval to modern history. Nice.
Just prior to this I had dissapointed my tutor because of a controvertial forum post regarding blood, sugar, sex, magic. Not the Chillies, but voicing views on the sanctity of sex. Alas, I was crestfallen when I read the good Doctor's words, but immediately toned-down my previous post, and I hope this is more suitable for academic circles. I must learn to not be so ... kinky, fruity, with the content of my forum posts. It's all a learning curve, and I am reasonably confident that I can tackle this next module with a better outlook. Take scholsticism more seriously, not be to On the Flex, but more objective and moderate, stoic, use guarded language, and try not to be so radical, but my anarcomunitarist ideology will ever be my psyche. I am fully indoctrinated: education in philosophy, namely Hume and Roussou when I go on to tackle the module: from Enlightenment to Romanticism. If I try hard enough I can attain my goal: distinction. Even if I fall short of my desired aim, I can but try my best. Merit, pass, 2:1, 2:2, it's all good. I would like a first as it would be a first for my family, my well-educated brothers. Scoring marks of 85% consistently is tough. I know others, perhaps intellectually my superiors have tried and succeeded. Yet two things keep me going, 1) When Pangloss (who has an I.Q. in excess of 195!) said, "It's not often I meet someone who is gifted - intellectually - but when I meet such a person, I know straight away. You Maxwell, are one of those precious few." I am not 139 like the test I took, the test was wrong.
2) My marks have improved consistently, getting better all the time.
So, although my grades are a good ten to fifteen percent lower than is needed, I can try and try and try to attain distinction, honours, and one day, a Doctorate. Master of Arts. Professor of History. Ambition and motivation are wedded.
Stay On the Flex,
Maximus.
Tuesday, 21 August 2012
Intime
Dear Diary,
Alas, the day takes an interesting tact already. After the usual blitzed and passion-filled evening, rising morning glorious intimacy, tired and hungry, two love-birds strolled lesiurely into town on a sunny Tuesco morn'.
The inevitable organic food shop, whilst eating breakfast brechette I dids't spy mine nemesis, and also a woman we both knew, the sounding of a bell inspired me to write a play, a tragedy, contemporary, yet archaic.
We went to the pub, I ordered a half a cyder eighth degree, naturally, and she, had a light ale, golden. As we sat outside, a secret admirer began to flirt with me, Janie became jealous, we left.
Then, after a quiet stroll about the park in the sun, we met an artful dodger: one of our close friends, he bought us a drink each (as we had both spent all by now) the two hurried to catch the bus to their home-town, where they live along the coast a way. Alas, I tried to leave with my ale, the landlady said not to, I replied I'd be straight back. After seeing Janie off, the barman had tipped or guzzled away my drink after me having n'owt but a lone sip. I considered briefly what to do, and finally, I decided to just let it go. Zen-like. Boycott the place in future.
So. I am home. Alone. Yet, with my studies. An assignment to do, a computer to repair in order to do the essay (or I could just text it out on my phone, as per usual). Eyes down, sober up, come down to reality Maxy, we must work now.
Mori.
Maxx.
Alas, the day takes an interesting tact already. After the usual blitzed and passion-filled evening, rising morning glorious intimacy, tired and hungry, two love-birds strolled lesiurely into town on a sunny Tuesco morn'.
The inevitable organic food shop, whilst eating breakfast brechette I dids't spy mine nemesis, and also a woman we both knew, the sounding of a bell inspired me to write a play, a tragedy, contemporary, yet archaic.
We went to the pub, I ordered a half a cyder eighth degree, naturally, and she, had a light ale, golden. As we sat outside, a secret admirer began to flirt with me, Janie became jealous, we left.
Then, after a quiet stroll about the park in the sun, we met an artful dodger: one of our close friends, he bought us a drink each (as we had both spent all by now) the two hurried to catch the bus to their home-town, where they live along the coast a way. Alas, I tried to leave with my ale, the landlady said not to, I replied I'd be straight back. After seeing Janie off, the barman had tipped or guzzled away my drink after me having n'owt but a lone sip. I considered briefly what to do, and finally, I decided to just let it go. Zen-like. Boycott the place in future.
So. I am home. Alone. Yet, with my studies. An assignment to do, a computer to repair in order to do the essay (or I could just text it out on my phone, as per usual). Eyes down, sober up, come down to reality Maxy, we must work now.
Mori.
Maxx.
Monday, 20 August 2012
Slumber
Dear Diary,
I managed to get a little nap in after doing some Uni' work. The fridge was ajar, some of my tobacco was missing. I noticed some stray kids had wandered into the house round back, friends of the family here. They had come round to clean the bird-cage, heaven knows why they came back, except to scrounge for food and such. Bugger. That's me out of tobacco for the week now. I guess I'll have to busk.
