mitchellirons

rough notes

End of Term Update

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I have been rather quiet as of late. It being November, I had essay due dates coming at me from all sides, but I handled it well, I think. Things have finally begun to calm down, now that I have only one more exam (on Friday). I feel like I have a chance to breath again, and think beyond the scope of profs’ essay topics. (Writing this, I can see that with a chance to breathe once more also comes a complete regression in my ability to write.)

Anyway, I had due the week of my birthday another Milton essay. This was a Celebrity Death Match until the very end. There I was, in one corner, the meek and humbled student, pitted against the great poet and arsehole himself, in all of his crown’d radiance. I half expected it to be lambs to the slaughter*. The Better Half shook her head through it all, and said it must have been the Catholic in me to do it. You see, I was under no obligation to select Milton again as my second essay topic in my Bible and English Lit course. Oh no, I had an abundance of choices, from Pope and Wordsworth, to Hardy, and even OE poetry – where I would have been completely in my element. Instead. I went in for Round Two.

There he was, with his legions of angels and cherubim, ready to serve, fight, and conquer all in the Good Name. All I had on my side was a little information on who Edward King really was and a fine apprecation for the classics. Was I ready to take on _Lycidas_? Likely not. I thought I was going to be pummelled. There was no way I could get out of this one alive. I was going to be beaten to a pulp, left to be used in a coffeehouse frappé. Milton stood up from his corner, walked to the centre of the ring, smiled, and swung HARD. a stiff uppercut from the right.

And I ducked. And danced. And then cackled like Tyler Durden. This is Jack’s mental relapse. This is Mitchell Irons’ own little Fight Club. Suddenly I’m in the basement of The Oasis, the lights turned low, cardboard on the floor, sweat in the air and blood stained on my skin. Milton thinks he beating the elegiac shit out of me, and I’m smiling, and LAUGHING at him. Then his wussy little cherubim stepped in and threw him away – they figured he’d done his work for the night, and it was time to skaddle before The Son might find out what’s going on. I rolled over onto my side, coughed up a tooth, and looked at that miserable wretch. There he was still with his arrogant little puritan’s smirk. Crawling my way to an upright position, I caught hold of Milton’s shirt, and frickin’ laid right into him. The back of my fist to his head – I love boxing ears. And then an elbow straight into the nose. Look, I play dirty here. Throwing him to the ground, I spit my blood onto his crisp why shirt, and kick his ribcage until he rattles. His eyes still look like puppy dog eyes, so I naturally had to punch them through a bit. There was no end to the carnage.

Soon, the light of day came. I reached down and picked up my opponent, and helped him on his was out the door. Myself, I go home, sleep off the essay and skip a class in the process. I hand in the paper and the prof stares at my bloodied lip and missing tooth. The man told me I looked a wreck, but I could his own bloodied and disjointed nose, too. Being a bit of a Milton scholar himself, he’s long been a member of 17th Century Fight Club, too.

A week later, The prof returned the papers, and I got an A! That mark will fit right in with the new bridge my dentist is going to fit for me.

———————————

(Actually, It was a damn hard essay to write, and I was afraid I was rolling the dice with my grades by choosing Milton. By the end of the writing process, I really was quite delirious from the combination of the sugar, caffeeine and lack of sleep. Milton’s decapitated head was flying around the room denouncing Leonard Cohen as a heathen, while he sung _So Long, Marianne._ It was a harrowing experience.)

*[sidebar: who else reads: “slaffter” when they see that word?]

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Written by mitchellirons

December 7, 2004 at 9:53 pm

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