Making the grade, Anthony Bourdain, and good ol' George III
This has been a difficult 24+ hours. I don't know the exact length of time because I've been trying to busy myself with all matter of distraction, everything from research on my dissertation to pulling lint off the cat.
What's happened is that something hasn't happened. Yesterday my grades were ratified at King's College, except for one. It doesn't have a mark. This happened to a classmate in this particular module (class). As of today, no answer as to what's going on. Of course, the mind reels: will I need to write the essay again? If so how will I do that, with a 15,000-word dissertation to write, not to mention that I'm running out of money and need a job that starts by September.
The amount of stress I'm under right now could fill the Hoover Dam if it were H20. On Tuesday I have to see a G.I. specialist here in London because I'm not swallowing normally. When I asked the GP today what to expect, she said there's a chance they may stick a camera down my throat. On the tube ride home, I called my mom and told her that not getting a grade yet is even worse than the thought of this invasive camera.
Since arriving in London I've been unable to find a cat-friendly flat, endured ultrasounds to inspect a thyroid nodule for cancer (it wasn't cancerous), lost most of my Va. belongings to a flood in my storage locker, had my laptop stolen
on the tube, and developed feet that are so cracked that walking from the British Library back to Maughan Library as I am forced to do daily means I've learnt to live with pain. 'Doesn't this hurt?'my GP said today, examining a foot with grooves so deep they rival the Grand Canyon's.
Me: 'I'm used to it.'
With everything going on, I've had to admit that I have had more bad luck than good. Some of my marks were good, one or two very good in fact. I was close to distinction in my Hume to Darwin course, filling my heart with joy and frankly, surprising me. My personal tutor wrote: 'See? And you thought you'd bombed!'
I didn't think I'd bombed, but I was about 14 points off the predicted score. Now, awaiting to hear the fate of my score in the World Novel module, I realize I should get out of the prediction game. I was always a literature buff. I was singled out in undergrad for being best-in-class. I was in English Honors in high school and told I could write pretty decent fiction. Zoetrope reviewers put me in the 7-out-of-10 range for my short stories. I've submitted scripts to 'Friends' and 'Nash Bridges'. I've read 'Valley of the Dolls' and 'Hamlet' with equal glee, and feel my writing falls somewhere in between.
Obviously, I will see a grade on my school records eventually, and hopefully sooner rather than later. I passed the class according to my tutor (professor), who had explained to me how it's exceedingly rare for scores to be questioned. If this is one of those rare cases, I must hang tough. I will graduate. I am excelling in some areas and doing well in others. This Comp Lit score was a one-off. I have to get through it, and I will grow. In my depressed state last night I understood how Anthony Bourdain could have hanged himself; but in my stronger mood today, I thought of how King George was underestimated in his youth before going on to be the most scholarly and curious of monarchs of the Enlightenment or possibly ever.
But meanwhile, I hate everything about the Radetzky family and that grandfather's portrait on the wall, which my tutor told me I didn't mention enough in my essay comparing the Japanese novel Kokoro to Radetzky March. I've mentioned it many times since, and it's haunting me.
on the tube, and developed feet that are so cracked that walking from the British Library back to Maughan Library as I am forced to do daily means I've learnt to live with pain. 'Doesn't this hurt?'my GP said today, examining a foot with grooves so deep they rival the Grand Canyon's.
Me: 'I'm used to it.'
With everything going on, I've had to admit that I have had more bad luck than good. Some of my marks were good, one or two very good in fact. I was close to distinction in my Hume to Darwin course, filling my heart with joy and frankly, surprising me. My personal tutor wrote: 'See? And you thought you'd bombed!'
I didn't think I'd bombed, but I was about 14 points off the predicted score. Now, awaiting to hear the fate of my score in the World Novel module, I realize I should get out of the prediction game. I was always a literature buff. I was singled out in undergrad for being best-in-class. I was in English Honors in high school and told I could write pretty decent fiction. Zoetrope reviewers put me in the 7-out-of-10 range for my short stories. I've submitted scripts to 'Friends' and 'Nash Bridges'. I've read 'Valley of the Dolls' and 'Hamlet' with equal glee, and feel my writing falls somewhere in between.
Obviously, I will see a grade on my school records eventually, and hopefully sooner rather than later. I passed the class according to my tutor (professor), who had explained to me how it's exceedingly rare for scores to be questioned. If this is one of those rare cases, I must hang tough. I will graduate. I am excelling in some areas and doing well in others. This Comp Lit score was a one-off. I have to get through it, and I will grow. In my depressed state last night I understood how Anthony Bourdain could have hanged himself; but in my stronger mood today, I thought of how King George was underestimated in his youth before going on to be the most scholarly and curious of monarchs of the Enlightenment or possibly ever.
But meanwhile, I hate everything about the Radetzky family and that grandfather's portrait on the wall, which my tutor told me I didn't mention enough in my essay comparing the Japanese novel Kokoro to Radetzky March. I've mentioned it many times since, and it's haunting me.
Comments
Post a Comment