Little Miss Monkey Mind

I've Moved!

2009-01-12T11:33:00.000-08:00

Photo: Nuno e Caterina

My blog is now at Academic, Hopeful

See you there in 2009!

Mitigating Factors for Sentencing

2009-01-12T09:57:00.000-08:00

In case something happens, here are some signs of my write-up emotional state:

I watched a full series of 30 Rock back-to-back in bed on Saturday morning. It's so precious to me (along with my Frankie Boyle DVD, which is under my pillow).
I now sing in the shower (a first) and one of my repeats is "I Want to Know What Love is."
I think of my boyfriend as someone who feeds and pats me.
I cried my eyes out at the end of the latest BBC version of The Diary of Anne Frank and started banging on about human suffering, Gaza and The Congo, and then how my thesis is perhaps one big waste of time and energy.
Like many of my friends here, I have begun to consider whether my research is lightweight and uninteresting and whether I should have done something else. "Is there enough time to change?" we ask - before deciding that it is better to set lower expectations for our chosen topics.
I have started to succumb to frantic bursts of web trawling for post-doc opportunities and for any funding bodies who would be up for supporting various interdisciplinary pop research ideas of mine. Anyone know of any?
I have resumed chewing my hair or not so much chewing as clamping a section in my mouth. It's gross.
I am becoming mildly annoyed by various trends and themes in blogland: vitriolic criticisms on the current use of grammar, pimping out your kids and spouses, blog experiments like polyamorous relationships or making eco sexy.
I have a pile of chocolate gold coin wrappings in front of me, folded, twisted and torn, touching an empty Ribena carton, which is near my cold sore ointment. Usually, one can find clever pistacchio nut shell sculptures of various human body parts, surrounded by multiple half-empty mugs of peppermint tea.
I just had a tantrum about how bad this blogpost is. I have no confidence in anything I do anymore.

photographs: Shapeshift and rachel a.k.

Dr Moi

2009-01-06T08:53:00.000-08:00

James Nash (aka Cirrus)

I am back in Oxford. I have successfully commenced my new work timetable that I devised while I was away as part of my self-imposed Get Real Challenge. In the likely case that you are more sophisticated than me and missed that allusion, Dr Phil put sad people on Get Real Challenges in the early noughties.

I don't like Dr Phil. I haven't watched him or Opes in ages. Actually, I don't watch much TV at all. I no longer have a TV. I watch Stephen Fry shows on BBC iPlayer, and sometimes I watch Strictly Come Dancing, that is until I recognise that it's the jingle in between each segment that is making me feel mildly anxious. I was into The Wire for a bit, now it's 30 Rock.

I have recently read The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini and The Little Virtues by Natalia Ginzburg. I was a bit late on The Kite Runner train - all the hype made me think it might be of the same texture as the Da Vinci Code: vomity. But it wasn't at all. It was epic, gripping and sentimental (if a little heavy-handed at times). I felt a little emotionally manipulated at the end, but I went with it, snot bubbles and all.

The Little Virtues is more my thing: eleven essays, part memoir, part fiction. It's imbued with (post-WW2) moralising and nostalgia, a wonderful self-deprecating wit and perfect, often prickly observations (especially about the English, which made me feel like her friend).

Here is some preaching:

And the story of human relationships never ceases for us; because little by little they become all too easy for us, all too natural and spontaneous - so spontaneous and so undemanding that there is no richness, discovery or choice about them; they are just habit and complacency, a kind of intoxicated naturalness. We believe that we can always return to that secret moment of ours, that we can draw on the right words; but it isn't true that we can always go back there, often our return there is false; we make our eyes glow with a false light, we pretend to be warm and caring towards our neighbour and we are in fact once more shrunken and hunchen up in the icy darkness of our heart. Human relationships had to be rediscovered and reinvented every day. We have to remember constantly that every kind of meeting with our neighbour is a human action and so it is always good or evil, true or deceitful, kindness or a sin (Human Relationships).

And some funny:

The English rarely show surprise. If it happens that someone faints in the street, everything is provided for. In a few seconds a chair is found for him, a glass of water, a uniformed nurse (England: Eulogy and Lament).

I am trying to widen my range of extra-curricular material to include some more current affairs coverage. I realised again when I was hanging out with my brother who asked me for my opinion on multiple public issues just how very insulated and self-obsessed one (has to) become during the last phases of write-up (and maybe even during the whole damned thing, at least in Oxford). I read about the strife in Gaza and the current financial crisis, and I try to get my head around some of the range of issues, but as soon as I am finished, I simply click on another webpage or go back to the Old Bastard and my thoughts. I connect certain themes together, but I don't feel nearly as passionate or even concerned about the people or places involved as I would normally. I don't like that really.

