Academic, Hopeful

Final Post

2011-11-04T12:25:00.013Z

It has been almost a year since I last posted, and since I submitted my thesis. I have been aware all this time that I left Academic, Hopeful in a soggy state so I am finally and formally finishing it now. I probably needed the time away from it, from all things related to life in Oxford and my thesis. After I left, Oxford took on a distasteful quality, even though I missed my friends and could remember being, for the most part, happy, even sometimes very happy, there.

Things have certainly changed for me. I don't punt or go to debates at the Union or cox or drink red wine with Germans. I write and perform comedy. I don't hear violin-playing at night. I speak more slowly. I don't talk as much about the future. I can better listen to other people. I don't jump when cats pounce at night. My face is brighter, but more lined. I can no longer watch dance shows or reality TV. You can't keep it all.

Last month I returned to Oxford for my DPhil graduation (see if you can spot me). I was able to enjoy the town again. Not as a student - I did not sit with the freshers in dingy bars to talk about whose country is better than whose, then shriek with laughter, or share dreams, and quietly worry. This time I was the visitor in the table beside, charmed by the place. And that was perfect.

Thank you for reading and your comments.

Best Wishes,

Quick Must-See

2010-11-18T20:07:00.005Z

Two of the best Brits, Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon, have teamed up in 'The Trip', a six episode, part improvised series.

Check out this clip and then find more on the Tube. I am in love. The Richard Gere bit killed me. Off to dinner.

100 000 words lighter

2010-11-14T19:43:00.008Z

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I submitted my DPhil thesis on Friday. That was really hard, and I did it. And I did it fairly calmly too ('cept for the last few days - the bibliography beat me!). Thank you for your encouragement along the way. It helped. I now feel liberated and excited. It's done! (exhale)

The Best For Last

2010-10-28T13:56:00.016+01:00

After a year of measly, dead-end rooms that could nuttify the most stable of people, I am now living somewhere pretty bloody superb. The ceilings are five metres high, cluttered book shelves make up much of the living room, there is always fruit on the kitchen table and chocolate by the tea and whisky, the shower has shown remarkable gumption and should be commended for that, there are plenty of coat hooks and mirrors in the entrance, and there is a cream and bronze, art deco lamp hanging over the dark study desk. I can move freely from room to room, which feels, quite frankly, stately by comparison. The back garden is lush and the leaves are now orange, lime and plum.

Only two more weeks til submission. I am suspiciously cheerful.

Hoping you are well, and enjoying a home.

Tuesday, Before Sleep

2010-10-12T17:00:00.013+01:00

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I have a full thesis now. It's finally fun, this thesis-writing lark, tidying it up. Submission date within weeks. Viva date already set. Supervisor has uttered 'excellent' and 'very good' in front of me, in relation to my work, for the first time. With other words. But still.

These past couple of months, some of my final here, have had their own rhythm and purpose. I hadn't anticipated this. I have made some new friends, including this adorable, camp Irish guy. Goodness me, he is funny. Then there's this very attractive young woman from Puerto Rico via the States. She has that calm observer quality, and she's affectionate. I've been far more open to learning from people's research topics. I am not sure why I found it harder to focus on this before. Perhaps I was panicked. I went to a late-night bonfire a week or two ago. It was an odd choice of activity for a meet-and-greet. The marshmallows were lush.

My old friends have been my family, not because I am so important, just because they're good people. One couple I've taken to calling Mum and Dad. They give me fruit, and let me stay at their place when they go on holidays because it's closer to the College library than my place, which is near the Parks.

One of my oldest pals - we were in the same row of rooms in my first year here - has the same viva date as me. That's nice. For two weeks straight we worked together in the American Institute library, which has a lot of natural light. We've been continuing with Geek Frisbee on a Tuesday and we wore flowers in our hair the other night. Her idea. White flowers. I liked it.

The other evening, my ex-boyfriend and I walked down my favourite street in Oxford, Queen's Lane. It was mostly dark, but there was some thin orange light, sent out from the Sheldonian. We could hear classical music on one of the corners. I pulled myself up the stone wall to look in at a young, Chinese boy on the piano and an older gentleman on the violin. As I jumped down, I gushed. He replied that this would all be good memories for me very soon, my time here. I was not quite ready for the 'm' word and had to blink a lot.

Yesterday, I ventured down to Lunar House, in East Croydon, south of London, to give my prints over to the UK Border Agency as per their requirements. Once an Orwellian nightmare, it wasn't so bad this time. I made my way back to Oxford the long way, via Hoxton, East London, to check out some art studios. The high street there is packed with art students in leopard print harem pants, leotards and tailored jackets. In another street, in which there was a surprising number of cheap Italian shoe shops, women in gently sequined headscarves were picking up their kids from primary school.

I sat with Bill today and he asked what we were going to do next. We brainstormed possible business ideas and our top pick is setting up an ecotourist business on the meadows at the back of College. We'd dress in medieval costume and people could take photographs of us planting and weaving. We'd exchange our produce for goods, and speak in Old English. We'd have a hut with a few props in it, but, at Bill's insistence, it would conceal a tunnel back to our rooms in College. I added that the tunnel would need to house all the mod cons, so we could emerge in normal clothes. We'd probably take up the ciggs. Our target market would be wealthy students, tourists, and North Oxford families, with children called Ambroise, Saffron, and Orlando. I tested it on a friend after dinner and he said he would pay £50 to be our feudal lord for the day and give us light whippings. He thinks we should add potions to our products. I blue-skied that we could also take on troubled kids as one of those brat retreats, medieval-style, that would then become a Channel Four documentary. But this would probably require a dungeon and then, as my friend concluded, a marauding Mongol.

On most days, it is bright and blue outside, but it is very chilly.

We are all wheezing the same wheeze.

Thank you, Oxford

2010-08-17T22:36:00.007+01:00

photograph by rugosa rosa

Sometimes a slab of time will pass and I won't feel a part of Oxford, even if, like right now, I can look out onto the dark, neat quadrangle lawn, and follow a student begrudgingly push open the lodge door. I will be here, though not part of it. It like it's over my shoulder, but remote. Then I have these times, when I almost want to apologise for not being adequately grateful to it.

Take this evening. After a bit of carry-on from me, I agreed to give Ultimate Frisbee a go. With a toe out the door, I had assumed my days of geek sports here were over, but it was bright and warm and it won't be so for much longer. In fact, the wind is already a little barer. As I rode up to the field, I rolled my eyes like a grotty kid, having spotted a young woman in a basketball outfit, practising. I had specifically told roperinerer that I was not up for opposing any 'bronzed, well-groomed American women of German decent'. They smash it in team sports. I asked her where she was from. Turned out she was Canadian so I made my way over.

There were nine of us - three Saffas, three Mrrkans, a Turk, a Canook and a Skip. Mostly boys. Two very, very tall ones. The game was bloody good fun. I often forget how much I love team sports. They're the best. Straight after, it started to rain rain-shards: slanty, slappy little shooty things. So many of them, and so thick! This all meant one thing: I had to take my girly bike to the max. She's named something like Maroon Dreamrider or Happy Challenger. I can never remember. I belted it - illegally, I should add (honk, honk) - straight through the University Parks, ripping up that central clay path, whipping past the cricket pavilion, dodging the odd mental poodle, and saluted all the way by the wooden benches of the dead. The sky was dirty-white until that last strip before the horizon when it became the clearest, prettiest see-through blue. (I've said this before, but England skies are marvellous.)

The rain rods wet me right through which made me start to laugh. I saw my year one primary school teacher coming closer through the windscreen wipers of my Mum's lazy, bronze Peugeot. She had her waterproof jacket pulled up over her happy-squishy face. She yelled that school had been rained out and made a 'turn around' motion with her finger. I fanged it up the walled bitumen path by Lady Margaret Hall. It's right near my house.

After I had showered, and sat down for dinner in front of a British bake-off show (so good), I realized that I was supremely happy. It was not that happiness that I sought to hold onto. And the realization did not make it go away either. It has not made it go away.

So, yes, thank you, Oxford, you thoroughly odd, magical place. You never demand that I love and respect you, you simply make it worthwhile when I do.

The Last Crawl

2010-08-10T10:47:00.003+01:00

One of my friends in the States, who is also in the final phases of write up, sent me this today:

I am joining you in the last crawl, and in celebration of how badly this last bit stinks, I am sending you this video...

Music To Get You Through

2010-07-30T15:15:00.012+01:00

These assorted rippers are currently making editing far more tolerable:

Florence and the Machine, Dog Days

Mumford and Sons, The Cave

Stornoway,* Zorbing

The Band, Rag Mama Rag

Example, Kickstarts

Julian Cope, Sunspots

*Will shamelessly add that they were among my first friends in Oxford.

British picks plus one vintage American. The Aussie thread is that they would all be welcome at a festival (in fact 1, 2, 3, 5 all from a recent British festival)...and Aussies do indeed love festival music. Enjoy!

Life Lessons

2010-07-25T12:23:00.038+01:00

It was my birthday yesterday. 31. I remember my 30th birthday being a surprisingly simple and elegant time, but the year that followed was punctuated by way too much personal angst and drama: big decisions, loss, two grief cycles, isolation, moving rooms five times (moving house sounds too glamorous), uncertainty, and the tension that thesis boredom and repetition can create. There were chunks of stable, productive, and very happy times, but, on the whole, I think, during 2009-2010, I coughed up some pretty staggeringly high prices for some lessons that I guess I couldn't just steal from the self-help aisle or pinch from a website. I feel better today, in most senses, than ever before, but I paid up, kiddies.

Here are some of those lessons:

Take charge. No one is going to get you out of situations you don't want to be in, or help you into others, and certainly not the right way, anyway. Those who love you can't always be expected to push you off from the shore, even if you're fretfully thinking, 'Can't they see that I need a push?' This goes for personal and professional stuff.
Beware fear of loss and rejection. These anxieties mean that you can attach too early, fantasize at the cost of really knowing the other, become ungrounded, and ultimately disrespect your own personal standards and boundaries. Don't foreclose early. Loss creates space, and rejection is, for the most part, a benevolent thing.
Fear is contagious. No matter how sensible and sincere you think you are being in a relationship or friendship, there is nothing like a bit of fear (anger, defensiveness, dishonesty etc) from the other to warp your behaviour. Builds up. It becomes very hard to listen. Goes both ways.
Remember the love. Lots of people love and value me, and I adore them. I am absurdly lucky in this way. I just spoke to my twin. Last week, my parents treated me to a holiday in France in which we met up with our French family friends. We also won pretty big on Neptune's Fortune at the Casino of Monte Carlo. I like that I've now been to a casino with my parents. They go all the time so it was nice of them to finally include me (wink, wink). Yesterday, a friend took me to late lunch at this nice French place in Oxford, then last night, a bunch of friends took me out for cocktails, dinner and nice chat. They also granted me my wish: to be sung Happy Birthday in a non-English language, in character. Included Latin, Dutch, Urdu, and Spanish. If that's not supremely loving...well, I just don't know...(fierce shake of my double chin)
Generosity emerges from unexpected sources. A new friend made my birthday very special by taking me to a lovely dinner and out to a College party on Friday night. We laughed a lot and he just knows.
Adversity can be a good test. Crap situations test your ability to respond to life with creativity and self-composure, and this, I think, is a reflection of how much you know and like yourself, in the good way, not the narcissistic way (narcissism actually blocks these opportunities for growth). Of course, some situations are just crap and you have to just get through without any theorising.
Maybe just don't say it. Not everything needs to be expressed. Wait and see what remains to be said. My friend says to put things through the 'necessary and kind' test. Equally, not everything deserves a response. I have realised over the year that I actually don't like talking as much about things as I used to. I don't need to. Plus, I am more practical, outward, and flexible by nature. But I did hurt someone I love with too many words. Fortunately, we had enough in the bank. I am hoping the next year is one big 'shh...'
Take your time. Giving yourself enough time and space for recalibration after set-backs is crucial. If you don't consciously do this, your body and mind will take it from you anyway, in some form, which means that no matter what you're intending, you simply won't have enough of the right stuff to give, and you'll probably be giving it to the wrong thing or person anyway.
Chin up, chaps. Even if you have to start again at your beginnings, you're wiser for it, and it can be quite a light time anyway.
Give yourself more credit.

The photographs are of my recent trip to France and of my party outfit that I purchased there.

Please tell me a life lesson or two that you have acquired over the past year...But only if you feel like it. ; )

10 Signs you have a Development Studies student in your house

2010-07-09T10:46:00.008+01:00

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He doesn't let not having met you before get in the way of helping himself to your beer in the fridge.
He scoffs that you don't use your oven very often (No, earth child, I am not up for much roasting or baking at the moment.)
He challenges the statistics on female genital mutilation or 'FGM'.
Without asking, he starts frying half a bag of your pumpkin and sunflower seeds to add to his portion of the salad.
Even though you've left him out a plate to use - the same type as your plate - instead, he takes the decorative bowl from the table and uses it because it 'just feels so lovely'.
He is fascinated by the dish-washing practices of South American minorities.
He won't touch your fry pan because a sausage has been cooked on it.
He leaves more than half his beer behind.
He tells you it is hard not to go to kiss you goodbye on both cheeks.
If he read this, his first response would be to ask whether the image came from 'Roma' or not.

My Special Cupboard

2010-06-10T14:28:00.018+01:00

Am in a black jumper (sweater), with a big, stencilled, white zebra on it, and black leggings, inside, editing my thesis, on one of those English, still, white-sky days. But, fortunately for me, I have all these pretties ready to unleash over the Summer as soon as the weather picks up again:

(Excuse some of the models' expressions - we rarely need more of that in life. Please do imagine me writing this with a semi-crazed smile.)

Love the dramatic neckline and print. For some summer drinks.

Shopping...Although, it would have to be optimal (shame-free) conditions for me to keep the hat on.

Never sure about long shorts on women...very risky...but I might wear this to a casual day party.

For travels, however near.

Just 'cause.

Festival-going.

Swishy, swishy at a garden party.

Yep. All sorted. Thanks, special cupboard (stare, stare, honky laugh).

A Poem

2010-06-02T16:38:00.005+01:00

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A while back, I started subscribing to the Academy of American Poets Poem-a-day emails. Today's poem was a nice wink. Thanks Tones!

I Have News for You
By Tony Hoagland

There are people who do not see a broken playground swing
as a symbol of ruined childhood

and there are people who don't interpret the behavior
of a fly in a motel room as a mocking representation of their thought process.

There are people who don't walk past an empty swimming pool
and think about past pleasures unrecoverable

and then stand there blocking the sidewalk for other pedestrians.
I have read about a town somewhere in California where human beings

do not send their sinuous feeder roots
deep into the potting soil of others' emotional lives

as if they were greedy six-year-olds
sucking the last half-inch of milkshake up through a noisy straw;

and other persons in the Midwest who can kiss without
debating the imperialist baggage of heterosexuality.

Do you see that creamy, lemon-yellow moon?
There are some people, unlike me and you,

who do not yearn after fame or love or quantities of money as
unattainable as that moon;
thus, they do not later
have to waste more time
defaming the object of their former ardor.

Or consequently run and crucify themselves
in some solitary midnight Starbucks Golgotha.

I have news for you—
there are people who get up in the morning and cross a room

and open a window to let the sweet breeze in
and let it touch them all over their faces and bodies.

Unincorporated Persons in the Late Honda Dynasty, published by Graywolf Press.

To be done with these worries

2010-05-20T14:05:00.001+01:00

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My new romantic object said to me the other day, 'Won't it be nice when you finish your thesis if only to have new things to worry about?' 'Yes, champ, it will be very nice,' I probably replied.

Later, I realised that this is part of the reason why I haven't been inclined to blog much lately. It's not being poor of time and eye strength, it's that my worries have not changed. I need to be done with these worries. A while back I saw this movie, The Blind Side, the one with Sandra Bullock in it, playing a can-do (partly because I am wealthy) Mom who takes in an underprivileged African American teen (see Alice's review for more). I thought, 'Look at you football Mom in your white jeans striding so confidently over to your new son and his footy mates...How nice would it be to have a context in which you so well knew your value.' At times, I think similar things when I see super hipsters, especially those backed up with a bit of artistic talent. They form self-affirming communities, and seem to be quite open to the present. Actually, they like the present a lot. I don't think thesis writing gives you that. It is a solitary rite, par excellence, a process that forces you to chase the future, which, in turn, teases you like a kite's tail. But these are old worries. I have worried about how one creates a meaningful context for years now. I have been playing slap and run with the future for even longer.

I wonder if buying something pretty will help, or maybe avoiding it all together. Again, I need to look at things afresh.

I have been writing about the use of symbolism lately, and apparently in traditional rites, the neophytes' masks are often black, white and red to represent the colours of human bodily functions and a rotting corpse. I am pleased that I now have a scholarly reason why I detest this colour scheme for weddings. There are a lot of ladies out there who love a blood red rose and matching red maidies, and to see their man in black dinner jackets or tuxes, but they're the colours of redbacks on white petals, Phantom, and, it seems, together, they enact the life cycle. I am not into it, though perhaps it is inspired that in one of our few modern rites, premodern symbols prevail. I raised this to some friends on Monday night, over pints of cider on tired, trendy cushions, and one of their friends who was listening said that he wasn't sure he liked me because I say scary things. In any case, wedding colour schemes have been a constant replacement obsession in times of academic stress, and I have run out of subjects to wed-off in my mind. I am off it.

I need to finish this thesis so I can allow in fresh worries, and find new things to do with myself. Until then, I may as well be in that harlequin outfit, to mark my status as neophyte, as not yet done.

(How funny is that harlequin? In my thesis, I have a quote from a businessman talking about a night out playing Limbo to a Calypso band. Every time I edit this section, I crack up. Something about these sorts of things, including A Cappella, always gets me.)

Honey, I Zapped the Kids

2010-04-24T10:42:00.000+01:00

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Thesis stress, some personal worries, and the warm weather have teamed up to give me some wacky dreams lately.

One of last night's dreams:

My sisters come over to visit my newborn baby. I take them to the kitchen, say, 'Here she is', as I open the oven and pull out the tray. On the tray sit four burnt meatballs. My eldest sister says, 'You put the oven on too high'. I look back at the dry meatballs, my baby girl.

Then I made myself wake up.

Any creative suggestions as to what this means besides the standard: 'modern woman worrying about whether she can have it all'?

Spring and Babies and Nests and Whimsies

2010-04-19T21:33:00.001+01:00

Hey team. I don't have much free time for blogging at the moment, which is no fun. I am trying to follow my tips below and be a good thesis writer, and also good (outdoorsy, stretchy-stretchy) break taker.

I took a longer, more lovely break yesterday. My friend and I hosted a baby shower for our other bestie here. About a month ago, new mummy-friend has taken a rather literal approach to nesty, turning into an owl, owl's nest and general enchanted forest obsessive. So my friend and I tried to honour and nourish that in our Spring set-up. No pink or white allowed!

The final look was a little more Aussie-fied in the end than I had expected, but I was the only one who noticed, and I actually loved the shrine to the goddesses of abundance feel! I am sure Aphaea and Hera or whoever were appeased. Yes, a guest made these lush cupcakes with sparkle dusting:

I even threw on an owl tee to keep my friend happy (that I wore with a very light apricot full skirt with some black floral detailing). I am stretching it out here to show it off, rather than my chest, to a make slightly odd, sporty chick effect, but you get the idea:

And this is me riding home with some some goodies to brighten up my College room. Small pleasures, these days, including the dozen winks, toots and waves I received on my way. One of my friends said I seemed like one of those Amelie types. I did cop a spectacularly bad haircut in the week (which makes me look like I am wearing a hair-helmet) so it's all about the seemingly French, but actually cover-up, pony and short fringe pushed to the side. I wish or at least wish a bit that I was a floaty, Amelie type, but I am not really. I plan to unleash a whole lot more whimsy when this thesis is done, but I might not:

Tips for Finishing a PhD

2010-03-28T13:41:00.000+01:00

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I have been lucky to have several friends send me advice on how to approach the final edits of a PhD (or DPhil!), what are the final laps in the stadium after a cross country marathon.

I know some of you are writing too, so I thought I would share them (you can tell when I've added my words). They're more PhD-specific than the general academic tips I shared a year ago. All the best and please do let me know if you have any more to add.

Carve out huge chunks of time to focus.
Set a submission date.
Love the calendar. Set small, manageable, time-specific tasks and make a submission calendar. Tick off targets, be excited about your progress. Know exactly where you stand.
Keep yourself energised. Too many people stop exercising when finishing up DPhil. Keep exercising. Take energising breaks. Become more interested in nature, like pretty flowers and families of ducks. Take deep breaths. Try to rest. Sleep. Routine. Get enough time to reflect, rather than just producing; make sure you are intentional about lifting your head above the water line.
Manage the supervisor relationship. Take responsibility for your own submission. Show the supervisor your submission timetable and stick to it. Make supervisor feel confident in you, but also realise that he or she doesn't have to be for you to finish. Like all good Jedi Padawans, you must outgrow your master.
Know that it can be done. When the task seems insurmountable, consider those who had gone before. If they could do it, so can you. Remember why you're here, that you deserve to be here, and that it can be done. A useful mantra to say, even out loud, is "I can do this".
Find a proof reader. Find someone who will read your whole thesis, nudge you back in line when you've lost perspective, check for typos, make useful (but not too ambitious) suggestions.
Get Brutal. Instead of trying to rework patchy sections, just cut 'em.
It's about the "I-will". Finishing a doctorate may be less about the "IQ" than the "I-will". Finishing requires a tremendous amount of will. Dig deep, and get stubborn.
Just Say No. Anything that is not work or energising rest is a distraction.

and a final thought, one that I picked up when I was reading about poetry, is Paul Valery's adage that a poem can never be finished, only abandoned. I think the same could be said of a thesis.