Loving Janie is a full-time occupation. I need to focus on my assignment. I have so much to write about. Hans Holbein the younger, Emile Zola's Therese Raquin, also Victorian mummy-unwrapping parties. None of this is strictly on the syllabus, but I thought it fitting to include in my essay. I'll do a good job of the paper at least, even if I'm throwing the dice a little, breaking the mould: not sticking exclusively to the O.U. material (though I hasten to add I put in a shed-load of stuff from the module course books, and even managed to link to a past module - paganism and Avebury).
Janie said she'd phone by now and hasn't, I'm not worried, she's most probably shattered. She's visiting my place tonight, and wants to help me tidy it up. I refuse any sort of help, being stubborn, but somehow she's managed to win me around. I know that I'll try and sort it out, whilst working on this essay. God I love working on archaeological studies: as much as I love Janie. I'm just glad she has a shared passion for archaeology.
The dogs are all going nuts, I tried to chill them the flex out with some food, but somehow they're still fooling around. The bitch is in-heat and keeps mounting the males, affirming her dominance over the pack. The big-guy occasionally licks her behind. It's all very base.
I should call Janie, but I need to eat dinner first. Ooh! I have some strong drink left. Jolly good! Chin chin! (Oh, and it's nice to see the following back).
Maxwell adprobata est iterum pro momento ad minus.
Maximus.
I managed to get a little nap in after doing some Uni' work. The fridge was ajar, some of my tobacco was missing. I noticed some stray kids had wandered into the house round back, friends of the family here. They had come round to clean the bird-cage, heaven knows why they came back, except to scrounge for food and such. Bugger. That's me out of tobacco for the week now. I guess I'll have to busk.
Loving Janie is a full-time occupation. I need to focus on my assignment. I have so much to write about. Hans Holbein the younger, Emile Zola's Therese Raquin, also Victorian mummy-unwrapping parties. None of this is strictly on the syllabus, but I thought it fitting to include in my essay. I'll do a good job of the paper at least, even if I'm throwing the dice a little, breaking the mould: not sticking exclusively to the O.U. material (though I hasten to add I put in a shed-load of stuff from the module course books, and even managed to link to a past module - paganism and Avebury).
Janie said she'd phone by now and hasn't, I'm not worried, she's most probably shattered. She's visiting my place tonight, and wants to help me tidy it up. I refuse any sort of help, being stubborn, but somehow she's managed to win me around. I know that I'll try and sort it out, whilst working on this essay. God I love working on archaeological studies: as much as I love Janie. I'm just glad she has a shared passion for archaeology.
The dogs are all going nuts, I tried to chill them the flex out with some food, but somehow they're still fooling around. The bitch is in-heat and keeps mounting the males, affirming her dominance over the pack. The big-guy occasionally licks her behind. It's all very base.
I should call Janie, but I need to eat dinner first. Ooh! I have some strong drink left. Jolly good! Chin chin! (Oh, and it's nice to see the following back).
Maxwell adprobata est iterum pro momento ad minus.
Maximus.
Chores
Dear Diary,
Still shattered I have finished the washing up at least. The dogs haven't been walked at all (which was my main responsibility) normally they'd be goin' nuts after a few days of confinement, but they seem pretty relaxed, eating bugs, snapping at the occasional fly. Feeding the cats is done. I am so tired. Man. Wagwan? Twifter-timethinks. Aye.
Zzzzzz
LMxx
Still shattered I have finished the washing up at least. The dogs haven't been walked at all (which was my main responsibility) normally they'd be goin' nuts after a few days of confinement, but they seem pretty relaxed, eating bugs, snapping at the occasional fly. Feeding the cats is done. I am so tired. Man. Wagwan? Twifter-timethinks. Aye.
Zzzzzz
LMxx
Spent
Dear Diary,
I feel devoid of energy, spent, sore, I'm seeing things through sleep deprivation, racing to get back to the dog-sitting house to feed the cats. Then I must do the chores in their pad, then do mine own house-work (years overdue). I need sleep but hath too much to do.
I just feel like lying down. The gig was called off yesterday, now I'm as poor as a church mouse. I have a few squid for food, some drink left, and even a little bit of baccy. I need rest. Man I can hardly stay awake on the bus here.
I must go,
Stay On the Flex,
Maximus.
I feel devoid of energy, spent, sore, I'm seeing things through sleep deprivation, racing to get back to the dog-sitting house to feed the cats. Then I must do the chores in their pad, then do mine own house-work (years overdue). I need sleep but hath too much to do.
I just feel like lying down. The gig was called off yesterday, now I'm as poor as a church mouse. I have a few squid for food, some drink left, and even a little bit of baccy. I need rest. Man I can hardly stay awake on the bus here.
I must go,
Stay On the Flex,
Maximus.
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