But charity starts in the home (right internet?) and I had the rather unusual experience today of having two man pals seek my advice about Love. I have experienced emotional males before, just not two in one day and both in such self-conscious, advisor-advisee situations. One of them was gushy and needed assurance that his sentiments would be reciprocated, the other was teary and overwhelmed about possibly giving up an old relationship for a new one. I have noticed that at the beginning of every term here, there are heightened feelings; intense fearfulness about losing and gaining - people, things, achievements, careers, and places. I listened, validated, shared and made suggestions where appropriate, as I would with my lady friends.

I really do give out a lot of energy when people ask me for advice. I wish the Old Bastard were a real person stretched on a couch, simply listening to my wise words and appreciating my charm. He's not like that.

Family Time

2008-12-24T20:03:00.000-08:00

Families, they're alright. I am in Budapest with my brother, his wife and their super cute baby. My brother, who is currently singing J Buckley's Hallelujah to his son as he bathes him, had drawn up an itinerary of three activities per day before we arrived and pinned to the kitchen pinboard amongst a few random photographs and cards. He is not the most organised of people, but he is an adventurer at heart; he puts as much as he can into his hours, until he finds a café with some good coffee and some chat.

Today we were hoping to go ice-skating (He is now on Pop Goes the Weasel) as per the plan. We took the metro which is like a funride at a fair, not least because the annoucement at each stop is accompanied by something generated by an ice-cream van or honking a clown's nose. The rink was closed so we ended up (now onto You Can Call Me Al) walking for hours, past all sorts of victory monuments, romanesque, gothic and baroque tribute buildings (not because there aren't real ones in Budapest, we just happened to stumble upon the tribute fare built 100 years ago), genuine Succession buildings, and communist appartment blocks. The streets here are wide and today they were almost deserted. Today or this evening is the time for Christmas celebrations (over fish) in Hungary. I am not sure how we figured we would be able to do more than just walk and look at the few passers-by.

The women here wear a lot of brown clothing, with gaudy (orange, gold and red) accessories, their hair dyed black or red and black eye-liner drawn heavily along the bottom ridge. I write this fully aware that I probably seem like a small boy to them, like I don't make enough of my looks. The men look like weather-beaten sailors or possibly pirates, but perfectly nice ones. (My brother is now singing a demonic version of Silent Night).

As the three of us strode into the wind that was puffing up our full length coats, I sensed that we were about to do Matrix slow-motion backarches then reach into our coats for our guns to blow the crap out of something. Instead we tried in vain to withdraw cash at several cash machines (ATMs), and struggled to identify and explain the significance of various monuments – both are not so easy in a country with a complex political history. Finally we spotted a dull yellowish light and some dark movement – a cafe was open! We ordered coffees and hot chocolate (or cocoa). The cafe was airy and smoky, bohemian and potentially revolutionary yet stately, a place for scheming as well as mindless drinking, friendly yet surly, cold yet warm. This paradoxical style of writing is not only good and bad, but good and evil.

My brother and I talked about our family, everyone in it. We analysed each member's motivations and childhood traumas, factoring each of the possible combinations and permutations. We were fortunate that everything was closed today otherwise we would not have been able to have a proper catch up, which, in a family like mine, means reaching agreement on the causes behind the major frustrations, disputes and tragedies of the day, with a sense of love and humour of course.

It's root vegetable soup time.

Christmas in the Heart

2008-12-17T01:30:00.000-08:00

fraley_tera

I am off to Paris for the weekend this Friday evening to see Top Friend and Adorable Cousin, who happen to be an item. OK, I wouldn't have met Top Friend were she not seeing Adorable Cousin, but I don't want to refer to her as my cousin's girlfriend as it wouldn't be fair to our friendship. They'll have just arrived from the wedding of my cousin (AC's brother), so I am looking forward to getting carried away with a few gooey stories. I hope they do details. They will. I hate when people can't remember what the maids wore. Useless.

The Boy and I are then taking a sleeper train to Budapest Sunday night to spend Christmas and New Year's with my brother and his wife whom I haven't seen in three years. I will also be meeting my new nephew. I can't wait. Everyone seems to think the sleeper train will be dreamy, but I am wondering whether I will be stacked on top of smelly, overweight, hairy men like I was last time I was in Eastern Europe. There was, of course, a board-come-bed in between us and I did have weaponry under my pillow.