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you

2010-03-17T20:10:00.000Z

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Today, I seemed to be continually stumbling on different materials that conveyed two separate, but interrelated themes: Firstly, that being thankful is very, very good and, secondly, that letting go is super dooper healthy. (This repetition was probably not entirely haphazard in the context of my last post, a kind of Brazilian footballer's dive after a light ankle tap.)

First, I clicked on The School of Life and found Alain de Botton's post on gratitude. Big Al, who loves a wistful line about a the shade of piece of fruit or the sad quality of the weather, here reflects on the meaning of the secular world tendency to not say thank you. He asks whether this is because saying thank you seems undignified and unambitious, an acknowledgment of our mortality; a recognition that what we are thankful for may not come again, that we are at the mercy of something beyond ourselves. He says:

To say thank you for a glass of wine or a piece of cheese is a kind of preparation for death, for the modesty that our dying days will demand. That's why, even in a secular life, we should make space for some thank yous to no one in particular. A person who remembers to be grateful is more aware of the role of gifts and luck – and so readier to meet with the tragedies that are awaiting us all down the road.

There is, in this way, something about letting go of your bigness in being grateful.

Then one of the academic articles I read before lunch (which was about mortality - not my area, but a nice touch so far as the coherence of this post goes) headed down a surprisingly didactic path, advising the reader that it is important to only use theories if they illuminate social reality, and that it is better to take into one's own work the flashes of insight that scholars have to offer, rather then get stuck serving some 'inflexible theoretical edifice.'

Then I spotted this poignant post from A Literal Girl on the miracles of being in a place without the weight (and comfort) of the having had a childhood there; how being without a past, while frightening and lonely at times, allows a certain light openness to the present, what I had only earlier this morning been thinking, as I reflected on an argument I had recently, was a kind of willingness to be a quiet nobody for a while, to sometimes just succumb to transition and linearity, rather than impress oneself onto others, or an illusion of oneself and others.

Then a new, lovely friend sent me a link to thx, thx, thx, a blog devoted to posting a thank you note a day. (Check it out and find her thank yous to the future, people who don't get it, and pianist. Gold.)

So, yeah, I guess, essentially, the hidden curricula of today's thesis writing, if I can pull it all together very quickly (I'm hungry!) was about: 1) not holding on to stale, fearful things, including the desire to be big and immortal; 2) being receptive to fresh experiences and intuitions; and 3) being grateful to no ones, as well as ones. So, as a sort of homework exercise, and do mind the tone-shift, I end this post with some thank you notes of my own:

Dear Friends (fleshy and online), Thank you for being such cards. You complete me.

Dear Toblerone Genius, Thank you for coming up with that triangle idea.

Dear College Room, Thank you for being so teeny that it does not take a long time to tidy you, and for being so patient with me.

Dear Most of the Old People at the Nursing Home I spoke to When I was 23, Thank you for nervously laughing or changing the subject and offering me tea and a dry biscuit when I asked you what the point of life was. It has saved me a lot of time and hassle.

Dear Lavender, Thank you for being able to be used in soap, bubble bath and misty spray.

Dear Wales, Thanks for having lots of castles, craggy cliffs, medieval-themed key rings, and towns that just sit there while flocks of black birds and muscly seagulls rule.

Any thank you notes of your own to share? I'd like to hear them!

Notice to Childish Ego:

2010-03-15T17:55:00.000Z

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I was wondering whether you'd mind please taking a ticket and lining up behind other customers in the queue - like thesis, outstanding publication resubmissions, job applications, exercise regime, relaxation and enjoyment, family and friends, balanced diet, regular sleep, and, right at the back there, healthy perspective. This meats and cheese counter is pretty busy right now, and I would ask you to honour the system in place, even if it's pedal powered and steaming.

When (perfectly lovely) ex boyfriend informed me that he is seeing someone else (a reasonable, natural thing), you saw it as some sort of invitation to bolt down the aisle, barge past everyone else (don't think I didn't see that neat elbow in the head to healthy perspective), and start firing your mid-late 90s-style questions about the past and my self-worth, and then you tried to distract everyone by setting up some fancy video montage of their meeting and happy moments together. It will take me some time to forgive you the video - that was low - though I recognise that you get bored sometimes, and that I don't let you run as freely these days.

Anyway, I may deal with you at some point, but, for now, you've had a good day's run around, and I'd like you to take a ticket or, preferably, step away from the counter and scamper back to the sugary cereals.

Right. Next? Thesis?

Ra Ra-tastic!

2010-03-02T15:29:00.000Z

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In the University Parks earlier today, I mentally noted the truly inspired and vintage Oxford self-concept of a chubby-pretty girl. She was walking just ahead of me (and wearing a halfhearted bun on top left side of head, tight pink-red jeans and a cream, off-the-shoulder top).*

Over the top of the tale end of her friend's comment about the lovely, sunny weather, she proclaimed:

Ya, Ya, Ya, Ya, Ya, these next months, I am all about having a picnic and a sun-lounger on me to whip out as and when.

You're Lucky You Didn't Cop One in the Chops!

2010-02-28T22:13:00.000Z

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I haven't posted anything in ages. Sorry, team. I am now back in Oxford and my life at present is confined to College, more specifically, a bedroom, bathroom, loo, kitchen, library carrel and dining hall. I am working on my thesis, alright!? What are you looking at? Who asked? What do you want?

No, really, I have been feeling icky about my blog, not even wanting to open check up on it. In fact, there have been times when I have wanting to punch it four times really fast in the guts, quick jabs, and then one quick upper cut to the jaw.

By the time I have spent a full day revising my thesis and keeping myself self-motivated and focused (helping my pregnant friends - and there are many - select baby names seems like the most compelling and noble pursuit to me right now), I feel most of my typity sparkle has gone and I feel angry that my blog sits there, waiting for me like some half-man, half-ape creature who thinks I don't love it, but just can't understand all of my feelings.

Plus, most of the energy that could potentially go into a blog is taken up engaging with introverts en masse over dinner. You see, I live in the heart of College now so I have to look at and even sometimes talk to a lot of people. Once I start, my natural tendency kicks in and I find myself performing for them, like an undergrad with a background in theatre. All the while, the introverts give me nothing, just blink and, if I am lucky, blush. So I go home, brush my hair, and tuck myself into bed and tell myself that one day I will be a star, and then I think about how narcissism works, and then I think about my family, and then I think about what I will do when my thesis is done, and then I think about how I shouldn't think about these things, and then I try some relaxation exercises, and then I laugh thinking about Yoga instructors, and then I think of how much I love socially awkward situations and try to remember the last embarrassing thing that I was part of or observed, and then I turn on my computer and watch something great on You Tube, like this, and then I can't sleep because of photosensivity which, for our purposes, means too much screen time, which is particularly harmful between 10pm and 1pm when the adrenals work their hardest to repair and replenish the body.

I guess I wish that I could write more about things that naturally suit my thinking, like relationships, and social psychology and behaviour etc, but I am not sure whether I can put these sorts of ramblings under the title Academic, Hopeful. I was going to ditch my blog altogether, but then I read some of Penelope Trunk's views on this - Her opinions seem to be like garden pots on a doorstep, just sitting there; There's a brusqueness or at least unrelenting bossiness to her writing that I quite like. Having said that, I'd be lying if I said I was a follower of hers. I was, in fact, sent these specific links earlier today by a pal who is trying to help get me over my blog malaise and I have, in fact, just spotted right now that she announced her miscarriage over Twitter. Hmmm...I guess there's an element of, 'Guests, either take my projectile vomit all over the fully laid-out table and your new outfits or else you can choose to leave' to her communication at times. In any case, said friend is a social media whiz and rates her stuff highly, and people deal with things differently, and I don't feel too strongly about it (but still - not really my way of going about the world, I've got to say). Anyway (ahem), my mate Penny, who is doing her best, thinks you should stick at your blog and let it grow, as an evolving conversation. But, she also insists that each post should link to an overall theme for it to be worthwhile. At the moment, I am not entirely sure how to link my interests to academia, except that I am, at present, living one part of the academic life, the writing 100 000 words on your own in a College carrel part.

I think my blog dismay-anger also arose from my bubbling resentment towards fear-mongering posts, those treatise on how there are almost no academic jobs, how competitive it is, what you need on your CV to succeed, and all this nauseating, go-hard-or-go-home crud. I got a heavy dose of these over the course of a few days a while back - I kept on clicking on random academic blogs to find these vast nuggets of shining smug, leaving me partially blind and without feeling in my right hand. I recognise that my acute reaction is in part a function of the ways these posts enact my own uncertainty and anxiety about the future, but it's also partly because I think the people who write like that aren't people I'd want to hang out with, so why would I in cyberspace? There's some genuine, school yard disagreement there. Just to be sure, I think it's very healthy to identify and discuss academic issues and debates, and to share knowledge about how the academic job market works, which can be otherwise quite a mystical thing, but I don't like the uptight (usually postdoc) blogs that are all about reminding outsiders over and over just how high the barriers to entry are, but how they managed to hurdle them. At least give me some little wink to make me know that you don't take yourself or academia too seriously. I just want a wink. We should be confident enough to do that. Anyway, I also don't want to find myself writing these sorts of blogposts, ever, and, in the final stages of this liminal state, the options to branch out in another direction, seem few. Besides being a whingebag about my thesis, a process that is the classic: set a task, halve it, then fail, try again, repeat, I am not entirely sure which academic themes I could shed light on in a way that would excite me as well as add value to your transferable skills, and I am all about transferable skills.

This blogging blockage connects to the fact that I really want to follow an academic career for so many positive, honest reasons, but, like most people, I have all these other dream careers. For instance, I'd really want to be a pop, non-fiction writer and by night enjoy some stand-up or zany performance art gig. These desires feel irreconcilable and almost unachievable and kind of ridiculous, which then translates, to some degree, into fear of putting anything in a blog post. I can't really state my case in life at the moment. Suspended on ropes in my carrel. In transition.

Am I nutty and alone or do most academics experience this kind of funny stasis (excitability but little movement) during the final few months? And do most academics, generally, have this whole fantasy career going on in parallel even when they have a job on the go? What kinds of things can I write about during this final burst or should I just come back later? Ideas and thoughts about any of this greatly appreciated. I am off to brush my hair.*

Blogging pals - I will definitely have a good catch-up with you over the week. I have been reading, I assure you! I am as loyal as a digger.

*Might I remind you that this blog is part fiction, especially the bit about my hair, and I'd also like to say that I like pretty things that have sparkles and/or teeny stars or flowers on them.

Wink at Me Sydney!

2010-01-14T11:42:00.000Z

Isn't where I am from pretty? It's a wonder anyone here has a fully formed personality (ahem).

Having said that, last week, I took a friend from overseas to this new, rather cosy and possibly illegal zoo in town and he said that all our native animals - such as the koala, the wombat, the kangaroo - look like they're out of work:

Not much more of the sunny fun times. Shortly back to the blob of white.

Some Belated Chrissie Treats

2009-12-13T08:39:00.001Z

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I haven't written much while I have been back in Oz. I have been staying for the most part at my lovely family home, upon which two of my brothers with their partners and kiddies have also descended. I haven't been able to duck or weave past all the humans to get to a computer to blog, let alone the overdue catch-ups, trays of mangoes, justify-your-life-choices conversations, beach opportunities, thesis guilt and assorted attempts at writing, Christmas preparations, red wine and DVD sessions, a fabulous book I am reading, and two mammoth (and happy) Christmas celebrations.

I knew I had a draft post sitting in my folder, one I wrote when I had just returned from the health retreat. I thought it worth digging it out and posting it this morning, as it contains some goodies that I would like to share with you in general Christmas/holiday fuzzy love spirit. Here it is:

I am back from luxury boot camp. It involved Tai Chi at 6:30am on top of a hill overlooking rows of wild rosemary shrubs, families of kangaroos and rosellas, and regular patches of eucalyptus trees, separated by small vineyards. Then aqua running at 7am followed by wholesome (farty) breakfast, cardio classes and health and motivational seminars til lunch. The same again til meagre dinner. No sugar, wheat, caffeine or alcohol and restricted carbs. Nuts for treats (nature's goodies!). All organic. Massages, facials and counselling or naturopathy sessions most days. Each evening, zany, self-expression activities such as charcoal drawing in time to music; art guided by your special dancing shapes! (I would love it if Wednesday's blindfolded 'spirit dancing' was secretly recorded and unleashed on YouTube.) May make the retreat seem three water features and two resort-style pools away from being a cult, but it was actually wonderful and hugely beneficial.

Here are some of the messages from the talks and activities and, although they're melty cheese treats*, I think they're worthwhile:

Take time for yourself - actually, you should lock it in at the beginning of the week. See through the eyes of the child within.
Do you appreciate beauty solely when you've planned on and even paid for it? The Joshua Bell story is worth a look at.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer's The Invitation is something you need to ask of yourself before you ask it of a loved one.
Thoughts and feelings affect physical reality. Watch the words you use about yourself and other watery creatures. See Dr Emoto's The Hidden Messages in Water.
Understand that you didn't break them, and you can't fix them.
Don't be too competitive in team sports at a health retreat, especially if you're female.
Forgive and forget anything that would stop an endless river of love and compassion flowing out through you.
Super healthy toasted muesli recipe: 1kg rolled oats, 250g oat bran, 250g unprocessed bran, 1kg buck wheat roasted, 200g linseed meal, 350ml honey, 100ml apple concentrate, 400ml orange juice, 350g peaches dried, 700g sultanas, 260g dried apple diced, 200g dried paw paw (papaya) diced, 180g dried figs, 500g pecans or macadamia nuts. Mix oats and oat bran. Add honey and water, juice and mix. Roast at 85 degrees celsius for three hours. Add dried fruit. Store in airtight container.

''Just so long as you are trying to make things better. That's what counts." (work philosophy of beautician in response to my question whether she ever feels uncomfortable doing pedis or waxes)

*In other words, only number 6 would count as evidence-based.

Time for a Health Farm

2009-12-05T19:37:00.001Z

photo by: DaveSag

Am back in Sydney. Blue skies, purple flowers, twisty trees, boat engines and bird screeches are back in my life, as are shouty ads on TV.

Thanks for all those wonderful geek hobby suggestions. Nice to have some options. The metal detector would be vintage.

I am heading off to a health retreat with my Mum and sister in an hour. The evidence for the 'wellness assessment' I have on this afternoon is contained in this blog (shuddering at the sheer indulgence, but I can't feel guilt and shame about everything!). I here provide another piece for the fair-haired, muscly armed, lady in a smart tracksuit.

Extracts from a letter I wrote to a friend on the plane:

Just after take-off. My eyes are dry and tired. I am in an aisle seat, 34D,
but there is no one in the two seats next to me. This doesn't help with the
nerves. I like being in the middle island because it makes me feel part of a
team. Sipping ginger ale. The pilot introduced the customer relations officer
and I happened to see her curtsy to herself. It's dark and grey-blue outside and
my ginger ale is circling from turbulence. We have been rocking since we took
off. Anyway, I don't want to focus on that. I am going back to Julie and Julia.
Needed something cute.

I just went to the loo. There were a couple of people waiting. Under the
lights inside, I noticed I am flushed and tired. Why does it become so awfully
hot on the plane? Healthy glow of first loo trip has turned into mad look,
especially with eye mask on as headband. Looks medicinal. I was going to ask for
the large, English flight attendant to sit with me in the empty seat for a chat, but I
didn't.

Watched two episodes of 30 Rock. Americans love visual gags, like an old
lady falling over. My eyes are stinging and it's still so hot. Still haven't
managed to sleep yet.

Half way. 1am in my mind, but 9am and humid outside. A passenger's bottom
just swiped my upper arm. But on the positive, looks like I have a spare seat
next to me. That would be pretty mega ace if I could sleep along two seats.
Getting used to the Aussie accent again - that pseudo-posh, Dannii Minogue one.
Some of the Asian passengers are wearing face masks. Not good for my nerves, but
trying to focus on comic potential.

Only two hours til landing. Had three hours' sleep with headphones on
playing Flight of the Conchords. I was so tired that I felt I had to will on my
lungs to breathe - 'C'mon little guys.' They were disconnected to my racing mind
and stubbornly kept a slow place. Then I fell into those trippy dreams that you
get when you're on a plane and knackered - flashes of strangers' faces,
cloloured spots and, the most unsettling, a row of suburban houses with black,
fright trees behind them. The sound of the show helped my mind quieten. Not very
Zen though.

We've started our descent. There is an elderly, English couple
sitting in the window seats next to me. They must be in their late seventies. I
don't know how they do the long haul. Maybe you just don't care so much. Oh,
this must be the most inane, disappointing letter. Makes me realised what a load
of rot goes around my head and comes out of my mouth all day. Cabin crew is
taking their seats. We're shaking because of the rain clouds and we just had a
couple of rollercoaster drops. But I love landings. I smile at everyone around
me. I am pretty much waving at them. There have been a few more drops,
lots of readjusting of wheels or whatever makes that electronic noise.
Babies are crying. The Chinese guy in the lime green rainproof jacket has just
looked at me, grinning with mild panic. But I can see pretty Sydney out the window:
the lights of the CBD, the cars, the roads. We're rocking like a bloody dinghy,
but I don't care. We're about to land. Wow - with a thud and skittle and intense inertia.
Makes me think of how funny it would be if the plane blew up after all that.
The people are relieved and scrounging around their bags and rubbing their foreheads.

Waiting for family at arrivals. No glory for me coming through the gates.
The first to greet you at Sydney, by the way, was a customs dog, right at the
passageway. They love customs in this country. I am wearing too many layers. The
Sydney women are wearing white and blue and the men are dressed like 14 year
olds. The arrivals area is glowing and the orange in the flooring and meeting
point signs are setting off the classic airport blue. Just heard a woman, with a
child strapped to her front, say 'Noi' [this is how urban Australians say
'No'] to her husband. The last thing the customer relations officer on the
flight said was, 'For thoorse taiking connecting flaights within Australia, they
will need to goi toi Terminal Twooii.'

Geek Pursuits

2009-11-25T14:43:00.000Z

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I have just returned from farewell lunch in hall with my two of my oldest Oxford friends. They're great. They're the ones who first taught me to love or at least be open to geeks. (I have had many other teachers since then). They mentioned that one of our friends has become more seriously interested in twitching or bird-watching. (No, I didn't know what twitching meant til about an hour ago.) I asked them for ideas of geek pursuits for me to take up once the thesis is over with. Brian wasn't too pleased about twitching being called geeky, but, as I told him, to me it means a lovable obsession, just as most geeks are, I have come to realise, adorably obsessive. Here is the list:

Warhammer
Documenting lichens in the forest/bush
Battle re-enactments
Chess club
Coding

No. 2 has the most appeal at the moment, truly. I like the idea of being outside with a notebook. No. 5 is out as I need to vary my focal distance. Please send me some suggestions. I have a few months to decide and none of these is quite right.

Preparing for Home

2009-11-19T17:30:00.000Z

photographs by: xssat

In between churning out the words and riding my bike to and from the library, I'm starting the mental and physical preparations for my upcoming England departure. I am heading home for the final (?) thesis burst and to spend Christmas and most of the summer with my family and friends. This will be my first Christmas at home in a few years. It will be lovely to draw in a waft of pine needles and mangos at the same time, to sneeze at the bright sun in the high sky, and to dive under the dauntless ocean waves. Tralalala!

One thing's for certain: I will have to face Sydney trendies. Australian trendies are like English trendies, only with a little less audacity, a lot more skin, a few more smiles, and, most importantly, beset by white light, the most unforgiving of all the lights going round. (Evidence for your pleasure included above. Click to zoom.) This makes me apprehensive. In Oxford, you would never even have to see, let alone reveal, anything from below your neck if you didn't choose to. Quite normal. Plus, in the graduate community (not to be confused with the undegrads, darling!), people tend to think a t-shirt with a clever slogan slapped on it is daring. I have to decide whether I can be bothered trying to look as interesting and appealing as everyone else or whether I should write myself off as a PhD geek and stick to the jeans, trackies and odd, excessive layers until completion (even on the beach!). Not the most significant worry...but more fun than the rest of them...and the one I am least attached to.

Rebooting the Old Blender

2009-11-07T17:21:00.000Z

I have been ill these past couple of days. I had asked for it. I had been working on, but scrappily, worrying about things, letting worries feed and bleed into others. Sickness is never ideal (ideally, you would not have a backlog at all), but it has, in this case, acted as a circuit breaker by giving me the space to rest and the sense of urgency to get to the bottom of some things that had been overwhelming me.

Writing a thesis is hard enough, not to mention all the fears that a thesis comes to embody, as the supervisor of my friend, Kate, pointed out (such a smart thing to say!). Then, processing the reasons behind and emotions of a break-up (of a long relationship) and coming to terms with being alone (when you really need day-to-day kindness and connection!), on top of 4pm darkness - it was all getting too much to manage. Oh, and there's also that bloody Last Post and those sweet old men at the supermarket selling Remembrance Day poppies. Geez. Too many chunky bits for the blender!

