The flesh is weak
Jun. 11th, 2009 08:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sawylThis week is stretching even my near indomitable reserves to their limits. Work-wise, I've found myself utterly overload, not just with my own tasks but, due to the unexpected absence of a number of my colleagues, everyone else's too.
Simultaneously, I've been struggling study-wise to hack together another chapter of my thesis for a deadline tomorrow. I'm very unhappy with the quality of the work — largely an attempt to combine Foucauldian theories about the normative effects of power with a Millian analysis of the limits of state power — but at the moment, I'm too tired to produce anything better. It's all I can do to get the words down, without worrying about whether they're coherent or cogent or even in the right order. I figure I'll concentrate on getting something — anything — down on paper and then clean it up in a mad editing session in a month or two.
But the worst of it is that to achieve all this without going completely insane, I've had to up my normal routines to give me more time to decompress and think things over; according to my distance counter, I've run something like 65 miles and swum around 14 mile in the last week, despite claiming yesterday as a rest day (i.e. a day without running). No wonder I'm knackered.
If I survive, I think I'm going to spend the weekend in bed reading novels. Perhaps I'll read the new Sarah Waters or maybe, in honour of the recent election, I'll finally get round to José Saramago's Seeing, which I've only been meaning to read for two years...
Simultaneously, I've been struggling study-wise to hack together another chapter of my thesis for a deadline tomorrow. I'm very unhappy with the quality of the work — largely an attempt to combine Foucauldian theories about the normative effects of power with a Millian analysis of the limits of state power — but at the moment, I'm too tired to produce anything better. It's all I can do to get the words down, without worrying about whether they're coherent or cogent or even in the right order. I figure I'll concentrate on getting something — anything — down on paper and then clean it up in a mad editing session in a month or two.
But the worst of it is that to achieve all this without going completely insane, I've had to up my normal routines to give me more time to decompress and think things over; according to my distance counter, I've run something like 65 miles and swum around 14 mile in the last week, despite claiming yesterday as a rest day (i.e. a day without running). No wonder I'm knackered.
If I survive, I think I'm going to spend the weekend in bed reading novels. Perhaps I'll read the new Sarah Waters or maybe, in honour of the recent election, I'll finally get round to José Saramago's Seeing, which I've only been meaning to read for two years...