There's a lot of festive love going round.* I have received some generous sentiments in Christmas cards,* I have enjoyed many a mince pie and glass of mulled wine with Oxford friends, and I have been hearing more and more from my loved-ones at home.

One big Chrissy group hug

*Cf. last post.
*Cf. Droid's card that ends: "Yours in eager anticipation of 'Change' and bird flu finally kicking in next year" accompanied by a Napoleon Dynamite-style pencil drawing of a bird with a swastika in its eye.

Hurty Winter Ickiness

2008-12-14T02:04:00.000-08:00

Alberto Cerriteño

Team, I have another wintry post, a confessional of sorts. I have been deeply hurt by someone I regarded as a true friend. Perhaps it's hard to imagine, but there aren't as many life stairwells in Oxford as there are in your hometown and so true friendship (reliability, honesty, kindness and small acts of heroism) becomes even more important, and paradoxically rare. One of my friends told me to repeat the words from The Last of the Mohicans to myself:

[Name], you are a man [or woman] with a few admirable
qualities. But taken as a whole, I was wrong
to have thought so highly of you

This helps a little because it's probably true, but it's not the full picture.

The encouragement of two close friends (whom I dressed up with) got me to a College ball last night. The Boy had to be up North. It was hugely comforting to be amongst many friends whom I have known for a longer time.

I did not think a betrayal from a friend would inspirit much or any sympathy from others. It just doesn't seem to have quite the same kick to it in your adult life, when friendships are often shorter and more practical, and when worthy betrayals are reserved for those in romantic relationships or marriage.

But, as if knowing what I needed without any obvious cues from me, I received supportive words from various unexpected (drunken) sources, about how lovely, fun and well-liked I am, and, from one friend, that she sees me as a strong, dynamic, capable person who she looks up to (gulp). One cheeky boy voted me the most beautiful woman of the evening, which made me smile, even if I know it was essentially my pride desperately needing some mending. And then there was a young gentleman whose girlfriend could not make it who danced with me for the last few songs in a really sweet and respectful way. He had these fun ballroom moves (one quite dangerous) that he assured me were not the product of study.

It's a grey Sunday. I have to do some work and find some peace. These probably won't come together, but I am sure I will feel fine very soon. And there's always Paris.

It was a Cold and Frosty Morning

2008-12-07T03:21:00.000-08:00

photographs by me and The Boy

I have recently had two chapters returned to my supervisor, marked 'Redo' so I am desperately trying to rewrite and polish them before I head off to Paris and Budapest for my Christmas holiday.

I am working hard, sometimes clinical, sometimes infatuated by my topic. It's difficult to avoid all the distractions though, the farewell parties and drinks, formal dinners at Colleges, conversations about holidays, romances, the reduction in VAT, and, as always, Africa. Then there's that uneasiness that comes each year with the dark afternoons, when you have to stop yourself from hopping into bed at 5:30pm.

This morning's walk over frozen mud and grass and pools was a nice change, a distraction that was quiet, delicate and primal. Brought me to the feeling of states of nature changing: water turning into solid, breath turning into liquid.

This is what my mind looks like today.

2008-12-06T10:19:00.000-08:00

1. Punts, 2. Maybe I'm Just Tired 20/365, 3. Tired, 4. Oxford uni parks, 5. St Giles, Oxford, 6. Oxford in winter, 7. Untitled, 8. There are as many kinds of beauty as there are habitual ways of seeking happiness., 9. Cornmarket Street, Oxford (Christmas 2008), 10. Christmas tree, 11. Onlookers, 12. Untitled, 13. Bridesmaid Rose BOUQUET, 14. ephemeral, 15. Good night, 16. today's gift, 17. golden age, 18. Stand Beside Me, 19. if you forget me, 20. too darn hot, 21. my bohemian gala, 22. apple for the day, 23. as a fairy, 24. Sunset Grove, 25. The Dancer

Christmas Cheer Oxford-Style

2008-12-05T10:39:00.000-08:00

image

Oxford students are always ON, or nearly always, and make that a lot of Oxford students. I am talking about switched on for the Best CV and Cleverest Ever competition. Being on all the time builds up tension and shame, which means that they often 'pass on the sting', to use a neat sociology phrase (although not one that has much weight in certain academic circles), if they see other people not keeping up with them in the bolt through life.

The other day a colleague asked me what he should buy his girlfriend for Christmas, specifically for their agreed upon cheap present exchange. He was thinking a scented candle. That smelt of mother's day or gift from a distant family friend to me so I suggested a pair of long fingerless gloves or a luxurious scarf from Topshop.