But I am on the up! Chin is well and truly up! I just needed to get back to that whole purpose of life thing. You know that aloof little bugger that quietly asks us to to let go of things, accept uncertainty and lack of control, ground ourselves, centre courage within, and not let the past pounce.

Anyway, on a slightly less intense note (I am watching some international rugby, wearing a bathrobe over a tracksuit and Uggs, wondering whether I can muster the energy to go to fireworks and a party), here is what happened in a cafe yesterday:

Friend and me in cafe. No spare seats. I spot a man finishing off his coffee and say to friend: 'You stay in line, I will shark this table' (that is within a foot of the end of the line). I motion towards it. Then an older, shabbier and larger Ricky Gervais comes over and makes for the table (as the other man gets up). Friend says, 'Oh, excuse me, we were just about to sit down here'. Ricky: 'Oh yes, but you are in the line...' Friend: 'And you have your stuff...OK right.' I say, 'I was actually waiting for the table, while he was in the line, but anyway.' Ricky says, 'Oh! OK, you take it! I was just hoping me and this little girl here [out comes a little girl from behind his leg] could sit down and enjoy ourselves. But don't worry. You take it! You two are all grown-up, but, no, you take the table.' Me: 'Please calm down champ, this is not good for your heart.' Ricky: 'No, you sit down, go on. Sit down'. Me: 'No, really, we're not going to take it. Please.' Friend (sincerely): 'It looks like a lovely table for you to enjoy yourselves.' We then wait in line, get our drinks, find seats that have become free, then suddenly laugh, both wondering at the same time where the hell that little girl came from.

(Then since I was in the middle of Last Post sentimentalmania, the one I am thankfully shaking off, watching him share his pastry with his kid naturally made me feel sad and quietly ashamed. He was ridiculously aggressive - perhaps on visitation hour with kid? - but I didn't have to bring his heart into it. He was older than me too. Bugger. Still learning.)

Working in the Dark

2009-11-03T19:11:00.000Z

LPC threw me an easy post the other week: to provide the tenth picture of my first folder. Nice one, LPC. It must be getting across through my long silences and pissy posts that I am running up mental sand dunes these days and in need of some small victories. I am subtle and self-contained like that. Like LPC, I am not the biggest techie going round so instead I have provided an old picture that was found in one of my few folders. It's of a mother and her girls sharing stories and enjoying Autumn in the Loire Valley, France. I took it two years ago, the day after the wedding of a family friend.

I wish this were the Autumnal mood of Oxford, here where the grey clouds overtake the peach-pink clouds by 4:30pm, and the sky becomes the darkest blue by 6pm. Apparently, there are more (or at least as many) correlations between poor health and the onset of daylight saving time than adjusting to 'normal' time in Autumn. I am not convinced. The odd farmer, please excuse me, but this whole getting dark in the early evening is, for the rest of us, simply rubbish.

Evidence for the government inquiry and/or PhD student class action (leading to legislative changes): Most evenings, I have slap my own face and throw myself against my carrel wall in order to stop myself from crawling under my desk to lie down and stare and blink. As that last dark bird passes the fluffy, descending clouds, all I want is a good tuck-in and a parental kiss. Instead, frowny, I drag myself to eat dinner in College hall (something having boyfriend had spared me) where the walls bounce an orange glow that makes me squint and feel I have been woken up at midnight to join a party, but a party of people with chunky backpacks and flourescent trouser protectors. The air is chilly and makes a sound like we are all in a plane, a plane heading for the darker months and then, eventually, death.*

Tonight, I avoid hall. I am heading home to cook something with Vitamin B in it, and watch my lovely friends (some of my oldest here, the first to make me less frightened of scientists and mega introverts) play in their band, the dreamy Stornoway, on Later with Jools Holland. They're playing alongside Jay-Z, the Foo Fighters, Norah Jones, Sting and Ginger Baker, a prospect Brian, the lead singer, said made him need to lie down. Will post a clip of it tomorrow or as soon as I can (learning not to make promises during this writing time). Have significant creativity envy, but been trying my best to reframe thesis as a hugely free, infinitely creative pursuit. Please feel free to chuck me some help here.

As for the pic, I tag Aliteralgirl (whose recent post on creative living is pretty superb).

*Not a cry for help. Last clause put in solely for my own amusement.

One Can of Spam

2009-10-19T17:30:00.000+01:00

photo courtesy of: Jackie121467

Another period of silence. I have wanted to sit down and post something, but there have been hurdles far too great, including my generally pissy mood and not having a computer in the bedroom I am current lodging. (The room was donated by an incredibly generous friend, but involves living out of a suitcase that I can't fully open, one that I reach down into as my morning mystery fun: whatever comes out goes on.) Plus, I have been wrestling this dull sense that I have absolutely nothing valuable or entertaining to say (and forget about original). The blog authorities say that unless you have something interesting to say, just bloody well keep your posts to yourself and read theirs instead. This exclamation hasn't really stopped me. It's been more about me being unsettled, hiding in a carrel, often hungry, and overwhelmed by or at least unhealthily interested in a form of self-pity only interrupted by a handful of friends, red wine, card games, Strictly Come Dancing, riding my bike fast down hills, and buying or coveting pretty Autumn wear.

I have been rewriting my introduction. This was a curious exercise in working my methodological limitations into important insights, and, as ever, trying to be respectful to the greats without getting caught up too much in their games. It's also hard to get the balance between accuracy (where those theories actually came from) and neatness (how they can be used to complement your work). But I quite like how it turned out. It will need another go at the end, of course.

I have also been working on a journal article and a chapter for a book. I wrote them a fair while back, but have had to deal with the reviewers' comments, a complication which appears mild from a distance. I am trying to work out what I think of the style of reviewers' comments. On the one hand (the bigger, robust hand), I often feel hugely relieved and grateful that someone can take another look at my work and see all those things that you can't see when you're up against the bricks. On the wussbag hand, there are almost always a couple of remarks that I think could be expressed in a more neutral way than they are. These are remarks that suggest to me that the reviewer was trying very hard to be constructive and then, as if burdened by a thankless task, just had to give a quick kick while no one was looking. These kicks are presented in this wonderfully poetic language, comments like, 'This writer seems beguiled by her topic' or 'For someone who is concerned with criticising X, she should have realised that her paper was awash with X'. But they tend to go back to the sorts of encouragement they started out with. This is the sandwich approach to feedback. I am not sure how thick the critical filling can be before the pieces of bread crumble. Going on how academics are socalised, I suspect we writers can stomach a full slab of spam in there so long as there is at least some bread slapped on each end. If I ever have the opportunity, I wonder if I will be able to resist slipping a poetic barb in the spam. After all, it's probably the only way reviewers get to have fun. Hmmm...(and 'Hmmm...' to beating my sandwich metaphor to death).

Speaking of careers, there's a lot of talk about it amongst the DPhilers in their final months or year. I've got to say, the academic hopefuls are dropping off. People aren't getting enough bread, it seems. Every week I seem to hear at least a couple of people define their end goal to be 'public policy'. They will probably do it too, whatever it is. But I sometimes wonder whether Oxford gives you a somewhat unrealistic or inflated sense of your ability and context to contribute to the world once you have left. It also suggests through various ways (like being able to organise charity events so easily here) that you will be able to leap frog to the top of these amazing government and non-government organisations and find love. Maybe it turns out like this. I will have to study where these people go and let you know. I will probably spot one of their faces on a coin one day, while I hand over the last of my change to the supermarket assistant before getting back on my bike to ride to my home on the top of a hill, just in time to watch a dance show. I shouldn't write like this. I don't even really mean it. I warned you that there was a general pissy mood going on. I have to start another chapter tomorrow.

Radio Silence

2009-09-20T12:19:00.000+01:00

photos by: Simpologist

photo by: Pdam2

So, I haven't been in blogland for a while. On a few occasions, I have had the urge to write, but then hesitated. I think this is because I am often not sure where on the spectrum of non-fiction to fiction a blog like this one needs to lie. Most of the time, this doesn't matter - I am more than happy to tie together my entries with tripe, but when big things in life happen, it's not as easy. I feel some sense that this blog is an historical record, even if only partially reliable. I guess I am not the most willing or confident tell-all blogger. Plus, I am supposed to be talking about academic issues (whip crack), issues that become less relevant in the daily sense the more immersed you are in your thesis or perhaps they just become so narrow and iterative you can no longer (bear to) see them.

So here's the offload: I have spent the last few weeks dealing with breaking up with my boyfriend and moving out of a shared home. It took almost a week to complete the move, a painful and absurd task which involved dividing books and DVDs, gently bargaining over kitchen goods (with both of us declaring we didn't want any of it), cooking meals together and trying to keep things light and loving. Each day, the blunt reality of a house slowly stacking and emptying would hit us. Then, after my last load of things had been trundled to a friend's house in a clumsy wooden cart, I began the new experience of riding past shared house, empty and still, waiting for new tenants, evidence that the relationship, the sharing a home and more part, had vanished.

I am turning to thesis work, quite gladly in fact. I had been feeling terribly agitated about being behind my schedule, only getting a few hours' work done each day (even if I knew the reasons and understood the need for rest).

This post sounds far more grim than my life actually is. Time helps. The kindness of family and friends helps. Being older (hehe) is a very good thing too. I have also enjoyed some time out of the bubble, cruising through the vast green-brown Oxfordshire countryside to find thet the honey-coloured villages of the Cotswolds. One of these villages, Broadway in Worcestershire, was hosting a hearty fete, which was fronted up by a school jazz band, and supported by icecream carts and tea and cake stalls. I had a conversation with a few English people (one Burton-on-the-Water local, two from Yorkshire) about what they regarded as the decline of English society. They want to reintroduce the death penalty and to see more preventative measures against the increase in single parent families. I tried to feed a speckled white horse an apple, but backed out at the final moment. It had these pale blue eyes that seemed, to me, to be darting every which way. There was no agreement between us. I have never been good at feeding horses.

Anyway, I'd better get cracking with some work. I hope you're well. I will have a happy dawdle around blogland later on to see what's going on...

Oxford: a tremendous (painfully realistic) comedy drama

2009-09-02T05:13:00.000+01:00

A few nights ago, I had dinner with two friends at the Standard Tandoori on Walton Street. It's an institution, cherished for its kitch interiors and warm staff as much as its food. I believe a local petition stopped it being forcibly closed. That's democracy right there. Anyway, one of my friends, an American, is leaving Oxford tomorrow, while the other two of us (a Pom and I) are due to depart in the next few months or so. It was a final hurrah, at least until we arrange our graduation ceremonies on the same day. But that could be a year away, maybe longer.

The American asked us to list all of the loves and hates of Oxford. ('Let's start with HATE', she said.) We came up with a few things:

Hates: smug Rhodes scholars, thick pollution and perennial allergies, narrow range of healthy eating options (we conceded that this has improved during our time here), terrible night clubs, feeling like you're regressing socially - relying on cheap gossip and discussions of national stereotypes to bond with people with whom you do not share a common history.

Loves: being somewhere imbued with the past, riding our bikes around (the breeze on your ears and shoulders), the Isis River, the University Parks, the arrival of the blossom trees, late night conversations in college bars, the opportunity to meet so many people from all around the world, its enchanting gardens and cloisters, the benefits of the bubble (minimal academia-haters, actual or perceived!).

But, I've got to say, the conversation fizzled out pretty quickly and we moved onto the social acceptability of full mouth kissing for casual greetings and the U.S. healthcare debate.

The next day, I considered why that topic deflated and it struck me that Oxford is not a place of huge dissonance. It is not a town that you could proclaim as a love-hate affair. It is for the most part very pleasant. While it is frustrating and stifling, you quickly learn its rhythms. You can't really hate a place that dutifully serves up malaise each of the three terms during weeks 4 and 8. Oxford's lows are as reliable as May Day.

One thing I will miss about England (eventually - I am not leaving any time soon, so I really don't need to embark on this nostalgic holiday) is some of the British television. I love it. I have already banged on about Stephen Fry, Frankie Boyle and other quiz show stars in other posts. Here, I plug their tremendous (painfully realistic) comedy dramas.

Here are some clips of two of my current favourites, Outnumbered and Jam and Jerusalem. The first is about a London family in which the parents are 'outnumbered' by their three cheeky children. It is semi-improvisational, chiefly the childrens' lines. The second (recommended to me by Miranda and her Man) is about a typical English village, focusing on the characters and crises of the local Women's Guild. ('Jerusalem' in the title refers to England's most popular patriotic song).

Jam and Jerusalem teasers on YouTube

Hope you enjoy them. I haven't had much energy for blogging of late. I am positively stressed out, as evidenced by me trying to recall at 3am this morning the characters from Street Fighter II (1991) on Nintendo and connect them to their signature moves and sounds: Sonic Boom!

Turning to Some Self-Help

2009-08-26T20:17:00.001+01:00

Hugh MacLeod

There comes a time in every thesis when you simply must turn to some self-help books.

I had resisted for ages - not (solely) out of snobbery, but because they appeared to be time-wasters, excuses for not getting on with the job (said with gruff Aussie accent).

I have relented, first with Authoring a PhD by Patrick Dunleavy, and now with Writing Your Dissertation in Fifteen Minutes a Day by Joan Bolker, and, a little off topic, Ignore Everybody and 39 Other Keys to Creativity by Hugh MacLeod.

The first book is highly technical and written in a slightly smug, 'You silly little novice' style. But it's a solid attempt at boiling down each of the components of thesis writing. If you're up for having your structure divided into proportions and number of words, this is for you. The second is more emotionally trustworthy - don't let the business speak title throw you! It follows the 'I will first come right down into your steaming mess of a mindset and only then will I help drag you out' approach, one which allows you to feel relaxed about accepting the advice (which is, essentially, how to become addicted to writing and to recognise psychological traps that stop you from finishing). The last is a bunch of swiftly dealt creativity tips from a cartoonist-blogger.

Here are some of the many tips from them (two each) that have stuck with me:

See the literature review as context not conflict - new writers often feel they need to prove that other researchers got it wrong.
Manage the readers' expectations with regular chapter and paragraph length and by watching the conceptual weighting throughout a chapter and then the whole thesis. Well-organized writers signal to readers what a chapter and a thesis will do. They make promises and keep them. You need to give equal weight to each issue if you say you will give equal weight.
When you're stagnating, try writing about what might be troubling you: Are you worried your supervisor might not like it? Are you uncertain if you believe what you've argued? Or is there something in the material itself that disturbs you?
Try to summarize each of your paragraphs in a single sentence - find out whether your paragraph has a central idea or too many ideas. This then serves as a chapter outline.
Don't worry about finding inspiration. It comes eventually. Inspiration precedes the desire to create, not the other way around.
The best way to get approval is not to need it.

Feel free to share any writing or motivational tips that have made things easier for you. Good luck (to me if no one else)!

Some Funny for the Weekend

2009-08-14T11:33:00.000+01:00

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I saw Bill Bailey, one of my favourite comedians, in Oxford last night. I was starstruck for most of his show - I am so used to seeing him on British TV (or iplayer, to be precise) that it took a fair old while for my wee brain to adjust. He describes himself as part-troll, 1985 Meatloaf lookalike finalist, and juggling multiple personalities: shamer, child, philosopher, rocker, and conspiracy theorist. He's unreal.

One of his gags that just about killed me dealt with his extreme embarrassment about the opening ceremony of the London 2012 Olympics. He envisions the following:

An inflated Churchill (with peace sign and cigar) on the Thames accompanied by the song, Who do you think you are kidding, Mr Hitler? and a crew of London hip hop dancers.

Then a huge Yorkshire pudding will appear. The top will unfold and out will jump a bunch of dancers representing gravy and mushy peas.

Then we will see a giant, mechanical bulldog with Tesco [Supermarket] Proud Olympic Sponsor shaved into its scrotum.

The dog will open its mouth and the Queen will roll down its tongue on a Stannah stairlift.

A laser will beam from her crown to light the torch.

Then her head will flip back like a Pez and a corgy will shoot out with Union Jacks coming out its arse.

Comic gold. Hope you have a happy weekend.

Things Brought into My Life....

2009-08-11T21:29:00.000+01:00

...which I want to pass on to you.

I have been receiving some incredibly considerate emails lately. Most are simply words of encouragement or quick reality checks, some set forth life lessons, while others are solid attacks on the enemy, as if it were shared. All to get me through the next little bit. I think you need all of these at various points along the way, occasionally all in one day.

I have also been given some lovely things from people who get to see me in real life (the lucky few!). I wanted to pass these on, not least because I have noticed a hefty measure of burnout in blogland at the moment - in both hemispheres. Hoping they will help a little.

Aspire Style tea

This exact mug and Happiness tea were given to me by a friend, Emily. Pretend to warm your hands on it and take a sip. It's a very large mug:

Cath Kidston mug

The boyfriend set me up with the best, chunky (organic) vegetable soup to watch a handful of TED talks. (If you're not all over these by now, sort it out!). Here is one we watched given by (pop) philosophy essayist Alain de Botton, on a kinder, gentler philosophy of success. Some twitchy eye moments particularly when he makes his conclusions, but certainly some helpful tools to manage the Sunday (status anxiety) blues. (The comments are also worth a browse).

We also watched some oldies. Probably the most thought-provoking of this oldies lot (and certainly the most kooky) was Amy Tan's talk, Creativity:

And, finally, The Journey, a poem by Mary Oliver (not easy to find without a photograph of a sunset or waterfall), sent to me by a friend whose pretty name is so distinctive that I can't name her here:

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Thanks to my supporters and as the Brits say: Chin up, tigers!

The Quick Brown Fox...

2009-08-11T10:21:00.000+01:00

Joseph Wu Origami

Last night, I was so angry at my thesis that I wanted to snap my DVDs from my pretty excellent collection. I didn't, but, somewhat disturbingly, it crossed my mind as a helpful option. They were the first things I spotted that were (a) fairly precious to me and (b) capable of being hurled about the room. The urge reminded me of a friend who told me that, as a child, he smashed his trophies in a tantrum and then realised for the first time that he was the one who would have to glue them back together. It's brutal. My (informal) mentor said that empirical data outfox us all from time to time. Mine are reclining in a spa bath on a three-storey appartment overlooking the ocean, sucking fat cigars, barely looking down at me on the street below.

I feel far less aggravated this morning, and less alone in it after receiving an email from a good friend and fellow PhD sucker that included this by chance:

I feel quite strong these days but I'm just a bit fed up, tired and yet still terrified of not getting it finished in time. An interesting mixture of exhaustion and panic-stricken hysteria amidst a more general attitude of stoic pragmatism. It's an interesting emotional storm!

How well-expressed! But, like her, I feel bad about whingey rants so I will stop here. I am off to start a brawl with the fox.

(I intentionally included a picture of paper fox to remind myself who's boss.)

My Current Thesis Structure

2009-08-05T23:52:00.000+01:00

photo by: abbyladybug

What's That Over There?

2009-07-30T07:10:00.000+01:00

photo by: goenetix (with 999 uploads!)

I have noticed that my recent posts have been distinctly non-academic, at least in the direct sense. I am in heavy thesis mode at the moment, thrashing out the very last of my empirical chapters. I will then turn my efforts to rewriting the history and context chapter, and then, only naturally, rewrite the introduction and conclusion as if I knew exactly what I was saying all along. Nothing to see here, really. I ride to my Department most days and sit in an open plan workspace. Otherwise, I walk a few hundred metres to my College library or else, I stay home (in College). It all depends on the type of thinking I need to do and whether I am in a focused or excitable mood.

Each day and all day, I receive emails about upcoming seminars and conferences, job opportunities, IT maintenance, washing up (drying and putting away) coffee mugs. I struggle with the habit of writing a good few sentences or paragraphs and then - instead of stretching (I have a clicky sternum from cowering over the keyboard), doing my eye exercises (it's all about varying that focal length!) or simply ploughing on - finding someone or something on the Internet to make me feel connected to something other than my new ideas or old ideas in tidy sentences and arguments. I am often confronted with Facebook status updates of fellow academic friends gloating about internships, accolades or some garden party or other. I get lost in the anxiety and find myself frantically clicking on a total stranger's Greek Island holiday. Each time I do this, something (probably sharpening my focus and seeing the strange couple in their swimwear) kicks in to make me stop and return to my work, vowing never to go back to Facebook during work hours.

Nonetheless, if I get up and walk to the Department kitchen for a drink, I then have to absorb the complaints of various students about how long a PhD takes, how the time required for academic tasks is almost impossible to predict, how ill-disciplined and/or inadequate they feel, how someone else in the Department published an article or received some research work from a Professor. The next day, sometimes the next hour, the same people offer speeches on how fortunate (and horribly selfish and without perspective) we all are. We vow to be more grateful. Often I hear myself jumping on these conversational trains or even, I admit, spearheading a theme. But, these days, I am actually quite bored of these types of conversations. I have little energy for anything that won't help me across that finish line. This aloofness is uncharacteristic. Sitting and typing is the way forward. I am writing a lot. This means my downtime, even at the Department kitchen, has to count as downtime.

By the end of the day, after I go for a walk or to the gym, feed myself, check my emails again, read, watch some BBC iplayer, read again, the last thing I feel like doing is writing an involved blog post about my day, the unremarkable bullheadedness that is academia for me right now. I trust or at least sincerely hope that once I am done with the thesis I will have whole spaces in my daily routine and brain to dedicate to more thoughtful, dynamic posts about the politics, vagaries and practicalities of academia. And I plan to get a whole lot more whingey too, possibly in that ultra dramatic, filthy tempered way that is quite the hip approach in blogland. Maybe not. I suspect having some sort of job security (there are degrees, I am aware) will lead to a blog reblossoming of sorts. I hope so.

So instead of battling on, trying to provide spiffy, insightful posts about academia, I will instead refer you to some far more keen, reflective and/or witty posts about the subject. I am hoping it will serve a 'Look over there!' and a counterweight function until I finish my thesis. Here we go. Some inspiration:

Academic Cog (2007) Dissertators, Has This Ever Happened to You
Academic Cog (2009) Lessons for Girls: Don't Just Ask Insist on Help (even if it makes you feel weird)
Dr. Crazy (2009) One of My Best Qualities: Ability to Meet (Ish) Deadlines
Dr. Crazy (2009) How to Succeed in Academia Without Really Trying?
Dr. No (2009) Getting Naked
Dr. No (2009) I Got Nothing
Inktopia (2009) And then my Grading Pen Exploded
Inktopia (2008) You Might be an English Professor If...
Historiann (2009) What is Good Teaching, and How Can We Know It?
Historiann (2009) Teaching and Tenure: What counts (and what's good?)
Candid Engineer (2009) Irritation Yields Clarity
Bavardess (2009) Career Angst and the Scholarly Life
John Flood (2009) What is Your Research Worth?

Ok. That actually took a lot longer than planned. I intended to include around thirty as there's some excellent stuff out there. Need to stop now. Too fiddly. But if you have any favourite academia-relevant posts to share (your own or others), please do send them to me in a comment to this post. Thanks team!

p.s. Just in case there's any confusion, you're still expected to stay loyal and check my blog a few times per week. I'll still be nattering away.

Yes, It was Age-Appropriate

2009-07-28T21:21:00.000+01:00

Here are some snappy snaps of my birthday weekend, a happy weekend that included girls' cocktails and dinner on Little Clarendon Street, a play (Tom Stoppard's Arcadia) and a picnic in St James' Park in London, and a high tea for 22 people (men and women) courtesy of the boyfriend at the Old Parsonage here in Oxford.

I managed to rake in several good books, a pretty dress, some booze, a poem, and gift vouchers for a massage and an 'experience' in London. The flowers were from some of the ladies back in Sydney. Most of the cards I received were purchased from museums. Yes, things have changed.

But then again I did close celebrations by watching (and enjoying) The Hangover followed by two episodes of The Wire, I still wore Converse to the Department the next day, and I did elect to have a dinner party for my sixteenth so probably just more of the same....although the birthday cards were definitely pegged at the 30+ market. That we can be sure of.

Can You Guess What Day it is Today?

2009-07-24T08:08:00.001+01:00

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Thanks for all your emails, messages and words of encouragement, real life and blogland pals. I feel like my hand was held a little to get to today, and this morning I feel great - cheerful, relaxed, and ready to head to my Department with my Birthday badge on (in my going out get-up, minus heels). Lots on this weekend. Will take some pretty pics to share.

Was going to kick this post off with photos of grotesque cosmetic surgery or suggest that my life was over with this little rippe r, but am going for positivity for now.

[in whisper] It's just past 1pm my time. Still nothing crazy has happened to me or to anything around me. I am at my Department, happily editing a chapter and I am still wearing my frilly birthday badge. I am praying this turning 30 calmness thing spills over until submission. That would be pretty sweet. My father has informed me via email that my adolescence is now officially over. Tell that to the rest of Oxford and the academic profession, Dad! He's been really sweet about my birthday, actually. Apparently, flowers have been sent to me. In typical Oxford fashion (sometimes the paternalism is lovely), one of the porters at my College just rang the administrator here to let me know. More later. (I do know that people are dying from preventable diseases and starving and being politically repressed, and this is ridiculously self-regarding and trite, but I am 30 now so no shame.)

Perils of Marrying a Student

2009-07-21T21:47:00.000+01:00

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On Skype (with camera) last night.

Sister-in-Law: Go and get my new BMW.

My brother shakes his head, ducks off and then comes back holding a large, rather stylish shopping trolley.

Brother: It's for grannies.

Sister-in-Law: When I bought this, your brother immediately asked how much it was. I said, 'Some women ask for a BMW and actually get one. It's my BMW.'

Festival Gear, British Style

2009-07-16T10:04:00.000+01:00

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My boyfriend took me to a music festival, the Cornbury Festival, pretty Oxfordshire, last Saturday. It was my second time and it was super. The highlights: The Magic Numbers, the lamb, mint and potato homemade pie, and having a pretty good go at a harnessed trampoline (to aid somersaults) activity with a bunch of five year olds. It was not the same festival as the one where the above pics were taken (Wireless Festival, Hyde Park), but a variation on the same themes I am sure: music, booze, food stalls, rides, tie-dye rubbish and cheap trinket stalls, fairy outfitters etc. (One could argue, though, that Cornbury has some of the best food of any festival.)

The ladies' festival fashion wasn't far off these pics: beaucoup de check shirts, old and faux-old (Batman, scouts, Atari) t-shirts as dresses (sometimes with shorts), floral dresses (maxis are huge - haha!), charm necklaces, mixture of chunky and scrawny bracelets, leather sandals, trendy wellies, aviators, and just entered my teens hair, all tied together by a cup of Pimms or a bottle of beer and some fairy wings or glittery fake eyelashes (the posh rurals probably get into the fantasy accessories a little more heartily than the London coolies). Of course, in an instant, British festivalgoers, no matter how trendy, can transform en masse into an army of garden gnomes in dark green or black hooded, full body raincoats. I know. I saw it. It's weird.

Careers Advice

2009-07-14T09:51:00.000+01:00

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Now that you're finishing your time here at Oxford, you can either head off to Cambridge for some further studies, The Hague or Geneva to work for an international court or organisation, and then there's the States for a postdoc or policy work. Otherwise you might like to quickly get yourself to Africa or India to join or start up an NGO. Yes, that's pretty much it. Take a leaflet before you go.

Worth Worrying About?

2009-07-07T11:17:00.000+01:00

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It's my birthday soon and I am wondering whether and to what extent I should be worried about it. I am generally quite low key about birthdays. Perhaps this comes from being a twin. I have never seen it as my own, as a day just about me. Without want to invoke too much pity, add being a middle child and having (wonderful, kind but/and) unfussy, undemonstrative, cerebral parents to the birthday conditions I was working with. To be fair, there was a presents-in-bed-before-school ritual in my family until we were around ten. For the next decade or until we moved out, birthdays were essentially about being able to choose the brand of take-away for dinner (even on a week night!), take-away being a real treat for us kiddies. But I always had to share this decision. Plus, I knew the greasy feast was going to be shared with a bunch of other hungry attention-seekers, who would rip those chicken wings apart well before any formal acknowledgement of a birthday.

But this year's birthday heralds the start of a new decade for me - can you guess which? - and coincides with the final months (or so) of my thesis, and uncertainty about how exactly I will kick-start my academic career next year and where then I will be living. If I wanted to, if I really wanted to amp up the anxiety levels, I could also make this birthday a deadline of sorts for deciding whether I will ever use my womb and if so when (and why? Is 'why?' relevant?).

I am consciously watching myself come up with these thoughts to see whether they trigger anything within me. I feel like a child with a bug catcher rather than an aeroplane passenger floundering in the sea. But, I could send myself in a minor spin about them if I wanted to. I am wondering whether I should or not. The possibilities for a bit of internal mayhem were opened up further by a viewing of 'A Street Car Named Desire' (1951) on DVD on Sunday night.

Have you seen that movie? It is one angry, intense, brilliant movie. It had been on my 'To Watch' list for ages, but I had no idea it was going to be quite so forceful. Amongst and overlapping with the dominant themes of gender, violence, clashing cultures, illusion and reality (and mental health), one aspect of Blanche DuBois' character (pictured above) resonated with me: her fear of ageing and her desire to be elevated from mortality through, for her, aesthetics, chivalry, poetic language, beautiful artefacts and role-playing. Reading up on Vivien Leigh after the film (the actress who played Blanche, and also Scarlett O'Hara) did not provide any relief. Sadly, she suffered from bipolar disorder and recurring TB (which led to her death at a fairly young age) and seems to have been, like Blanche, haunted by her earthly vanity and impermanence.

Unless hiding away, doing a thesis in Oxford 'the bubble' England counts (?), I am no Blanche. But that small, concentrated part of Blanche, her temporality and her awareness of her temporality, struck me.

What does all this mean? Is this upcoming birthday actually affecting me? Does it mean I am finally old? Should I be worried about the fact that I may be in fact deeply worried? Or does it simply mean that I am a typical, melodramatic DPhil student? Should I bother obsessing about the onset of this new decade and take stock of my life in a chest-grabbing way or should I just get on with my thesis for now and spend the day having a nice time with friends over some good food, pretty drinks and dancing as planned?

I initially intended to mold this birthday musing into a light-hearted post, where you guys could then feel encouraged to giving me humorous tips for things I should do before or after I enter this new decade or cute ways of thinking about DEATH. So if you can somehow twist this post around so you can do this, please do so. I wouldn't even mind a bit of old-school, no-nonsense shaming. If not, hardcore Hamlet-holding-Yorick's-skull-style responses welcome. Thank you and have a good day.

Sunny Days = Inane Posts

2009-07-04T17:26:00.001+01:00

JMC photos

It's very sunny. I have been busy this week, working at my Department instead of at home, preparing and giving a lecture to a bunch of American Political Science students down in London (absolutely loved it, good for the morale), listening to English students complain about the muggy weather, spending evenings drinking wine or Pimms on the grass, being very bright and attentive (lots of expressions etc.). But I always pay up for these things. I am not someone who can do a tonne of things with a load of people on little sleep. I guess everyone around me pays up too eventually.

I have successfully self-soothed today, having set myself up perfectly on the floor on top of my white duvet and a load of white pillows and cushions in front of Wimbeldon on the laptop. I have a carton of juice and some chocolate at hand. A cool wind is gently coming in through the large, sliding window and, if I reach my head up, I can watch people pass on their punts. There is a lot of chatter and laughter outside, but I have had my fix of Summer fun and people this week and I am content to be alone. I just spotted Ink's call to rip up our To Do List for one day. I have some work sitting near my chocolate, but it's probably simply there for extra comfort, like a soft toy. Not sure if I will roll on to a 4 July BBQ tonight. Not quite sure what I could offer to that. I guess I will go unless I feel like it is an obligation and therefore not in the spirit of my accomplishment-free day.

To beef up this inane post (there is still a pretty terrible situation going on in Iran, btw), I have provided some U.S. material for your entertainment and interest:

Fear and the Fourth of July by Frankie Martin: Noam Chomsky says that from its very founding, the US has been shaped not by a pluralistic ideal, but by fear of the other.

Barack Obama: First Nerd parts one and two: Terrifically funny speech given by comedian John Hodgman to President Obama at the Radio & Television Correspondents' Dinner.

Magdalen College Ball 2009

2009-06-28T16:37:00.000+01:00

These are some photographs of the Magdalen College ball I attended on Friday night, courtesy of Brett Tully.

You'll have to just believe me that there was a harpist playing at the champagne reception, where the 1800 (or so) guests first assembled.

At the back of the College is a deer park with benign trees and soft grass scattered with pieces of tree and ivy, reminiscent of an Enid Blyton story. The deers had been replaced for the evening by dodgem (bumper) cars and a big top circus. There were also white food stalls (lamb and cous cous, roast pork and apple sauce rolls, Indian curry, doughnuts with cinnamon and chocolate sauce and an ice cream stand). Young couples sipped their drinks in between the buttress roots. Many of the women (or at least the ones I noticed) were wearing quasi-regency, quasi-Greco-Roman dresses, with empire lines, fine detailing, multiple layers, in white, pale golds and creams, their hair long and flowing and barely pinned back. The men were in white tie.

Then, just in front of the park, the New Building lawn housed a more modern scene: igloo-style cocktail and oyster bars, chocolate fountains, and a large orchestra (which went on to accompany the fireworks that erupted once the pink sky turned dark grey).

In obscured corners of the College buildings, there were massage parlours, hairdressers, old-fashioned performers and large vases of orchids.

When I sauntered through to the Cloisters for the first time that evening, I found myself suddenly caught up in an eerie, purple light and the honey-coloured stone. Then, through the medieval tipped windows, I caught the first glimpses of the most heavenly scene and I squealed, 'Eeeee'. From a poll in the middle of the quadrangle, strings of fairy lights gently reached each corner. Once it was dark, the Cloisters seemed more Hollywood glamour than celestial. The dance floor was a checkerboard, the singer was suitably husky, and there was a whiskey and champagne bar and an olives and cheeses tent at two of the corners.

In large marquee in a parallel quadrangle, a load of English bands rocked it from 9pm, including The Epstein, The Feeder and The Pipettes. (The last were like The Wiggles for adults, but in the 1960s. I was hooked.) Then, from around 3am, the survivors happily exchanged sweat and shapes at the silent disco as the sun quietly rose.

Yes, it was ridiculous in hindsight, and even during it, there were a few people getting a little intoxicated on their own splendour. But, it was essentially playful and truly beautiful, and, given the scale, the sort of thing I will probably only experience once.

Having quickly read my description though, it's clear that my tone is far more formal, possibly even reverent, and far less humourous than it is by nature. (That third photo is asking for something, whereas I just left it there.) Maybe the whole thing's gotten to me. That's it. The old me is finished. Lavish only from now on. LAVISH!

RIP Michael Jackson

2009-06-26T09:11:00.000+01:00

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I have woken up to the confirmed news that the King of Pop is dead. I spotted a Facebook status update just before bed that read 'RIP Michael Jackson music genius' and quickly clicked on a newspaper website on my toolbar. I felt a couple of seconds of tense hope, the same as when I had heard Heath Ledger and Steve Irwin had died but had not yet read about it. Alas, it had yet to be confirmed, but it wasn't looking good and now it's no good at all. There's something shoddy and disconcerting about hearing of someone's death over the Internet, even compared to say radio or TV news or in the newspaper, as was the case, for me, with the deaths of Freddie Mercury, Princess Diana, Kurt Cobain and Michael Hutchence. I don't like it.

I feel sad for Jacko's family and loved ones - death is banal - and a little regretful that he didn't have his massive come-back. That said, I have to say that I did lose the thread with him somewhat. He was such a huge part of my childhood lounge room dance competitions and adolescent parties and conversations, but as an 'adult', coinciding with his increasingly evident mental and physical sickness, I have felt more vague frustration, confusion and pity towards him, than any active loyalty. Kate found this more recent video, which reminded me once more of MJ's awesome talent and brilliance. I am sure I will get the tunes out this weekend and feel more and more grateful towards him. It's hard for me to feel that while reading online articles. Maybe that's just me.

Anyway (mind quickly moves to other things), it's raining outside. I have to finish off some work today (I am nearly there!), before a weekend of squishing thesis work around a College ball, garden party and pancake breakfast. Obnoxious. Most Oxford students I know get far more work done out of term time than in. Term officially ended last week, but there's always frivolity week after term ends (and another the week before it resumes). Not my fault. Oxford traditions. I hope you have a lovely weekend, including some time to bust out an MJ classic.

Writing Muppetry

2009-06-24T12:52:00.000+01:00

photo by: Yogma

I have spent the past couple of days blindly creating and destroying lead-in material for an article. I set up the problem and background, and then slowly find myself in the thick of the main body. I then review the lead-in material and find I can cut it out or at least pair it down. Next I construct some more of the body, then realise that this is not really the body, but actually perfect lead-in material for a more interesting set of arguments so I then cut some of the earlier lead-in down and write more. The result is that the more I write, the more lead-in material crumbles away as if it can't keep up with the meaty bits. I realise this is, in part, inevitable and even very healthy or it may simply be the product of a devastatingly weak outline, but, in any case, it feels idiotic.

Calling on All Academics

2009-06-21T15:05:00.000+01:00

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Fellow academics and friends, I need your help.

Late last week, I was out at dinner when someone, who shall only be known as 'businessman', asked me the question I have been asked since the first few months of starting my thesis, 'What are you going to do next?' I tried to explain my academic plans, pointing out that it was hard for me to be as concrete as I would like because I am not entirely sure myself and that, given the nature of the work, the next years may well be spent in different positions and at different universities, but that all depended on whether I wanted to focus on teaching or research. I also tried to make it light-hearted, saying with as warm a smile as I could muster: 'You will definitely be one of the first people who knows all this when I know.'

But the conversation became very tense. Businessman made these sorts of comments (acccompanied by irritated facial expressions): 'If I were you, I would just change careers'; 'Academics have to spend so long applying for jobs when you are already so qualified, and then you have to beg for research grants and write articles for free'; 'I am used to people being paid well for what they do'; and 'I say all this because I am just wondering how you are going to pay for food and a roof over your head.' There were many other little chestnuts, which I am sure you can substitute with your own versions.

Unfortunately, at the time, I was already feeling bothered by the stupidly-generous supply of chilli in my pasta, heavy red wine, and the muggy, overcrowded Italian restaurant. I had also felt my day's takings (or word count) had been pretty lame. In short, I had taken a small amount of emotional baggage to dinner (just carry-on, nothing too fancy). Hot cheeked and troubled, a much as I wanted to, this all meant I simply couldn't articulate a grand defence of the academic enterprise.

Plus, so many themes filled my mind at once: the nature and role of a liberal education; the joys, and, indeed, necessities of intellectual freedom; the connection between thought and action in human history; the teaching and research functions of a university - universities teach doctors and support scientists (if not medieval history, then surely the health argument would work!); academics and businesspeople are driven by different motivations and interests, but both tend to value autonomy and solving problems; the prevalence of scientific, policy-based research at universities etc; universities and the private sector work more and more in partnerships anyway - the distinction was no longer as rigid (not without some negative consequences); universities have had a vocational function longer than a liberal education one.

There was just so much going on at once, including a great need to burp. These were points serve slightly different arguments and use various units of analysis and I didn't know where to begin. Some of the arguments felt hackneyed, others too intensely passionate with a basket of garlic bread in between us. On top of this, I didn't really know whether I should start saying anything to someone who never enjoyed school in the same way I have. Then I was worried I was going to be unfair, to take some of my frustrations and uncertainties about my thesis and future out on him in some twisted adaptation of the Stockholm syndrome. I was also aware that I might say something spectacularly snarky and sound like one of those obnoxious 10 year old whizz kids who shut down adults by pointing out how narrow their vocabularies are compared to theirs. I hate little kids like that. I want to remind them that they are still scared of the dark. I didn't want to leave and realise that rather than have a conversation, I had just been a little snob and, more than likely, somewhat insincere since, as much as I enjoy and appreciate what I do, I don't feel completely starry-eyed about the academic life (almost...but not quite!). I think I blurted (or burped) out something about how terribly stunted and boring the world would be if everyone wanted to be a businessperson. But I still didn't actually say much about academia itself.

To be fair to myself, it's also incredibly difficult to find the space to make careful arguments with someone who is scowling at you like you're a wastrel, and it's not always impressive, let alone useful, to rely on academic debates (such as the liberal versus vocational versus overlap debate) to someone who doesn't care for them. When someone tells you, essentially, that what you do is nonsensical, rather than cheerfully helping them understand it, it's actually very hard not to start acting like a childish patriot: all emotion, all defensiveness, all indignation. I think I sounded (or at least felt) a bit like one of those painfully dull people in the queue who you overhear telling someone how their home country is better than another.

When I made it home, I turned to my oracle, the magical interweb, to see what had been written about this and whether I could pull out something to send him. I have already read a lot on 'What is a University?' for a course I did, but this literature is written for an academic audience and will not do. I searched everything from 'What is the value or academics'/'academia', 'In defence of academia', 'Academia's role in society' to 'Why business people hate academics' and various combinations. But I have yet to find anything suitable. The closest thing I have found is a list of advantages and disadvantages of an academic career. Some of the items of this list are useful: rewarding and meaningful work, flexibility, being able to write, working with and meeting interesting people etc., but I am still not sure how to explain these things to someone who may not see these things as inherently true, let alone valuable and, of course, there are a whole lot of other things that have to be accounted for: time delays, increasing managerialism, prevalence of 'nutjobs' (as they are called in the lists above) and the prospect of slaving over an article that then has a mere 24 month shelf life. Morever, some of these are more about being an academic, rather than the broader value of academia.

I imagine because I am from a family where going to university was a taken for granted assumption and where the value of academia is tacit, I haven't ever had to master the answer to the question of why I value academia from someone who regards the endeavour as pointless or at least inefficient, indulgent and possibly a little intimidating. Plus, I am not sure how to account for the fact that I rely on the products of non-academic entrepreneurialism (presuming it can ever be fully separated) all the time. How much integrity do I need to make the arguments for academia? Also, do I need to take the high moral ground? Is academia going the same way as other professions where we simply shoo away tricky questions like these with the answer: 'It's just a job like anything else'? Whoops. I digress. These questions relate to bigger issues. For now, please let me know how you would respond to a routine encounter with businessman or any outsider for that matter being aggressively critical about what academics are and what they do.