Then, from behind a computer, came this snigger from Competitor Student, "He He, that's funny..."

I said smiling, "What do you mean?"

Competitor Student said, "Just hearing you talk about Topshop in the Department, that's just funny to me."

I smiled in a slightly puzzled way and turned to my friend, but what I really wanted to say was: "WAS IT REALLY FUNNY OR WERE YOU JUST SLAPPING ME FOR NOT LINKING IT TO THE PRE-EXISTING LITERATURE? MERRY CHRISTMAS MRS CLAUS!"

Am I a True Boatie?

2008-11-24T07:02:00.000-08:00

I experienced my first race as a cox on Saturday. It was the Nephthys Regatta on the Isis. I was in the cockpit for a women's novice crew and, quite stunningly, we made it through four races against various other Colleges to reach the finals (only to start a mexican wave of crab catching and lose by half a boat length).

The races themselves were pretty thrilling, and the outcome was clearly positive for the College boatie comunity. It was a lovely, bright day on the river and a really nice way to spend time with some new friends I have made.

But, (and I bet you knew that was coming), not gonna lie, I am still unsure of my status as novice cox. Do I want to hand my identity over to the boathouse? Subject myself to hierarchy, hugs and hand gestures?

Plus, it can be a pretty angry sport, the old rowing. In fact, I found the rage of the marshals the most challenging part of the day. Having been waiting politely out of the way, and now well and truly past scheduled start time and with the chill setting in, they would suddenly megaphone things like "[College] cox spin now or you'll be disqualified!" "You have to move now!" as though somehow you had been insolent and incompetent. They would then repeat these commands over and over until you were so flustered that you managed to get yourself sucked into a current of death (for instance) and instant disqualification seemed merciful and even fair.

There are more races this week. I think if I could be airlifted or otherwise transported to the start of the race, and thus by-pass all the nonsense involved in getting the boat out of the boathouse and to the start line, I would be perfectly happy to be a boatie for a while.

A Picture is Worth a Lot of Write-up Time

2008-11-11T06:25:00.001-08:00

Thanks for spotting this one, John.

Same Old Stuff Really

2008-11-11T01:16:00.001-08:00

Photograph by Notashamed

I am buried in a chapter. I want to finish it on Saturday, send it off to the supes. I have written 3 200 words or 1.5/5 sections. That sounds pretty grim, but I have it all in chunks (of points and empirical material) ready to write. Just saying.

Of course, because I am obsessing I have various irrelevant thoughts flitting about. Most of the activity is the same old stuff really. But some of it seems incredibly funny and/or creative and I want to share it. I just don't have the energy or focus to do so right now. They have to be put on the shelf. It's getting crowded, that shelf.

[image of Julia Cameron, author of The Artist's Way, slapping me hard across the face, pulling me forward by my shoulder pads and shaking me]

(I haven't read The Artist's Way. I can never get through books like this, especially when there are exercises to do.)

I will write more when I can.

(K. I don't wear shoulder pads...Gosh.)

And the Response is?

2008-11-05T03:27:00.000-08:00

Chicago Right Now by Anthea Behm

I've just been reading 'The Next President', an editorial in The New York Times (at the expense of the little bastard, sigh...).

Clearly exhilarated, the writer accounts for Obama's victory in the following way:

Showing extraordinary focus and quiet certainty, Mr. Obama swept away one political presumption after another to defeat first Hillary Clinton, who wanted to be president so badly that she lost her bearings, and then John McCain, who forsook his principles for a campaign built on anger and fear.
His triumph was decisive and sweeping, because he saw what is wrong with this country: the utter failure of government to protect its citizens. He offered a government that does not try to solve every problem but will do those things beyond the power of individual citizens: to regulate the economy fairly, keep the air clean and the food safe, ensure that the sick have access to health care, and educate children to compete in a globalized world.

I then read through a few pages of comments, to get a feel for how the people (not on FB, and not from Oxford) are responding to the news. Here is a range of comments:

I must say that this is truly exquisite. The great majority of this country has gathered in shared belief and we have united in our want to progress and look forward to our shared future. This is beautiful.

— Brooklyn Confidential, Brooklyn, NY

It hit me a couple of hours ago that my 7-year old son will grow up thinking that it isn't unusual for a black person to be President. He's aware that this is important and we've talked about why, but he will grow up thinking it's pretty normal. And when the first woman, first Asian, first Jew, first Muslim, or Buddhist, etc. is elected, it will be that much more less amazing for him.

What a great legacy to grow up with. I didn't think I would see this until I was an old woman.