The rules are:

You have no more than 2 minutes time before outsider will change the subject or wave you off.
You can't say something too harsh or arrogant as it will affect other relationships and make you feel bad.
You have to see outsider again.
Internal, esoteric arguments are more or less meaningless to outsider.
Outsider's criticisms are not especially well-constructed and may move and remould elsewhere as you proceed. Outsider does not argue in the same way you do.
You have tried humour or simply ignoring these comments many times before and would prefer a different approach (but would be willing to try it again if the only option, just need more material or motivation).

Also, if you have any come across or written any pieces of writing on this, please do send me the links.

Thank you and good night.

The Good, the Bad and the Funny

2009-06-18T09:05:00.000+01:00

photos by: Kate

The Good:

Surprise mail at any time is good. Surprise goody bag mail to "cheer up dreary thesis-plodding" is the best. Check out what Kate (of love you big) sent me! The rainbow tape that was binding the handmade packaging was very exciting for me, so imagine my inner squeals when I discovered inside an old-fashioned popcorn bag filled with super cute, crafty treats. Thanks Kate! Check out the rest of her goodies, get amongst her free giveaway, and do think about sending one of your friends a pack of colour sometime. It helps. The return of sunny weather, regular exercise, summertime energy and patient loved-ones also help.

The Bad:

Dealing with my thesis, other publications, and 'What Next' questions at the same time; inner siren going off at second email this week informing me that I 'must be almost finished' (I assure you, I will let you know); trying to come to terms with the situation in Iran; and a non-blog-friendly dull sadness about something personal.

The Funny:

The other night, two ginger friends (who don't know each other particularly well) were sitting around a table at The Turf with a bunch of non-gingers (including me). They start to size up each other's gingerness. Ginger boy has to show he is a real ginger by revealing his arm hair. Ginger girl tells us how when she walks past another gingette (my term) there is an implicit understanding between them, as well as a quick scan to see whether the other is wearing the right shade of pink, for instance, given their limitations (and opportunities, I would say. Greens, browns, ruby red and electric blue are winners!). Ginger boy declares that society is intolerant of ginger couples, that if we see two dark-haired people cuddling or walking hand-in-hand, it's not an issue, not even noticed, but if they are two gingers, we see it as wrong (as if gingerness should only ever be an outcome of a freaky throw-back) or highly suspicious and uncomfortable. Ginger girl replies that she learnt early on in high school that having a ginger boyfriend would be no easy choice.

For some more funny, check out this song from Aussie rednut, Tim Minchin. Hope you're having a positive week!

Finding the Right Pool Party Wear

2009-06-12T08:30:00.001+01:00

So there's a couple of debates going on in my blogging community (to be generous), first about academic insecurities - particularly the tendency of academics (usually young ones) to be slaves to the pre-exisiting literature - and second about academic status and status crutches - especially, the CV.

photo by Ojo de Vidrio

I read in a book called Authoring a PhD that one of the reasons why novice researchers become bogged down in the questions, theories and tomes of more senior scholars is simply because of the structure of post-grad writing, a structure which, quite sensibly, first asks for an extensive literature review. One of the main functions of the review, Dunleavy says, is to help your supervisor get up to speed in your area. But us pups are not told this and, as one of our earliest academic memories, the review weighs heavily in our minds and on our weak shoulders. We sense that all these old timers are just waiting to hear what we have to say about 'their' field, doing warm-up stretches, cracking their knuckles, pushing their hips forward, lining up to take a potshot.

As much as we are told by our supervisors to take command of the scholarship or, as Dunleavy helpfully pointed out, to see it as context, not competition, we continue to absorb mixed messages about the extent to which we have to respond to previous debates and who our audience is. We may have or hear of experiences that don't alleviate these worries, such as someone's arguments being misrepresented and then criticised or receiving snarly feedback from blind reviewers. This often results in confused, defensive writing.

Acadamnit used a fabulous pool party metaphor for the academic publication activity and implored us newbies to turn up in appropriately revealing swimwear, reasonably open to the scrutiny of the academic clique. Addressing a newbie whose work he had to read, he said:

I know you are new to the research publication party, but don’t you want to show up dressed appropriately? It’s like a pool party and bathing suits are required. You simply cannot arrive in Arctic expedition attire. It’s uncomfortable I know. And no, an 1800s style “bathing suit” doesn’t work either. You just have to put yourself out there. You are obligated to cover the most sensitive parts, the delicate parts of your argument that would hurt most to get burned, but the rest is just going to have to be left exposed and open to scrutiny. It’s OK, it just takes some getting used to.

In a following post, he admitted that his confidence levels were relatively high (or his insecurities not especially low) in part because of his blossoming CV, one of the perhaps unfortunate, but inevitable markers of academic success.*

Then Academic Cog replied:

I'm standing here in the dressing room as a scholar just starting out, wanting to ask for help but also not wanting to come across like a complete dork or idiot from outer space --- what if I don't know which parts to cover and which to let hang out? Which are the naughty parts that you just don't expose and which are the merely risque? If you don't know that by now, I hear academics in my head saying, you don't deserve to be here...

photo by: Tom@HK

As for me, I have already submitted a couple of journal articles and had them sent back with classic comments about my bulky swimwear. I have been wearing too many floaties, dark goggles and a swimming cap and probably didn't need to hold my nose as I jumped from the diving board. In other words, I need to cut down on the lead-in material and narrow my arguments. But I have had a couple of attempts and the layers are being slowly removed. Right now, I have a chapter for a book due next week and I am definitely feeling more confident (stripping down to sensible full-piece, aiming for tasteful two-piece by thesis-submission). Admittedly, I feel more enticed to do a drop-bomb in this case because the two editors, like kind-hearted parents, are willing me in from the middle of the shallow end of the pool.

*Back to the nature of academic wins, the flipside of all this hesitation, Acadamnit's post elicited this comment from a non-believer:

You [academics] are without out exception a bunch of self-centered, narrow-minded f***s. You do not make the world a better place. Your research does not make the world a better place. You are worthless to improving society and actually make life miserable for those around you. This creates a ripple effect that makes you equal to common criminal in your influence. Get off your high horse and try to be human. I know you broke your ass to get the academic position, but please admit your mistake and find some real work to do.

Since then, there's been a lively discussion about the nature of academics and academic work: shame v grandeur, self- v student-centredness, narrow- v liberal-mindeness, neediness v autonomy, social deviance v social good etc.

Love this. Conversations in blogland are far more interesting to me than spewing bits of myself into the void. So get involved. What are your thoughts about newbie academics and academics in general (our habits, neuroses and social role)? Do you love us or not?

Congratulations, You've Won a Free Trip to Sardinia.

2009-06-09T18:12:00.000+01:00

I am back from my ladies' trip to Sardinia. Just in case you can't have a holiday for a while, here's what it entailed. I think you could just about pretend you were there with this information:

New Colours: Peach, purple and blue (flowers, houses, clothing, earth), a welcome variation to the green, brown and grey palette of England.

Local Food and Drink: Thin-based pizzas and fresh pastas soaked in oil and covered in salt, red wine, bright orange spritzers (mystery drink), olives, anchovies, bread, tomatoes, prosciutto and cheese, grapes, peaches, pears and apples. We were there for a short enough time to avoid bready-overload and any related symptoms.

Coastal and Inland Adventures: Long days spent clambering on sharp, granite rocks, running towards the clear water only to be stopped by the 'fresh' temperatures and then diving/falling in rather robotically to start slow laps (while the locals and Italian mainlanders stared and blinked from the sand - men in their white or dark blue speedos, legs apart, chocolate tans and haughty women in dark-coloured bikinis with gold trimmings), marching through cricket, caterpillar and bug-infested wheat fields in the singing heat to find huge, ancient olive trees that looked as if their knots could turn into faces and their branches into benevolent arms.

A Night with the Trendoids: On our last evening the three of us rocked up at Costa Smeralda hotspot, Phi Beach. We were given a textbook snub by the waiter who was utterly contemptuous of our shock at having to pay 15 euros/drink (even non-alcoholic!). We figured it was just about worth being able to lie on the white leather sun beds overlooking the moonscape, sea and sunset, but we also figured it might mean nursing each drink for a couple of hours. My friend said, 'Alone again' and we laughed, recalling that most of our nights out had meant the three of us in restaurants or back at the hotel alone and various very small, but nonetheless failed attempts at cracking the local scene. Then an hour or so later, this short, cocky Italian guy invited us to join him and his friends. We looked over to see a bunch of coolies attached to flourescent straws drawing from a communal drink. We strutted over, probably a little too keenly, but it was our last night and we didn't have the time or Euros to be aloof. It turned out that they were the owners and managers of the bar (and other bars throughout the world) and general hangers-on (rich kids who fly from hotspot to hotspot and the well-connected locals). One of the locals said that the life of a (young?) Sardinian is: Work in the morning, beach from 1-4pm, work til 7pm, then bars and night clubs from 9pm. I must admit, for various reasons, I had been a bit snobby about joining them, but they were very warm, chatty, and generous. It was a good reminder that having completely superficial fun is not the worst thing. It can actually be extremely positive and pleasant.

Some Adorable Characters: The composed, handsome concierge who became increasingly paternalistic towards us over the week and rushed out to wave at us as we left in the taxi for the airport, the 70 year old taxi driver we used a couple of times who showered us with 'bella's, the lady who made our coffees and hot chocolates in the morning who had such a wonderfully warm smile, the initially surly blacksmith who brightened up just as we were leaving and essentially trapped us in his studio to show us his craft from beginning to end (he produced the most beautiful wall pieces, hand made from a single piece of steel and then hand painted, many of which are made to sit in front of lights, creating a magical effect), the bronzed owner of the Indonesian and Thai accessories shop who proudly showed off his village to us, the lady in faded floral leggings at the church service (first mass for me in several years, the church - Stella Maris - was simply beautiful) whose full arm, right-angles cast made me laugh, taking me back to the many times in my childhood when I struggled with laughter fits in church.

A Very Long Trip Back: We scrambled out of bed for the 7:15am taxi, arrived at the airport, squinty and a little snippy with each other, to find our plane had been delayed until 3:15pm. On three hours' sleep, this was crushing. What was even more disconcerting was that once we were finally on board the Easyjet crew member on the mic informed us that the crew and pilot had to be hauled out of bed that morning so we had to be extra nice to them. I said to the passengers around me, "Right, so we're handing over our lives to tired, resentful people. Great. The pilot will probably take a short landing in spite of his boss." The presence of Geri "Ginger Spice" Halliwell on our plane (who would have thougt she used Easyjet?) made it mildly more tolerable as there were some Spice Girls jokes amongst the passengers. The American guy in the seat behind me googled her nude pics and showed them to people in the plane. This seemed funny at high altitude. Not so funny was having to join the non-Euro queue at immigration control and therefore being one of the last to make it to baggage claim to then spot a few sad suit cases remaining, none of which was mine. One of them looked like mine EXCEPT FAR SMALLER AND WITH A BRIGHT BLUE RIBBON ON IT that the owner had obviously attached as an identifier. I knew straight away that the owner had taken my bag home. I then had to deal with a super angry, lined-lipped woman at the 'baggage dramas' counter. I was anxious for her to ring the person whose bag I had before he or she got too far away, but she treated me like I was going out of my way to pester her. She finally rang the person with my bag, en route to London (she had the nerve to ask whether I could meet her in London!). My friend and I then had to wait for an hour and a half until she (bag-taker) came back to the airport for the bag exchange. The baggage counter lady told me to go and meet the "dumb woman" with my case (she had loyalty to neither one of us in the saga). Dumb woman was irritable too and she actually told me how returning to the airport had been really hard for her. There is lots of anger at airports (Love Actually lied). It was a harsh welcome home, I've got to say.

Yes, I am Still a Student.

2009-05-31T19:49:00.000+01:00

photo by: Bronndave

It's been cracking weather in Oxford of late. I enjoyed a massive day in the sunshine on Saturday, amongst a lot of flesh and lycra, at Summer VIII's - the biggest intercollegial regatta here and a good excuse for everyone else to get together, have a few Pimms and overpriced burgers and and run along the banks screaming for our College crews. Only lowpoint for me was hearing a bunch of short men talk about how the other Colleges did not have as much money as theirs (by the looks of their equipment etc) and point out women who they thought "should not be wearing Lycra". Unfortunately, it was so humourless that there was not much to do with it live. You can't really work with that material (so instead I will report on them here).

photo by: winkyintheuk

After a full day by the River, rowers and fans slowly made it to a nearby pub to toast various things. A few of us then grabbed some take-away and went to Uni Parks for wine and stories, then back to College for group hugging and dancing (and a strange bike riding competition between two gingers who had not hopped on bikes for 20 years). As usual, the DJ wanted to play trendy club anthems. I told him that I hoped he had not been misinformed, but that the remit of a College party is pretty much cheese. He told me, with his eyes fixated on his computer screen and refusing to take off his headphones, that he did not know what cheese meant. I listed a few songs and said that he might just have to let go of his vision in the name of getting some people on the floor (I was mildly less bratty in real life). He snarled and it was only a few tracks later (some spectacular doof doof) that he obliged us with some generic RnB and wedding classics. As a mate reminded me today, we could always threaten DJs with a Spotify playlist or even just use one and pocket the cash.

photo by: Laura Sauls

So, yes, it's true, my life's still very much the student deal. Although, that also means I am off to Italy this week with two lovely ladies. I won't be online. I plan to be be caught up in this.

I will have to wait til after I return to tell you about (former Australian Prime Minister) John Howard's visit to Oxford last Thursday and my awkward "sorry dad" interaction (for a quick glance at the man in action, click here) and possibly, if the themes can settle in my mind, yesterday's Synechode, New York cinema experience. (What a trip! What a fantastic mess! Meaning of life, death, love, sexuality, relationships, the value of art and the artistic life, the boundaries between reality and illusion, and the routine lenses of health anxiety disorder, narcissim, depression, and, at times, a certain type of maleness all cobbled into one extraordinary movie, and one you're never sure really works as a movie...Perhaps this is enough right here and I shall wait for Alice's tidy review.)

In any case, have a nice week!

Those Men and Women Again!

2009-05-29T14:35:00.001+01:00

photo by: worryworts

Was sitting next to two guys at a restaurant with a bunch of other grad students a few nights ago. Both lovely and smart and good times. One of them noticed that there were a few awkward dates surrounding us and so they began asking me for my analyses of the women's body language. Just so you know, I primarily examined the manner in which they ate. It didn't take too much thought, I've got to say.

Using fork for food that could be handled, deliberate placement in mouth, bright, wide eyes and a receded chin as if man opposite is super interesting = tres keen, second date.

Shoving pizza in with fingers, hunching top half of body, looking to side = not so keen, hoping he will lose interest.

Eating slowly, sitting cross-legged under table, smiling demurely, facing straight on = more keen than want to show as very early days. Nice English girl.

This progressed to a more general discussion about how women tend to think - you know, the classics: community-minded, more likely than men to obsess about one negative instead of being content with the positives, etc, etc. Anyway, one of the guys brought up how you can manipulate that when picking up women, by making them feel insecure or unsure about your affection and interest.

It occurred to me that maybe this works quite well for a one-off encounter, shall we say (my grandmother reads this), with a certain type of gal. But I believe it's a highly unsound strategy long-term because you would then actually have to deal with that approval-seeking crazy who you selected for that quality. Imagine having to spend your romantic and then day-to-day life putting down your love object and/or assuring them all the time, say for instance when you're just trying to reach for the breakfast or watch a DVD or enjoy your time together. Dreadful.

Then the following evening, after dinner in hall, a guy in College mentioned how he looks forward to a future where he can come home after work each day to find his dinner ready for him courtesy of his wife. Wouldn't we all, champ? I would love a wife too. I need one now actually, as I sit amongst my own filth and clutter. But, as I said to him, you would pay up for it by having to have dull, passive conversations over that perfect meal. He grunted, only half-convinced. He then said he guessed it would be like being married to your housekeeper, but I suspect he still quite liked the idea.

Any one else got some recent man stroke women observations? No hateful ones please, just curious ones.

Happy Little Oxonians Enjoy a Garden Play

2009-05-26T09:57:00.000+01:00

photo by: Lawrence OP

On Sunday evening, I had one of those perfect experiences that Oxford offers from time to time. After deliberating on a punt, a group of us took off to see the Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest presented by the New College MCR. The setting itself was almost enough - New College is breathtaking.

photo by: Hans S

There were around 200 of us perched on fold-out seats or lounging on rugs on the grass. We were encouraged to bring picnic food and drinks and the classics - Pimms, strawberries and chocolate - were not forgotten. It was warm and yellow, with Spring things in the air diffusing the light. We were boxed in by a couple of charming, low-hanging trees and the cloisters which served as the back drop for the play.

The photographs below were taken on another night. I am glad that I can use them here (Thanks Anu) as I didn't take my camera, but they don't quite portray just how light and lulling it was on the Sunday. It seemed more like the photos above, but dreamier.

photos by: Anu Devi

The student actors did a pretty terrific job at capturing Wilde's wit and satire. Also, the director who opened and closed the night was deliciously eccentric which helped set the tone. I know one of the cast members and I can say unreservedly that she was a stand-out. The famous lines made everyone smile and by Act 2 we were all sitting back and laughing together. By the end, were only too happy to oblige the drinking needs of the cast and put our seats away before riding home on our bikes.

Here are some of the many gems for your pleasure. Got a bit carried away, so feel free to stop when you need to:

Really, if the lower orders don’t set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them?
Algernon, Act 1.

Girls never marry the men they flirt with. Girls don't think it right.
Algernon, Act 1.

Ah! That must be Aunt Augusta. Only relatives, or creditors, ever ring in that Wagnerian manner.
Algernon, Act 1.

Nor do I in any way approve of the modern sympathy with invalids. I consider it morbid. Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others. Health is the primary duty of life.
Lady Bracknell, Act 1.

I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square.
Lady Bracknell, Act 1.

I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays. You can’t go anywhere without meeting clever people. The thing has become an absolute public nuisance. I wish to goodness we had a few fools left.
Jack, Act 1.

Few parents nowadays pay any regard to what their children say to them. The old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out.
Gwendolen, Act 1.

If I am occasionally a little over-dressed, I make up for it by being always immensely over-educated.
Algernon, Act 2.

I don’t quite like women who are interested in philanthropic work. I think it is so forward of them.
Cecily, Act 2.

Cecily: When I see a spade I call it a spade. Gwendolen: I am glad to say that I have never seen a spade. It is obvious that our social spheres have been widely different.
Act 2.

Well, I can’t eat muffins in an agitated manner. The butter would probably get on my cuffs. One should always eat muffins quite calmly. It is the only way to eat them.
Algernon, Act 2.

Never speak disrespectfully of Society. Only people who can’t get into it do that.
Lady Bracknell, Act 3.

Untruthful! My nephew Algernon? Impossible! He is an Oxonian.
Lady Bracknell, Act 3.

Here's a picture I came across this morning (Wed) by Brett Tully, another Aussie student (we're everywhere!) and one who is very handy with a camera. For some more of his delightful pics of Oxford, click here.

Article Dump 3

2009-05-22T10:12:00.001+01:00

photo by: smallandround

Some things in my electronic collection box:

Beaten to the Punchline by Germaine Greer: What's holding women back in comedy?
The Quiet Coup by Simon Johnson: Former chief economist of the International Monetary Fund says the finance industry has effectively captured the US government
Who's Buried in Cleopatra's Tomb? by Stacy Schiff: Women, power and myth
Born Believers: How your brain creates God by Michael Brooks: Is religious belief hardwired?

Read if you like.

Two things in my mental collection box:

When colleagues/fellow students/friends are self-centred and emotionally greedy after a long day: I only accept compliments or presents after 10pm. (A student here gave me this to use in future and I like it.)
When people ask you what you're doing next and you have neither the answer nor the energy to come up with a grand plan to satisfy them (as you might have done at some earlier stage): I understand you need my certainty to make yourself feel reassured, but I just can't provide you with that right now.

Use if you like.

Eurovision Song Contest 2009

2009-05-17T11:19:00.000+01:00

image

Final Place, Country (link) & My Live Armchair Comments

01. Norway - Little cutie with a cheeky monkey face singing about how he is in love with a fairytale. Lots of violins and the triangle to create a Mr Sandman, 1950s feel. Will probably win because he is so likeable and the song is fun and cheeseball. Standing ovation.

02. Iceland - Proper early 90s power pop, the singer is wearing a 1970s bridesmaid's dress. Crap lyrics but massive key changes. Will make the top 5.

03. Azerbaijan - A couple in terrible white outfits belting out lines like "Always in my mind, always in my heart", "I believe I am addicted to you. In your eyes, I see dreams coming true." Summer feel - can imagine doing this in a Congo line at a cheap holiday resort. Very catchy. Tad Shakira. Ended with "Always, all the time." Will come in top three.

04. Turkey - Sluzzy bellydance pop. Suspicious use of pretty girl at front and then two oldies helping out with vocals. Heavy reliance on wind machine. Easy tune and effective use of hip drops. Crowd loved it.

05. United Kingdom - Lord Webber at white piano, pretty Jade in floaty dress. As she came down stairs, she was nearly brained by a violinist (who really didn't need to be as determined with his long stroke given that all instrumentals are mimed). Biggest power ballad of night. Perhaps too polished and not fun or interesting enough. Standing ovation. Top five unless UK still not popular on the continent.

06. Estonia - Very pretty girl with blunt, shiny fringe in long elegant dress. Lots of cellos, pain, classical emo pop. One to watch.

07. Greece - Former gymnast jumping around to early 90s club music. Very Ricky Martin - white jeans, white tight t-shirt, lots of chest pops and crude hip action with legs spread out. Beaucoup de pointing at crowd and acting out the words with hand gestures. Same stylist as the Russian winner from last year. Copped some nipple action for my troubles.

08. France - Classic French megastar with timeless beauty and a striking (deep) throatiness at end of each line. I feel like I am back in the mid-90s. Strange choice to end with some free dancing when in a classic LBD.

09. Bosnia & Herzegovina - Military folk song by a boy band in marching band outfits.

10. Armenia - Twins in traditional gothic get-up rhyming a load of one-syllable words. Mixture of folk, cabaret and green strobe lighting. Truly do not know how to interpret. Makes absolutely no sense to me. [Got to say this song made more sense to me this morning when I heard it again. What does this mean? Do I need to get back to Oz for some festival rock?]

* * *

20. Germany - Another little man. What's it with little men singing pop? Tight black shirt, shiny silver pants. Does not look interested at all in the female back-up dancers. Burlesque, gay (showtime) pop. Dita Von Teese appearance. What was she thinking? She is trying to seem icy and untouchable at Eurovision. Not on, Dita.

21. Sweden - Hulk Hogan's sister singing pop opera that sounds like an airline commercial. Female back-up dancers in black suits holding masks covered in cut glass. Mind-boggling.

22. Malta - Disney ballad from a larger lady with a fabulous voice. Straight from the Lion King or Cinderella. Will be a quiet achiever.

23. Lithuania - Angry emo boy tries a bit of Juzzie Timberlake. Ends with a flame coming out of palm of hand - gratuitous. Could be something the Euros are into. Wouldn't be surprised if it does well, although perhaps disadvantage to be on first?

23. Spain - Ballroom dancing pop with a traditional Spanish twist. The lyrics and feel are completely unoriginal and will be swallowed up by other acts. Good night Spain. Take a bow now.

25. Finland - White rapper with baseball cap joins diva to produce some irrelevant club number. Even the fire stick guys in the back looked bored.

The song that caused me the most discomfort:

12. The Ukraine - Celina Dion and Christina Aguilera in the worst sense - Skinny singer with short, shredded red dress, long black boots, legs spread apart, fake boobs, gladiators carrying her around. She took to drums and smashed it up. Early 90s pole-dancing music. Central line in song: "I'm your anti-crisis girl." Saw on live Twitter feeds that people thought she was singing "anti-Christ girl". Truly disturbing. Apparently she mortgaged her house to fund the props. Poor dear.

The song that I was secretly hoping would win:

15. Portugal - Happy times song straight from Harold and Maude sound track and reworked for contemporary crowd. Chubby-cutie singer with super voice. Pretty flowers, colours, accordians and traditional dress (traditional dress or all white the two uniforms of the competition). Happiest band of the night.

Meme Time

2009-05-15T16:28:00.000+01:00

photo by: smallandround of painting by Jeremiah Ketner

What’s your current obsession? I have a few: My thesis, The Apprentice (UK), pilates.
What’s you favorite color and why? Green and out of habit - at age 6 my twin chose blue so I had to sniff around elsewhere. I think I did well.
What are you wearing today? Jeans, Converse, dark blue and grey striped top with cross-stitching across the chest, and a fairly new fringe.
Why is today special? The Eurovision Song Contest's on tonight. Andy Lloyd Webber is behind the UK entry. Can't wait to see whether his efforts succeed in altering the voting patterns, or whether, as ever, the UK will be awarded 'nil point'. The British regard Eurovision as ridiculous, tasteless and continental. Looking forward to slobbing out with a red wine and some corn chips and tsatziki.
What would you like to learn to do? Fully accept my feisty personality.
What was the last thing that inspired you? John Bond's talk on the chain of events that led to Australia's National Sorry Day (26 May) and then, finally, to the apology of our Prime Minster, Kevin Rudd, to Indigenous Australians in February last year. One of the themes of his talk was the ways in which politicians and intellectuals can simply lose the ability to relate to matters of the heart. It was clear from his talk that the movement involved an immense, and sometimes vicious, battle with the previous government. I hadn't realised just how long and concerted the campaign was and I had little sense at the time that it was as much about interactions with specific individuals as formalised policies. You can read about it here and here.
What’s the last thing you bought? A pair of (cheap) gold hoop earrings with a single dove sitting in the bottom of each loop.
What are you listening to right now? Birds and wind outside, whirring of computer.
What’s your most challenging goal right now? To finish thesis with flair and enough positive energy to make a sensible next step.
What do you think about the person who tagged you? Ink seems like someone I would get along with in real life. She seems smart, funny and ebullient.
If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you like it to be? Overlooking ocean, with a short walk or animal ride through pretty scenery to markets selling local produce, flowers, crafty things etc.
What would you like to have in your hands right now? A contract for a 'you can teach anything you would like to teach from any discipline' academic post. Would settle for less.
What would you like to get rid of? Things that cause unnecessary fear and panic - like occupational healthy and safety signs, 90% of the news, some people's conversational style etc.
If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go? Extended family dinner at my parents' house, fully catered for so no one had to duck back and forth to kitchen.
What super power would you like to possess? Flying because then I could efficiently transport myself without carbon emissions, and in the process avoid anxieties that accompany air travel sickness and control issues. I am sure I would continually test my courage and become very good at it.
What’s your favorite piece of clothing in your own closet? My dark grey mack from Japan (but bought here). It has a dramatic collar, comes in at the waist, then out again to the knee.
What’s your dream job? Professional learner-teacher-writer-entertainer in one.
If you had an unexpected $1000, what would you spend it on? Probably rent in Oxford, but hopefully on an indulgent three course breakfast with friends from the various parts and phases of my life.
What do you find annoying? See The Trial at Lunar House entry - that sort of stuff.
Describe your personal style. Jeans or skirts with cute things. Anything with stripes, stitching, lace, layers, stockings, buttons, bows, floral motifs. Things that don't match. Things that puff out. Mostly dark blue, grey, black, light pink, orange-red, white, cream and purple. Usually wearing too much for the temperature and often lazy with final execution.
What fashion show would you want tickets to? Have trained myself not to covet high fashion.
Whose closet would you want to raid? Many a posh English gal here in Oxford.
What are you most proud of? My tenacity and sense of loyalty.
The beautiful bloggers I’d like to know about are: Everyone reading this! (thanks Ink). If you don't have blogs, please post your answers in my comments.

→ Now the rules of this tag:

1. Respond and rework: answer the questions on your blog, replace one question you dislike with a question of your own invention.

2. Tag 7 other people you would love to learn more about. (see no. 24)

The Trial at Lunar House

2009-05-15T10:23:00.001+01:00

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After many weeks of gathering documents from my Faculty and my bank, sending inane emails to various administrators and finally* filling out a 55-page form, I headed down to the Public Enquiry Office of Immigration & Border Control in Croydon (South of London) yesterday to extend my student visa. The six hours spent in public transport was uncomfortable, but the experience really came to its own inside Lunar House itself, the 1970s government building shown in the photograph above. As I followed that first painted red line out the front leading to security check, I had no clue just how fitting the name - a nod to the moon landings - would be.

The operation kicked off by lining up to have bags scanned, lining up to have documents checked and approved and a case number given, being directed upstairs, having paperwork checked at bottom of stairs and top of stairs, and lining up to have documents checked again and to pay the £565 fee. It then meant joining over a hundred other people (and their bored, grizzly kids) on rows of blue plastic chairs bolted in to face a long line of glass booths, booths which were designed to shield the case workers from us slipshod foreigners. The security staff (dotted every 10 metres) was clearly straight from the set of EastEnders: cheeky, thick necked, balding young guys and white-blond, throaty, older women with frosty make up.

As I sat on a sticky chair, numbers were called out every few seconds by automation. Often different recordings called out over the top of each other. Orange numbers flashed from squares above each booth while the position and progress of our numbers were depicted in a separate visual display. The only other form of entertainment was a slide show of the Border Control's policies and procedures, with the same messages (about their staff not tolerating abuse and their disability facilities) being earnestly read out over and over by alternating people, each representing the various categories of race, gender, religion and age.

After a good 40 minutes (well over an hour since arrival), my number was called. I sat down in front of the young case worker. The applicants' chairs had been bolted a good foot or so back from what would be a natural distance from the counter. This meant we all had to lean forward awkwardly, over-extending our backs, essentially putting our chins or two hands on the counter to hold on. I placed my materials through the chute as directed. Case worker silently looked at them. I stared at the 'panic attack' red button in the middle of a grey box to the right of the case worker. It took me to the control room of 1970s sci-fi movies and I thought I heard the distinct sounds of David Bowie singing Space Oddity. Caseworker typed some things, stamped stuff and then politely told me to take a seat.

I waited over an hour. Little kids started to wail and run and hit their heads on the corners of the seats and wail even more loudly. Some parents tried to sleep on each other. My number was called again and 'they' took my biometric details - digital prints and a photo - for these new biometric ID cards, a scheme that originated, more or less, after the London bombings in 2005. (Now I am here, I couldn't really object, could I?) I plopped back down and stared for an hour and a half. I tried to do some work, but laptops were forbidden and the air was stale. I also forgot to eat, mesmerised by my number flashing on screen, slowly advancing to the front of each electronic queue.

I should be fair, there were some high points, a couple of moments of fuzziness when I sensed that we - applicants from different parts of the world, of different colours and creeds - were all facing this Kafkaesque doorkeeper together. Overhearing the husky security ladies share suggestive jokes and provide nurturing pieces of advice also made me smile.

For several minutes I watched my number sit at the top of the 'case consideration' stream. My number was called and I sat in front of a different case worker. Case worker followed a very similar procedure: checked my forms and passport, typed in my details. She then informed me that my application would have to be sent downstairs to be vertified again because of an internal audit process and that I would have to wait another two hours minimum. Without thinking too much, I calmly told her that I would be hopping on a bus back to Oxford rather than waiting any more (my dwindling mind was fixated on one thing: getting back for a talk by Richard Dawkins) and asked if they would please send my passport to me as and when. Caseworker said, 'But what if you have to come back down because they need you to bring something extra?' I said that given that I had already made it through at least three, possibly seven, checks here today, I was willing to take that risk. She then said she would see if she could get my application looked at by 'floor one' sooner. I thanked her and resumed my spot on sticky seat.

I watched a case worker in the booth next to mine tell a Chinese couple that they would have to wait another 2 hours minimum, which they accepted, deflated. Brushing off concerns about whether or not I was a brat for holding myself to ransom, I made my way outside, determined to inhale some air from this century. Nevertheless, leaving the building also meant having to go through security and checks again so, I would say to others, it is only just about worth it.

While I waited another 30 minutes, I filled out a feedback card. My two suggestions were that the security staff be given greater role diversity or responsibility as their boredom was making them jumpy and erratic and that the case workers be trained to display some sense of awareness of just how long and dull the process is as their neutral and sometimes sharp expressions were hard to take after 4 hours+ of waiting in one room. I was called and reunited with my beloved passport. My application for an extension of my student visa had been approved.

Just to tie up the blogging proceedings (and I thank you for joining me), I think my final few minutes at Lunar House were symbolic. As I left the booth for the final time, I announced to a few people still waiting, 'It can be done, Ladies and Gentlemen. This process does have a finish, I assure you.' They were all pretty much dribbling by this time and I had no takers. I pranced over to the tired kiosk and immediately spotted the gold of a Crunchie being shown off by the plastic-wrapped beige chicken rolls. I took out my pennies, ready to get some honeycomb goodness. With the giddy enthusiasm of someone being found not-guilty and facing the press outside the court or of someone leaving prison after being wrongly accused, I trumpetted, 'I am treating myself to a celebratory Crunchie, how much are they?' The heavily-lined lady (who I had heard being pretty funny earlier in the day) replied, without moving any of her face, 'I am about to change the till, you will have to come back in 15 minutes.' I said, 'Can I please just leave you the money as I am finally on my way out.' She said, 'No.' I said, 'OK, well I guess I'll be going then.' She croaked, 'Suit yourself.'

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*If you're interested in the form filling process which involved visiting the student advisory service here in Oxford, please let me know. I can share a wonderful email my boyfriend sent me to make me feel better about my apparent failures on this front.

Too Tired to Be Grateful

2009-05-11T11:36:00.000+01:00

photo by: Denis Collette

Hey, remember how I said I listened to this meditation podcast that told me to turn my frustration into gratitude? Well, it's only just about working at the moment. Probably not working, really.

Here are some things I did on Sunday that made me smile and feel connected:

Lay in bed for a while, stared and turned into different foetal balls.
Rang home for Aussie Mother's Day and had a nice chat with my mother and my youngest brother.
Pilates at the gym - which I am suddenly rather fond of since it appears to be reversing some of the effects of my poor posture at the computer. Wore some long 80s-style leggings which made me want to do star jumps.
Strolled from town to Cowley via G&D's for a bananarama milkshake and the Sunday papers (reading about Liv Tyler bouncing back after divorce, the MPs expenses scandal, and how a high profile lesbian fell in love with a well-known bisexual author).
Boyfriend met me there and asked me to hurry up by looking at me in a certain way. I asked him whether he was "on my team today or not because things could be easy or hard." He gave me a big hug, but then walked out anyway so I abandoned my reading material.
Met friends for lunch, at their place off Cowley Road. Brought chicken and rhubarb as contribution to feast.
Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares (USA) was on in the background while we prepared vegies for roast lunch and fruit for crumble.
Watched someone who knows how to cut things quickly and cook intuitively.
Animated conversation over table about how we were parented, the nature of ambition, social rules.
Full and pretty drowsy, cruised on over to the Little Feat gig at the Carling Academy on Cowley Road. Full of chunky men, most over 55.
Favourite Little Feat songs still Fat Man in the Bathtub, The Weight, Willing, and Dixie Chicken. (I talked these guys up a while ago and think you should at least check out these songs.)
Back home for foccacia dipped in oil and balsamic vinegar as no dinner. This snack seemed very late 90s New Labour to me.
Boyfriend playfully poked me and I said he poked me like Monty Burns and he said "Release the Hounds."

Here is what happened yesterday that is making me feel emotionally detached from the list above:

Went to Dept, tried to work, but felt glandy and squinty.
Then after lunch, as if on auto-pilot, just left Dept, walked home and slept for 2 hours.
Feel as if I could sleep for a month but must get on with chapters.

Now wondering if day off (Sunday) is best spent just lying and staring. Bearing in mind that I do exercise in the week and I do try to get to bed at a sensible hour, I would really appreciate some tips to better relax and use my time off to gain energy rather than lose it. Thank you.

All the Stars Are Coming Out Tonight for You!

2009-05-05T20:28:00.000+01:00

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So something has snuck up on me, besides my flippin' computer screen wrinkles and thesis malaise: my 100th post! My last post was, in fact, my 100th. I didn't celebrate it and certainly none of you noticed it, which leaves me feeling like a 65 year old who has quietly and thanklessly looked after all her kids as well as the neighbourhood's while working full-time at the literacy centre of a local school.

In today's society, there's only one way to remedy this injustice and that is by renovating my College accommodation for a home makeover TV show. Imagine me in slow motion getting off my bike (after a day by the river that you set up and embarrassed that I have helmet head) to Take That's We Can Rule the World in front of my new home surrounded by a bunch of salivating people I have barely met. Now, indulge me (and provide me with some sense of this momentous achievement), and let me know how you would decorate a part of my house with a maximum budget of £250. I want it themed, kitch and within budget. Thanks (and tears) in advance.

Only in Oxford...

2009-05-01T11:12:00.000+01:00

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...would you spend a Thursday evening eating overpriced pub grub (£10 for a slab of crumbed chicken in a dry bun) with students from Poland, The States, The Netherlands and Italy and then ride down in your Converse to join a bunch of English undegrads hear Jack Straw, Lord Chancellor and Secretary of State for Justice, present a case for why Labour should win the next election (on the basis that it is more committed to substantial equality than the Conservatives) and explain why the British Goverment did not lie to the public about the presence WMDs in Iraq; how there was no dishonesty just wrong information and that it was a matter of public confidence being lower than it should be. Only in Oxford would you find yourself unlocking your bike right next to the MP himself as he jumped into the back of a shiny cobalt van surrounded by a bunch of geezers in black suits. Only I would be so desperate for attention as to ask them for a lift back to my College, "plenty of room fellas". I got a couple of chuckles for my troubles (Mmm...tasty doggie biscuit treats).

Am off to Ben's Big Gig tonight with a load of friends. You can watch it live at this site from 8pm-10:30pm GMT. It's geek pop that Demi Moore thinks is "hilarious" and to which posh celeb chef, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstal l has given the thumbs up (or the pointy finger).

How to Deal with the Others?

2009-04-28T20:42:00.000+01:00

photo by: Ali Edwards

Wouldn't it be satisfying* to confuse a thesis examiner with the words of Frank O'Hara (a NY poet who features in my new book)?

I have a feeling that the philosophical reduction of reality to a dealable-with system so distorts life that one's "reward" (a minor one at that) is illness both from inside and from outside.

I should make it clear: I don't have to formally defend my thesis for a fair while (I haven't even submitted) and, truth be told, this week has been particularly positive and productive for me so I am all about picking up that dealable-with system and rubbing it all over my face and gleefully licking my fingers.

But I guess what this is all about is that I have some unhelpful uncertainty and defensiveness about the connection between your research, the research community, and potential audiences. I am certainly well past phase one (in which you attack the pre-existing scholarship as misguided and invalid as a defensive strategy), but I would like to have some healthier ways of thinking about "the others", other scholars, examiners and audiences (real or imagined), as I write. Please share.

*at least momentarily

A Curb Day

2009-04-26T14:12:00.001+01:00

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I introduced a couple of friends to Curb Your Enthusiasm last night. (I know, I know, no excuses, they should have been forced fed it years ago, except that I only met them a few months ago.) Then this morning, on the way to the shops with my boyfriend, I had a Larry moment. A very short man was walking towards us with his two very small, young sons. They were all wearing banana yellow Lycra tops and had spiky blond hair. I thought he had a pole with him for cross-country walking or some other physical pursuit. Anyway, the sight of them didn't rock my world or anything, but I did say, loudly and carelessly, "Oh, look, that makes me laugh to myself." As they came closer, it became clear that the father was blind and was in fact holding a cane. My boyfriend looked at me like I was a patronising cow and I didn't manage to convince him otherwise. It set the tone for the rest of the morning. I was duly warned to keep my mouth shut at the gym this afternoon as these Larry moods tend to last a whole day. We call this "having a Curb day."

How to Survive Social Interactions in Oxford part 2

2009-04-22T10:24:00.000+01:00

photo by: Arkadyevna

I know someone who regularly uses this social tool in group situations:

When someone is in the middle of telling a story or giving an opinion and everyone else is listening, this person will single out one of the listeners and ask loudly whether he or she has read X (an obscure theorist, poet or novelist). The person who had the floor then becomes confused and offended, and the person who was asked the sudden question feels either flattered or embarrassed. Either way, everyone ends up abandoning the conversation to pay respect to this person's intellect and taste. That's just one of the ways of asserting control around here, of redirecting traffic your way. (I use my blog instead...control, control!)

Basking in Some Poetry

2009-04-22T09:03:00.001+01:00

photo by: Sunday Grrl

I came home last night to find on my desk The Great Modern Poets: An Anthology of the Best Poets and Poetry Since 1900 (edited by M Schmidt). It's an ideal (re)introduction for someone like me who has not studied poetry in any sustained way since high school and who doesn't have the frame of mind for a tome. Each of the 50 poets is given a short introduction, and some historical and critical context for his or her work. Plus, the book itself looks pretty and feels precious. I will resist taking it around with me today for show and tell.

The usual team was called up - Hardy, Houseman, Frost, Yeats, Frost, Pound, Eliot, Graves, Auden, Thomas, Hughes, Plath etc. - to join names I hadn't heard of before. I was quite surprised to find an Aussie in there, Les Murray (1938 - ). After reading a few of the heavies (it is ordered by poet's date of birth), I came across him and was taken back to the muggy classroom of my teenage years.

I want to share one of his poems here, not because it was necessarily the most pleasurable or insightful of those I read before bed (although I don't think I was being particularly discerning, I was just happy to have my new book!) and certainly not because he is an Australian (you may already know about my ambivalence towards patriotism). I have chosen it because his poem threads many of my recent thoughts about academics, particularly those in consuming spells of thinking and writing. Also, it's reminiscent of a fair few religious/spiritual and philosophical ideas I have read or heard over the years that have appealed to me.

The Meaning of Existence

Everything except language
knows the meaning of existence.
Trees, planets, rivers, time
know nothing else. They express it
moment by moment as the universe.

Even this fool of a body
lives it in part, and would
have full dignity within it
but for the ignorant freedom
of my talking mind.

Anyway, I am off to my Department. It is far too bright and warm for it and my legs are rebelling against the idea. I am quite certain this will be another day of students talking about admiring and smelling flowers and worrying about their inability to focus or finish sentences.

Feel free to point me to your favourite poems - who knows how long this zeal with last! Hope you are feeling uncluttered and positive about things.

Thesis-Related Neuroses

2009-04-19T14:34:00.000+01:00

photo by: Jef Safi

I was talking to a friend on Friday night and we both agreed that no matter what personality you have - whether you're the retiring type or the sassiest person around - the last six months of PhD studies in a concentrated, iterative environment like the one we are in invariably beats you down. It magnifies all sorts of worries and insecurities and even though you have another narrative going about how silly and temporary it all is, you still fall in all sorts of psychic traps, rookie traps you thought you'd left at high school. My friend suggested it's because we're all so narissistic. It’s hard to know how much is you, and how much is the space. I guess the fact that I wrote that last line suggests an inordinate self-fascination that is closer to narcissism than not!

One thing I have been thinking about way too much recently is how I have always been pretty hopeless with having unresolved issues with people. I am hard-wired to seek understanding and consensus. This probably means some sort of addiction to approval and acceptance, but, more charitably, I am sure it also means that I am a kind, community-minded and fairly responsible person. Whatever the reasons, these tendencies can be really unhelpful when you're dealing with certain people or situations in this (last six months of thesis in Oxford) context, a context where pretty much everyone's thinking lacks perspective and their behaviour lacks consequences.

I emphasise ‘certain’ because I have met many bright, energetic, conscientious people here, I have a terrific bunch of friends and I still feel very open to meeting new people. But there are dangers. One is that I am not good at dealing with tension or conflict with people who haven't known me for very long. Fortunately, it doesn't happen often, but when it does, it really throws me and I can find myself enmeshed in these heavy analyses of the situation and crazy polarities about myself, the other person, and others generally. In these conditions, where the lightness vanishes quickly, I keep trying to make whatever's at issue (whether it's a simple action, a series of points or an entire relationship) workable, even rosy, for the other. I have never been particularly stellar at cutting my losses, but here it seems, if it means good will might be restored, I am willing to keep putting my hand back in the blender until all my fingers are mangled and I have expressed regret for things that happened well before I even met the person. This has come to the forefront recently and it sucks.

I must say, around these parts, this sort of obsessive behaviour is rife. Students here seem more likely to discuss the minutiae of their daily interactions than any urgent political event or current intellectual debate. Loads of people I know here take anti-anxiety medication. Of course, I come into contact with a skewed sample of highly-strung people, but, still, I think there is something particular about this environment that dramatises these dispositions. As another friend recently said, students here become so fretful about whether or not to accept social invitations that they end up not committing to anything, worrying about it for days, and then falling apart on the night and staying in with a curry.

To manage my own thesis-related worries, I write a blog post, belly dance, see friends, read or go for a walk or to the gym. Plus, I always feel essentially optimistic, unrestrained, and loved so the balance is never out for very long, usually just for a few hours. But it can be a tough gig: our powers of analysis and senses of control and grandeur which are so useful for our theses and other acts of awesomeness conspire to turn against us sometimes. A while back, I tried a guided meditation podcast to help counter-balance this absurdness. It was all about going into your brain's mainframe and rewiring it. The Windows shutdown sound followed by "all files have been erased" was rather disconcerting for me so I haven't been back to it. Nonetheless, it did have some judicious words for my brain, including turning frustration into gratitude.

So, instead of continuing to celebrate frustration, until the next post, I present here some things I am grateful for:

Being taught a belly dance-club fusion class yesterday by a teacher who was probably the original choreographer for the Fame dance sequences. Our dance started with a Michael Jackson sideways hop and ended with a street pose. Sick!
Having a midnight chocolate milkshake and chat with a top pal last night.
That I am soon to receive this glorious book of poetry in the post.
That my twin is happy.
My boyfriend's gentle but twisted sense of humour.
A holiday booked for Italy in early June with two gorgeous ladyfriends.
Any evening bike ride that includes Queen’s Lane to the Bodleian.

Please feel free to share things for which you’re grateful and/or send me some wise words about thesis-related neuroses and/or letting things go.

Nordic Treat

2009-04-17T16:38:00.000+01:00

photo by: just.K

I just discovered this pretty special (and very manageable) Spotify playlist, Vantapamig, posted by a Nordic sweetie. Try this if the other link doesn't work.

I am as quick to join in on a rant about the dearth of letter-writing as any other toff around here, but bless the magical interweb. I am so grateful that I didn't have to meet this person on a Contiki tour and then hope she would indeed send me that mixed tape she promised in exchange for my Crowded House tape, the one that had been playing (along with Counting Crows) on the bus during the entire trip of 73 countries in 6 days. That would suck on so many levels.

Judging from her last name and her careful selection of moody, but accessible songs, I think she's Scandi, but I will say Nordic to be safe since the girls from that part of the world are fierce. Scandis have the low contextuality (ie directness of speech, fewest words to convey meaning) of Australians mixed with that intense pride that comes from being from a set of countries that are apparently so much more evolved than everywhere else. They just don't seem to care if you like them or not. Anyway (ahem), it's been getting me through today's writing session. Thanks Alexandra.

Feel free to (please) send some more study/work playlists my way. I'd like something upbeat to join this one, but not something that will trigger any automatic robo-dancing.

Oi, Weak-Beaked Swan, Get Over Here and Dance for Your Master!

2009-04-17T11:51:00.000+01:00

photo by: Today is a Good Day

Ink and GEW made me do it.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Academic Hopeful!

Astronauts get taller when they are in Academic Hopeful.
Moles are able to tunnel through 300 feet of Academic Hopeful in a day.
Humans share over 98 percent of their DNA with Academic Hopeful.
Early thermometers were filled with Academic Hopeful instead of mercury.
A bride should wear something old, something new, something borrowed, and Academic Hopeful.
All swans in England belong to Academic Hopeful.
Over 46,000 pieces of Academic Hopeful float on every square mile of ocean.
Academic Hopeful is actually a vegetable, not a fruit!
In the Spanish edition of Cluedo, Academic Hopeful is the victim!
A Academic Hopefulometer is used to measure Academic Hopeful.

If you're feeling scatty today, rather than doing 5 minutes of helpful, desktop Yoga why not get a quick hit of your own surrealist trivia from the Mechanical Contrivium?

I have set myself up by publishing facts 1, 2, 3 and 8. I trust that you are too sophisticated to go for these sitting ducks...or swans (Rahaha! Oink. Swig of champagne whilst reclining on my live bird couches).

Ugly Woman Comes Good

2009-04-16T09:03:00.000+01:00

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Just in case I've been misleading you in any way, I am not the best with cutting edge stuff (hence even being a day or two off the pulse with this attempt). But, I thought I'd dip into the current pop TV-YouTube-media controversy which, if you haven't already heard, is Susan Boyle's appearance on Britain's Got Talent.

Susan, a 47 year old, unemployed, Scottish woman who, as she said, lives alone with her cat and has never been kissed, astonished the sniggering Cowell and co. and the hooting crowd with her performance of I Dreamed a Dream from Les Miserables. She brought them to tears and to their feet. She has now become a YouTube celeb with over 11 million hits, and, with Mr and Mrs Kutcher among her fans, the ugly woman has come good.

And now commentators are offering up reasons for this extreme response. Some say it's simply the surprise factor: a rough, frumpy woman with an enchanting voice. Others go a little further to say it is because, through Boyle, we are afforded a rare glimpse of human dignity and grace in a world obssessed with physical beauty and the right packaging. I was just sent an article from The Guardian that, I think, represents a more compelling take on the British (and worldwide) reponse to Boyle. Yes, it's excessive, but it pegs down the gauntlet completely (and the comments are fairly interesting too). Read it.

True Love

2009-04-13T13:47:00.000+01:00

photo by: CreativeSam

My Boyfriend just said, "I would still love you even if you were so badly burnt that you looked like you were wearing the Scream mask."

Lessons for Next Time

2009-04-11T17:05:00.000+01:00

photo by: Rustman

I was at a three-day conference this week. I met up with some academic friends from the circuit, I attended a few fascinating presentations from various fields (something that always makes me feel less isolated and more inspired about the academic enterprise), and I received a lot of positive feedback after my paper.

However, it was also terribly exhausting. These days, even heading to the shops can be a small test of character so I am not sure how I thought mingling with over two hundred cerebralites would be a supple experience. I have been assured that this general ickiness is thesis-related. But just in case things don't change after submission, I have written myself a list of things I need to read before the next conference:

Your Pre-Conference Reminder

Arrive with some sense of stillness. You are always zonked by the time you walk past the first set of publishers' stalls after registration. Pack earlier. Leave the evening before for relaxation.
Give a positive comment before questions and comments (because you're almost always enthused by the research going on out there!).
Avoid responding vocally to phrases like 'transferable skills' or 'employability' in other people's presentations unless you have written down my question or comment beforehand. It's essentially an emotional response and should probably be left to eye-twitching unless an answerable question can be posed or a measured comment can be made.
Remember to take a watch or finally buckle and trade in your 2004 phone for one with some useful applications (and some degree of attractiveness). Having to ask a fellow participant to provide your wake-up calls each day (via mobile phone) isn't smooth.
Avoid the biscuits at afternoon tea. They make you zone out during the last session and contribute to your erratic responses to certain buzz words.
Be more accommodating and subdued when accepting feedback. Maybe don't say, in response to someone suggesting you read more Bourdieu, that while you like his work, you think that most empirical researchers tackle the agency-structure problem by producing one paragraph that summarises his concepts of disposition, field and habitus and then simply present their findings. That's probably unwisely presuming that audience members (in front of their peers) know that the spirit behind very nearly everything you say in any context is good and that of course you appreciate their advice.
Red wine at the social events is not your ally. It doesn't matter that everyone else is drinking loads of it. (Actually, I think you learnt this from last time and did well on this front. Keep up the good work!)
Account for the extra time needed to unwind before falling asleep each night. Travelodges, one of the premier destinations for student-participants, are strange institutions with lots of noise and pinewood, unnervingly young staff, arbitrary heating and no phones (and therefore no wake-up calls). You know you need optimum conditions for a restful sleep.

I like the picture above as it suggests coyness (which is how I feel about my reminder list), but I realise that toes touching also suggests feminine meekness, and may be anti-feminist of me. I may go off it and change it.

Creativity as Frippery?

2009-04-11T11:27:00.000+01:00

My grandmother is accomplished. She's fiercely bright, high-spirited and decisive, she's a doctor and a giver, and she's creative and thoughtful. She's also from one of those generations that doesn't exchange complaints all the time. A short while back, she helped my family move house (and sort through thirty years of encumbrances) and was, I recall, the only one of us not to grumble. Part of this package deal is modesty - she would see my description here as possibly gushy or improper and definitely unnecessarily fussy.

One of her hobbies is photography, and from time to time she worries that it amounts to mere frippery. I think it's interesting how certain types of creativity are harder to justify to oneself than intellectual pursuits or the service of society (or the market!). But I guess there is a scale of things in life, right? And pure commitment to aesthetics would preclude so many other possibilities in life. Although, I am not sure who has the authority to judge the useful from the (merely aesthetic?) rest. Do we need to justify these things? Some claim that usefulness is hideous, and that art is serious. How do you guys see your creative endeavours, including, for instance, your blogs? Is it essentially about having both in your life, about covering both bases - the useful and the aesthetic?

In the meantime, these are some of her beautitful photographs that were recently highly acclaimed by her peers. How delightful are those droplets?!

Elite University Syndrome (EUS)

2009-04-06T15:04:00.001+01:00

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Early symptoms:

Feeling exhausted and inadequate after social interactions with other Elite University students, but not knowing why.

Later symptoms:

Recognising a growing resentment towards the insatiable ambition and completely unoriginal self-promotion of certain Elite University students, and yet a striking weakness when it comes to doing anything about it.

Signs that you need to go to A&E:

When all your friends are in fact frenemies, but you can't risk losing them because there's a chance, you think, that they will be able to influence your future status in some way, and one may even become the leader of your home country very soon.

I have protected myself against EUS, not with an inoculation (like doing some NGO work in a developing country or starting pentathalon training), but by staying out of infected areas and wearing a mask; I have been focusing my attention on smaller, intimate dinners and drinks with people I truly like and admire (ie those who are super smart, but relatively cheerful and lazy). But the bug is undoubtedly spreading, making loads of people around me question their intelligence, capabilities and future careers. EUS seems to correlate with flu time (early Spring and late Autumn), but I am sure some arsy stats whizz could isolate more likely variables and let me know (after reliving a recent, hugely successful fundraising event he or she organised of course).

Sydney as a Bathtub

2009-04-05T20:38:00.000+01:00

Hey, I found these wonderfully zany films yesterday. The artist, Keith Loutit, uses techniques such as tilt-shift and time-lapse photography to make the world appear as figurines and miniature toys in a giant's playground. Watching them took me straight back to my hometown, Sydney; they capture superbly much of the colours and lifestyle. Louit has selected some great, quirky soundtracks too. Bathtub IV is brought to life by Megan Washington's adorable and affecting song, Clementine - definitely worth a listen to and look at on its own. His most recent short film uses a song by Shawn Lee called Throwing Shadows at the Wall and the video for this song makes me terribly sentimental.* I can't really cope with senior citizens singing the words of someone else's song.

*until the dancefloor part.

Bathtub IV from Keith Loutit on Vimeo.

When it Comes to Siblings...

2009-04-02T12:52:00.000+01:00

photo by: Iapidim

A while back, a reader asked me to help her improve her relationships with her siblings. It has taken me a while to tackle this because I think I was subconsciously pooped after analysing my relationship with my twin.

I come from a vast litter so I feel reasonably qualified to say something about this. From my experience, deciding and being prepared to work (for a long time if required) to redefine the terms of engagement with your brothers and sisters is crucial. It's not a given that these relationships make the transition from childhood relationships (and the mentality that goes with being needy, super-sensitive little people) naturally. This, of course, involves being honest about what you're bringing to the relationship table and whether and how you're allowing it to grow or not.

You can start by stating (calmly and sometimes repeatedly) to yourself and potentially to your a sibling things like, "I do not want to talk to you like this. This is a negative pattern that may have been OK when we were younger, but we're adults now."

I have had to say statements like this (in a more natural, me-form) to certain family members, and it's definitely been the general ethos for my own reflections. It's a delicate blend of big and small things. The small things, in my experience work better.

To this end, I have asked myself things like: Are my brothers and sisters balcony or basement people? Are they cheering me on and affirming me or dragging me down? Which one am I to them? I have borrowed these phrases, by the way, rather recklessly from Joyce Landorf, whose work I have never read and whom I am fairly certain is more clappy (and giving, and great!) than me. But I think it's a wonderful metaphor for nicely streamlining people in your life (often just for a short while) and also for being more honest about your behaviour towards others.

Of course, there is a lot more guilt and obligation when it comes to family and sometimes, particularly with parents and older relatives, you can never fully escape these expected patterns of behaviour. It's often very difficult and unsettling for family, particularly parents, to revise their concepts and expectations of you.

In some distressing cases, I think having a clean, finite break is healthy. It's often hard enough to be kind and aware to strong, positive people around you, let alone people who are emotionally greedy and manipulative etc. so sometimes you need a circuit breaker. You don't have to announce this in some impassioned way. You can just quietly give yourself some time and space to recharge.

I think when there is tension with family members the main things to work on from your end are being aware and self-disciplined about your own mental state before entering conversations, and carefully watching how much emotional baggage you bring into an interaction.

I think that last point's essential, really. You have to be able let go of the trailer of rubbish from the past; to not expect some kind of definitive, consensual, formal family statement of what exactly happened in your childhood and adolescence and who was treated how and to what effect. Part of being an adult, I think, is to decide to endorse your own version of reality, knowing that memory distorts and tends to focus on the negative, traumatic, mortifying experiences over the more normal, and even blissful ones, and then to put it away on the shelf.

Of course, siblings often want you to sign off on their versions too, which can sometimes mean getting embroiled in history wars. This requires knowing when to validate or gently test their histories and when to simply avoid these moves. You have to make your own boundaries according to what you're prepared to suffer and lose (sometimes you just don't want to lose a couple of hours of your time trawling through the archives and then an evening after recovering).

As with all relationships, relating to siblings is about constantly working on being present, calm and assertive (using as much 'When this happens, I feel...' language as possible, as distinct from 'you are a...' language). I read somewhere that often we think we're being adults when we criticise others by using behaviour-based examples, but this tone can often disguise a childish tendency to start introducing evidence from every part and time of the other person's life. Sometimes we get empowered by others (finally!) agreeing with our frustrations and that can give us a surge of energy to start tackling all the grievances you've ever had with that person. That's not fair.

Another thing that is often not fair (or useful) is that, with siblings, we are so much more likely to solve their problems when they actually seek validation (simple recognition of the underlying emotion). To make it even more fraught, we're also more likely to bring in examples from ten years ago, or to stitch the incident to another one, or worst still to use it against the person as an example of some wider, less functional characteristic they have or have had. These approaches are too blunt to make any pretty affinity shapes and should be traded in.

It's a big deal when a family member gives you a compliment. We're often still like little doggies in need of a Pedigree Gravy Bone. Give compliments, laugh, enjoy them.

I am lucky that my family is loving, fairly open, intelligent, humourous, and very supportive. Sometimes we can sometimes be a little rough in our delivery (the funny and the harsh are not always distinguishable chez nous), but I think for the most part we try to be gentle and positive with each other. There's an implicit understanding that now that we're all over 21 and living our own lives, it's a choice to be in each other's lives beyond family get-togethers. "You can go off people, you know"- this is something I say to my family sometimes to playfully remind them that my love and admiration are not unconditional! No, really, I think we actually want to be friends and simply like each other and these make it easier.

The last thing I would say though is that it's very important not to catastrophise when you have a tense or horrible interaction with a family member. You have to avoid linking the incident to the many other similar instances stored away in your file. You also have to challenge thoughts like, "We are never be able to get along" or "[name] is always going to be a negative influence in my life."

At the risk of sounding like I am trivialising individual cases (there's a spectrum of hurt and complexity in family backgrounds), sometimes when you argue with siblings you're just hungry, overworked and/or tired, and simply don't quite have the mental resources or social sanctions (that help regulate other friendships) not to fall back into bad habits. But that happens and you have to forgive yourself quickly and just try better next time.

For what it's worth, I have to deal with that pattern daily with almost everyone in some small way. I am often saying snippy things, declaring my worries or painting potential crises to my loved-ones only to realise after that I just needed a hearty meal, a walk outside, a quick kip or a kind word. So, yeah, being able to feed, walk and assure yourself and put yourself to bed when necessary are also important skills in adult relationships, including kinships.

Anyone else have any ideas for dealing with sibling difficulties?

Family: Please read 'comments' for clarification. I am certainly not in any conflict with any of you guys. It's all very peachy and positive (and tacit), as it is, thankfully, almost all of the time...

Pretty, Floaty Thing

2009-04-01T12:09:00.000+01:00

"Tender is the Night" by: KT Lindsay

This is a picture of and by one of my closest friends, Kate, in the angelic dress I bought her (on behalf of a few of us ladies) for her birthday last week. The detailing on the front is a collection of black roses. She is watching over Istanbul as part of her celestial duties.

Peak District Bliss

2009-03-31T09:37:00.001+01:00

The boyfriend and I escaped to the Peak Distric t for the weekend. We stayed at Cotesfield Farm, Parlsey Hay, a working farm managed by Andy, a welcoming bloke from Scotland. From our window, we could peek at the dairy cows in the barn. Andy's only advice before we set out to explore the farm was to avoid the bulls who would "not mind if you were dead, like."

On Sunday, we cycled over 20 miles (or just over 32 km) from Parlsey Hay Cycle Hire, where we picked up our fancy mountain bikes (and stood out because we were not wearing any lycra) to Tissington and back again.

How magnificent are the dry stone walls? I cycled for the most part with my face at right-angles; the views were dreamy. This meant riding through many limestone potholes and happily copping mud spray all over my back.

I said to my boyfriend that this is surely England at its most beautiful. He agreed. I asked him where he thought Mr Darcy might have proposed to Elizabeth Bennett, even though I knew in my heart that our bearings were a little off. This kind of romantic absorption reminded me of my mother who is deeply attached to English landscapes (her father having been English) and I recalled how, in my early teens, my dad said, in relation to a converstion about our (Australian) home renovations, something to the effect that my mum still thinks she is "in some English novel where she can go and sit on a large swing set up in a rose garden."

By the time we reached Tissington, we had transformed. We felt as though the wind had blown blocks of stress off our bodies. Everything around us seemed perfectly lovely and I started to think about poetry and vowed to read more of it.

Tissington itself is a very proud, untouched village that has been managed by the FitzHerbert family for over 400 years.

Can you see the sweet little cats in the window? They've been there for 150 years.

Our half-time reward was cream tea in the Old Coach House across from St Mary's Church (built in the early 12th century, heavily restored in the 19th century). There was a bunch of very senior ramblers also enjoying the spot. Good on them, I say.

(We were far too famished to take a pre-scoffing pic.)

The scones gave us enough of a boost to make it back (uphill!) to Parsley Hay, although my boyfriend commented that perhaps I could have done with a low-GI lunch as I became a bit scrappy two-thirds of the way. Of course, once the end was in sight, I began doing mental wheelies and in fact did a skid-style brake outside the hire shop. Happy times.

An Evening in the Big Smoke

2009-03-25T09:31:00.000Z

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Last night I trundled down to London for the official launch of a report I co-authored. There were many PIPs (pretty important people) and a few VIPs there, both academic and professional. Besides interacting with real people who are gainfully employed, interesting and fairly sociable, the highlight of the evening was after the event when I was given a back stage pass to the oldest and most ornate and theatrical court in the Royal Courts of Justice, the Lord Chief Justice's Court from the perspective of the bench.

Do I sound smug? Not a good start as far as the blog tone goes, particularly for a woman, but I will make sure that you think I am a hapless, harmless little creature by the end so that you still feel like you could have a drink with me so please keep reading.

Being in London dramatised the plain fact that I have clearly been in the Oxford bubble and in the write-up spiral for too long. As I boarded the train, I felt like Maria leaving the convent for the bustle of the Von Trapp household and I sensed that I was utterly provincial asking for directions at the Tube station.

Before I arrived at the launch, I made someone want to cry. That's not really what I set out to achieve each morning (as I brush my teeth) so let me explain. Having crawled out of my student comfort gear, and having made it on the train to the big smoke (which carried people I didn't know. Let's really paint the scene. There were wider factors.), I decided that I would get my hair cut with the hour I had spare. These things can be neglected. I was really looking forward to the hair wash and I don't think that was particularly unreasonable given I was coughing up £50 ("London prices", I said to myself using an old lady's voice and shaking my head).

So I was led to the basin by this young girl with diamond-textured black stockings under cute shorts, who I had tacitly assumed was (a) about 18 and (b) experienced. As soon as I lay back, ready to allow the thesis outline I had been working on that morning to leave my body, she took to my hair in a way that was no less than beastly. She carelessly pulled my hair, especially around the facial line, and grinded her knuckles into my scalp. She banged the shower head into my ear (that had been clanging the whole time as the coily bit had detached - not her fault granted, but it did not help) just as the water turned hot. I turned around and said (with very few barbs in my tone, maybe only a little one), "I am sorry, this is really just not enjoyable for me. I am not enjoying this." She asked her colleague to finish off - a little too quick to give up looking back on it.

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As I lay back into the hands of a spotty boy, I thought "I am not leaving here with any hair. That's it, I've done it." And, you know, I didn't get off too lightly. The hairdresser, as she pulled my hair straight with a brush and hairdryer, told me that I had made the 14 YEAR OLD, WORK EXPERIENCE GIRL want to cry. Once coiffed, I went over and apologised to the young girl for making her feel unfairly criticised. "I am just an uptight student," I said. The hairdresser started talking about how everyone in Oxford must be intense and serious, and so then I tried to prove that I wasn't always so intense and serious, but in my black suit, and with my acute jumpiness, and lack of middle ground small talk, it wasn't an easy sell. In fact, there's pretty much no way you can prove to someone that you're a mellow person. By engaging in the debate, you're already finished. The only way to prove it is to giggle like a child or stare at them with slow-blinking eyes and a fixed half-smile until they look away. I tried to make jokes. No, I should have just given up or better yet demanded that they hurry up and clean my feet in the manner to which I am accustomed in Oxford. My exit was not particularly regal: the classic pull the door, then go to the other (locked) one to push and then go to original to push.

I have heard from many PhD students that towards the end of the slog, your capability for medium-level, respectable chat is lost; that anything irrelevant to your thesis or not complete slosh (like Lily Allen's underwear or an episode in The Wire) is too challenging. It did take me a few conversations at the event to untie my tongue and to sensibly engage. I gradually got it together, had an enjoyable time, and was asked to contribute some of my thesis work, and offered the prospect of a small research job.

Nevertheless, unless there's a very, very good reason, I have decided that I am not going to heavily populated places until I have submitted. It's simply too spooky for everyone involved.

I wrote this post this morning. I have just come back from an academic practice symposium. It was re-energising to share ideas with other students about our academic careers and communities. I have also been left with some good practical guidance for the "next step" (which I may write up as a more generic blog post soon). So maybe I don't actually need to hide away with Mother Superior until I am finished as planned. Perhaps I just need to connect with like-minded people who have had similar experiences until I am ready for that middle ground again.

I'll give you style if you give me chocolate

2009-03-21T17:41:00.001Z

photos by: Michael Gray for Street Chic, UK Vogue online

Last night, my (English) boyfriend finally agreed after many attempts that Australian Cadbury's chocolate is better than English Cadbury's. By better I mean more full, rich and soft, and less brittle, buttery and bland. Being the fair-minded person I am, I told him I would concede something on behalf of Team Australia. I admitted that English women (or a particular group of English women) tend to have a better sense of dress than Aussie women. Wouldn't you agree? No matter how hard we try, we cannot pull off the shabby chic look in quite the same way as a Brit and it's not just the darker tan and whiter teeth that dimish our efforts (tee hee!). I pointed out that I was being especially magnanimous as he is not chocolate.

I have been in the Radcliffe Camera today revising my thesis outline. I was somewhat distracted by the dusty sun beams coming through the window overlooking St Mary's Church. But I did fairly well. I had figured it was time to check that my chapters were working for the same boss.

Article Dump 2

2009-03-20T12:10:00.000Z

photo by: Whiskers and Whispers (the future is feline)

Here are some of the articles that have been sent my way by Oxford nerdy nerds in recent weeks:

Shop Craft as Soulclass by Matthew B Crawford: reconsideration of an ideal that has fallen out of favor: manual competence
The Daily Me by Nicholas D Kristof: we may believe intellectually in the clash of opinions, but in practice we like to embed ourselves in the reassuring womb of an echo chamber
'Brain Decline' begins at age 27, BBC online: mental powers start to dwindle at 27 after peaking at 22, marking the start of old age
Books and Music that Make you Dumb by Marisa Taylor: Caltech graduate student's tongue in cheek research into the correlation between taste and intelligence

This is a purposive sample, but perhaps not completely unrepresentative of some of the concerns and vanities of Oxford students!

I haven't been able to blog too much of late. I have been trapped in the write-up spiral and spending any time out of it enjoying the glorious Spring weather. (Daffodils, fresias, soft breezes and good but also flitty moods have returned to Oxford. Our hunched over bodies are absorbing the vitamin D as if we had straws to a frothy milkshake.)

Also, I had a massage on Tuesday and the masseuse told me that I need more nurturing and less analysis in my life so I have been trying to replace time at the computer with dancing, walks, dinners and reading by the window.

I had my first bike ride on a friend's handlebars last night and I may as well have been in Portofino.

Relaxation for PhD Students

2009-03-13T12:50:00.000Z

I am on a terrible adrenaline course at the moment. I have been upping my use of relaxation and meditation podcasts of late (from none to one every day or so). But I am using them rather like a cyclist taking a quick swig of Gatorade and pegging the cup aside rather than a full session at the massage/medical tent. It's no good.

My brother (who is returning to Budapest tomorrow: sad times) found this clip the other day that reminded me of my efforts.

It's of Alan Patridge, Steve Coogan's best known character in the UK. For those who haven't come across him before, you're missing out. But to help you enjoy the clip: Alan is a small-minded, narcisstic, socially incompetent sports reporter turned television chat show host turned regional radio presenter. Here he is trying to follow a relaxation tape:

(Make sure you watch this at least twice: first for the visuals, second for the audio. It's gold.)

Somebody Stop Me!

2009-03-10T18:38:00.000Z

photo by: Kimberley Hurst

You know when you've had too much time slaving away at the thesis when:

Purely for social terrorism* purposes, you're tempted to leave a comment on a truly beautiful photograph from the honeymoon set of your ex-boyfriend to the effect of "This is a constant reminder of pain and loss for me." And yep, he posted it on Facebook over a year ago.

*my expression for ratty, trouble-maker behaviour when frustrated and/or bored

And no, none of my ex-boyfriends look like this guy - who has something strange going on with his hairline behind the ear. Geez, they look really happy! Leave them alone, AH! Back to work!

Every Thing is Going to be OK.

2009-03-10T14:45:00.000Z

Kate (of Love You Big) spotted this tile. It's by one her creative heroes, Rob Ryan. I wish this image could project automatically from the middle of my forehead over the words of my thesis whenever I sat at my computer. Editing is bringing me moments of joy (or at least intense satisfaction), but I keep on elongating my neck to peek further ahead; to count how many more hills lie between here and completion. Unwise, says the bird's second letter, unwise...

Lowering the Tone

2009-03-07T20:11:00.000Z

photo by Anie*

Dr. No recently started a (very amusing) blog pos t with the following:

You leave me no choice, I have to go there. If you are thinking: Where, where are we going Dr. No? Will it be fun? Should I pack a bag? Is sunscreen necessary? Should I cancel my classes? The answer, I am sorry to say, is no, no, no, and sure- why the hell not. We are going to a frightening place, a juvenile place, the kind of place where humor abounds for 12 year olds. A place where adults with graduate degrees should not go. Yet, I have to go there.

I would like to humbly invoke the same warning here. I need to share this small experience so that I can freeze it and have a good look at it. It seems to represent one of two or three types of interactions (along with intelligence and "who is more scared of this cricket ball?" competitions) I had to adapt to as someone who grew up with countless brothers. Being away from them, I tend to forget just how fantastically hectic, obscene and brash they can be. Just in case this gets confusing, I wrote this introduction last. What you're about to read was typed as the event was happening:

I just texted my brother to tell him to pop by my place before he heads off to London tomorrow. (He is staying in College, almost directly across the lawn from my place. This means he caught me dancing in my living room on Thursday and tried to mimic me.) This was his reply: "Yeah when you pull back the curtain, I'll be right at the window wearing only my Speedos and brandishing a spatula."

I just want to pull his little cheeks. I love this kind of banter. It gets me absolutely nowhere in this town, but I love it (and I can still refer to academic debates in casual conversations as well as anyone else - I just don't do it as often. So there!).

Just got another text, right now: "See, I am practising with the spatula now" and...yep, just checked, he is indeed in his kitchen waving his wooden spoon around like a drover.

I have been waving back with my phone in my hand, laughing like a proud dork. Another text has just come in: "But tomorrow morning, I'll still be on your window sill. You'll love it."

I can't tell you what precisely my reply was, but essentially I suggested that I would only love it if he whacked his own bottom and publicly apologised for something ridiculous he did when he visited last time.

Anyway (ahem), back to editing a couple of chapters of my thesis. It's Saturday night and I am on page 16/94. It brings to mind an email I received from a friend earlier today that had this in it: "Surely not too much longer." Will award that a 5.5/10 and file it away with the others. Please feel free to send in some crackers of your own for the prize of most well-meaning but unhelpful comment ever made to a PhD student/academic/writer of any sort.

Good Times (is there a mood pattern emerging?)

2009-03-06T12:26:00.000Z

Hungarian posters

So I am not sure why I included those posters. I spotted them at Momento Park in Budapest over the Christmas break and I just think they're pretty terrific in a very superficial way.

My brother is in town from as a visiting scholar from CEU, Budapest (a nice connection to the posters?). It's super to have him around, although old habits creep back so quickly - like when he commented on my kitchen being "clean" (as in dirty) within the first few hours of seeing me and later when I told him quite sternly that I was not going to watch another YouTube clip that he wanted to show me. We both chose to brush off these comments instead of engage in a snip fest from the mid-90s. Well done to us! You really do have to let go of a lot of psychological baggage when it comes to relationships with adult siblings and enjoy and respect them as friends. It's a delicate thing. I have now seen him twice in three months after a three year absence - he usually lives in Africa (to save the world! Toot-toot!) and we haven't managed to coordinate our trips back to Australia.

An assortment of around fifteen friends from my Department, my College and other areas of life met up last night in one of my favourite pubs here, the Gardener's Arms, to welcome him over dinner and a few drinks. Good food, good chat, good times. One of my friends theatrically told us all how much she hates people (especially now she is writing-up). She says she hates people who want too much of her time and energy (who tell boring stories about their grocery shopping and get offended when she glazes over) and she hates people who are too good for her (who have already been published and sorted out their postdocs). She says that running is her only cure against daily hatefulness. Whatever this blog may suggest, I am going to miss this place...

It's bright and sunny today and I can see purple and yellow fresias from my window. I am working fairly effectively and I have a good feeling about the weekend ahead. I just have to avoid those afternoon crashes when I haven't eaten properly and think chocolate and Facebook will help me through. I hope you have a lovely one.

How to Survive Social Interactions in Oxford part 1

2009-03-01T14:21:00.000Z

Me in front of a Liberation Monument in Momento Park, Budapest

Some tips for casual Friday night conversation in a bar or pub:

Have a few politician stories to share, from personal scandals and fashion faux pas to early promises, mottos and soundbites that came back to haunt them. Oxford students eat this up.
Know something about the financial state and organisational culture of the national broadcating companies of a few countries.
Be prepared for the introduction or premise to a story to be argued about. For instance, if you want to talk about how something was embarrassing because...someone might well interrupt you and question the sincerity of your embarrassment given that you're telling the story.
You simply must understand or at least be able to talk about a few aspects of the current financial crisis, corporate governance and renewable energy. It's preferable to have been to a conference on one of these that week.
Take along your husband or wife as back-up (yours or someone who can stand in as one), someone who is ostensibly unaffected and even unpolished that is until you're intellectually challenged by someone at which point he/she will automatically turn into a fiercely erudite lion/lioness and paw your challenger to the floor. Two is better than one.
Don't underestimate the coward factor. People very rarely check anyone for poor, unkind or distasteful behaviour here partly because they fear the transgressor may rule them one day in some form or other. Of course, certain behaviour is discussed behind the transgressor's back, but very carefully and only after several qualifications and other acts of due diligence.
If you want to get a cheap laugh then say something saucy and cute, but remember: no matter how much they laugh and seem to enjoy your drollery, you're probably actually going backwards in the overall approval ratings. Being funny = one step forward, two back. Think medium-term.

On Being a Twin

2009-02-26T14:40:00.002Z

photo by shashchatter

A friend, make that a great friend, asked me to describe what it's like to be a twin. I wish I had more time and energy to write a proper, coherent story about it, but as it is, with 30 000 words due by the end of the weekend, I can only manage stream of consciousness-style snippets.

I am a fraternal twin, which is very different to being an identical twin, but not as different as you may think. We're both female.

I see being a twin as entering a marriage in the womb. It's intense, with all these feelings of joy, security, investment and trust in the other. But seeing as it's a marriage that starts when you're a bunch of cells, you don't have all the skills and presence of mind you need to manage this relationship in a healthy way throughout all the different phases of life, to let the other person grow, be loved by other people, to allow their needs to change. It requires a constant building and rebuilding to work.

When you are young as a twin, you don't know what it is like to have your own time, and when you do have it, say on a humid Saturday afternoon, it feels like an act of defiance or betrayal (either yours or your twin's).

I always felt bitterly insulted when cousins and friends only invited one of us to play, which was usually her because she was less likely to be bitter about anything as a child. I remember I made a rule to myself at a school friend's birthday party once (I'd say I was 7 or 8) that if the two older sisters were nicer to my twin than to me, then I would have to take some action. I was sick of being the one who introduced us both at the door, but got no recognition for it. As I had predicted, they picked her up and tickled her. She laughed more freely than me and had lighter hair and a lighter presence. I felt completely justified in taking a take-home lolly (sweet/candy) bag up to my friend's room and eating them on her bed. It wasn't comfort eating (I am less likely to eat when stressed), it was the world's punishment.

I remember my childhood as connected to my twin, brimming with this simple affection of ours. We sang songs to ease the other to sleep, stuck to our agreements about who would turn off the light each night, gave each other back rubs, washed each other's hair in the bath, walked to the shops and the park together, organised our clothes, role played with our antique doll collection (instead of Barbies because new toys in our house tended to be more "male", like Transformers, Lego, Star Wars figurines and The Castle of Greyskull), we made up dances and plays. We liked to keep things equal between us, which meant we would make sure any gifts, lollies or food - any external goods really - were allocated evenly between us. We had a little commune situation going on.

My twin was a prodigious gymnast and athlete, and made friends very easily because she was so warm and theatrical. Whenever she had public successes of any sort, I would feel immensely proud and even possessive in the way I imagine a parent feels. But it's different when you're in a little body that is bursing with exultation. It's quite overwhelming. Later on, I would sometimes feel regretful that I could not show this pride to her as easily as I did when I was younger. I felt like someone who had been abandoned, the forgotten parent who knows they will only get acknowledged at the end of the movie when the hero says that they were in their heart all along.

A perfect day was usually at the beach during the Summer holidays when I organised where we would put our towels and she would encourage me to swim further out towards the surfers.

We made each other laugh a lot. Sometimes just a facial expression or a hinted gesture would be enough. That's all it takes when you know someone.

If things were momentarily distant, then an easy way to bridge the gap would be to tell the other person about some routine injustice or unpleasant incident at school or at home, which would be followed by ritualised comfort and support from the other. Sometimes this would amplify into formal pledges to stick up for each other against anyone and anything. Often my twin would cry if I was crying about something. It made me feel so safe to have one person who I knew was on my side and who understood my position in the world.

This promise to defend one another was most often implied. A twin is always very careful not to outright disagree with the other. We learn (the hard way) to suggest the things the other may not like to hear, just as you need to do in a romantic relationship. But ultimately we know early on that we have to make our twin aware that we're on their team regardless of how irrational or sentimental we think they are being. I have noticed this in many twins. If you breach this secret code, it is the most tragic, awful, crushing thing. It's a form of treachery. That doesn't change, from times when you join in schoolyard teasing of your twin or choose a team of any sort that isn't the same as theirs, to shaming or rejecting them in front of your high school friends, to siding with siblings in adult confrontations, the list goes on. These things don't change.

Twins hurt one another in a way that no one else can. This means that they can also soothe and love one another in a way that no one else can. It's an intense affair.

photo by il0vePullip

Growing up, my twin was involved in all sorts of accidents, medical emergencies and physical injuries. I still remember all these things so definitely: a near drowning at three while I stood paralysed by the pool and watched her red, panicky, crying face bob in and out of the water, on a skiing holiday having to let go of her 8 year old hands to let her fall off the rising chairlift that hadn't scooped her up properly, around the same time hearing her plummet into an orchestra pit at a ballet rehearsal and me laughing in the wings because I was so full of adrenaline. She chipped her head twice, and was severerly allergic to bees and various bushes.

When you are a twin, you watch suffering and illness from a vantage point that you wouldn't as a single child even with siblings, especially when you share a room (as we did until we were 15!). I never got used to hearing my sister start to cough in the night because she was choking on a nose bleed. You hear the other person have restless or tearful nights.

I developed a sense of super-responsibility for my twin, something I came to resent later on, in my early teens because I was far more interested in creating the right impressions in front of my friends. I struggled with it again in my early twenties as we both sought to separate from the family, and particularly the twinship bond that seemed so heavy.

My twin is very generous. From an early age, she would often tell me that she would have a child for me if I could not bear my own. I used to tell people that she had made this promise. My twin said something to me a decade ago that checks my behaviour to this day. She said that being stressed and tired is not a valid excuse for repeated unkindness.

I think my twin and I developed as a perfect human but in two separate bodies. If you put us together we would be one of the most intelligent, compassionate, athletic, talented, creative, courageous, humourous and socially capable people going around. I am not saying we only got half these things each or that there is a clean demarcation of traits (we are still full humans, not to mention siblings in a wider community of people!). But it would be true, I think, to say that we fostered certain aspects of our personality in response to the other. If we thought that the other twin was probably going to be more successful in a certain area or find a certain personality trait or skill a little easier to ripen, we'd more or less hand it over. This was in part out of generosity, and in part out of competitiveness.

This growing against each other was a result of both nature and nurture. Looking back now, I would say more nurture than nature. Outsiders (even if well-meaning), particularly family members, tend to categorise twins; to put limits on the identities of the two people involved. This can be done in small, but significant acts, like asking a twin who is better/smarter/sportier/prettier/taller/skinnier/more popular etc. It can also be done in big ways with labels, entrenched expectations, and favouritism. It was hard as a young person to resist all these divisions and we started to define ourselves against each other and even take some pride in those concepts. Then we began to hate the concepts.

We both tend to become anxious if we spent too much time on our own, and like to reach consensus and understanding with people. We're used to having a partner in crime, someone to share life with. We both find it difficult to let go of relationships of any sort even when they may not be good for us.

Someone in Oxford recently said that I don't seem like a twin. But I know I have the mindset of a twin - the well-being of my twin has always affected my own even while I have been so far away from her. If she is not 100% healthy and happy, I am not. No matter how positive my own material and emotional circumstances, if she is not at peace, I am not. I identify with the life of my twin in a way that is distinctly different to the ways in which the rest of my family's lives impact on my self-concepts and behaviour.

You always give a twin another chance, which is something that is abused over and over, but also something that allows you to be truly tender and gives you a quiet sense of freedom from everything else.

photo by +fatman+

Six things

2009-02-19T16:42:00.000Z

photo by niznoz

Was just transmitted a meme by Inktopia. Am now compelled to create a list of six things that make me happy. If you're reading, you're now a host too.

Lady parties - the ones where the group hormones are aligned, and there's intellectual, sincere and (at its best) playful conversation between women
Witty, affectionate banter with just about anyone, strangers will do
Middle Eastern (Belly) Dance classes with the zany menopausal lot
"Cracking the Code" or finally working out how to structure academic material that had up til then been right hooking me in the jaw
Reading, walking or picnicking in the park, with my man, friends, the birds, flower and grass smells, distant chatter and squeals, the breeze - the classic combo deal
Come to think of it, I'd trade in 5 to explore somewhere vast, dramatic and preferably watery any day