Congratulations Mr. President-Elect--you've given me my faith back.

— RAM, Scottsdale, AZ

Congratulations to all Americans for electing Obama. Like you, Australians also sought change and hope when we elected a new government last year, overwhelmingly throwing out of office John Howard - George W Bush's best mate. Our country is going forward despite these tough times and I'm sure that with the renewed vision of your new government, America will regain it's rightful position of honour and trust throughout the rest of the world. Well Done!

— Sharyn, Western Australia

A big BRAVO for America..you have risen to the level of your pretensions.

Neither being black nor having Hussein for a middle name dettered you from doing the right thing.

OBAMA will be good to the USA; hopefully he will also be good to the rest of the world by leading a non arrogant and non aggressive USA.

BRAVO

— Omar I Nashashibi, Amman/Jordan

“Interconnectedness” and Media Support for the Obama Candidacy

The liberal media served the Obama campaign. The real losers in this election are the American people - not because Obama was elected - but because the media cast aside the once respected profession of journalism to elect Obama. While journalism has leaned to the left for sometime, this election was especially one-sided.

Why was the liberal media so invested in an Obama candidacy?

1. To the family of liberal journalist, America is the rogue state, not Iran, North Korea or Syria. America is the problem. The elite media believes that during the Bush years, our foreign policy was run by a gang of neocons who concocted a lie about WMDs, and abused the concept of preemptive war, to unilaterally attack Iraq. Bush applied “cowboy diplomacy” to bully other nations while the “war on terror” inflamed Islamic and western relations. It is the US that provoked Russia by supporting democracy in Georgia, advancing NATO to Russia’s doorstep and recognizing Kosovo. In addition, the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq demonstrated a limit to American power and imperialism. In the brave new world of “interconnectedness”, European diplomacy now leads the community of nations. The elite media fully believes that we have entered the post-American world.

2. The media invested in the election of the first African American in our country‘s history, but Obama’s African heritage was much less important than his liberal agenda (remember Clarence Thomas?). Obama’s policies will transform American capitalism toward European socialism.

The media realized that Obama was a flawed candidate - inexperienced with few accomplishments, and the owner of a rich history of cronyism, bad judgments and questionable associations. Even with an economy headed for recession, financial turmoil, two unpopular wars and a Bush approval rating hovering around 30%, the Obama Presidency was still not assured in conservative America. Too much was at stake in this election to rely on balanced journalism, so our media acted on behalf of Obama - much like a 527 - and relentlessly attacked the Republican nominees (especially Palin). Lower standards of investigative journalism were applied to Obama. When McCain questioned Obama’s Chicago connections, the Obama campaign - backed by the media - shouted racism to protect him.

The liberal media has lost credibility and abused their power. Consider the media’s role as a government watchdog. Will liberal journalist report government abuses as enthusiastically (or at all) for an Obama administration and a democratically controlled Congress as they did during the Bush years?

I sincerely doubt it. The world’s “interconnectedness” is at stake.

— Tom Wonacott, Boise

For The Republicans who feel the loss- don't be afraid- the world is with the USA now.

— J Madison, Sydney Australia

DEAR EDITOR

Congratulations Mr.Barack Obama ! for YOUR LAND SLIDE VICTORY.World has got riddance of the spectre of fear sychosis. A good Samaritan has arrived like a fresh breez to address the global problems like Terrorism and USA centric massive economic recession that is engulfing all nations .May peace and progress dawn and shine!

— jalaramaiah, ONGOLE-(INDIA)

nobama won this election because Americans don't have the stomach to fight islamic terrorism until it is defeated AND because of economic issues traceable to democratic policies around putting people in homes they can't afford.

Irony infinity.

— Adoptive Father, Los Angeles

Our long national nightmare is finally over. Godspeed Mr. Obama.

— Peter B, Massachusetts

I think about President-Elect Obama's work to do in this incredible period of humanity and remember Danny Glover's line in the first 'Lethal Weapon' movie:'This is a tough crowd. Baby, you best not stink!!

— stone1262, Missouri

Woken Up to a New World Leader-Elect

2008-11-05T01:23:00.000-08:00

Chicago Right Now by Anthea Behm

It was ambitious of me to go to bed early last night. I was like a kid waiting for my Chrissy stash. For the sake of any future memory loss ('hi old me!'): it was the US presidential elections last night (UK time). Obama was declared victorious at around 11pm his time, 4am mine. I could hear lots of chat and laughter from the College bar throughout the night while I tossed and turned in bed. I was very tempted to throw on my dressing gown and walk on over, but I decided yesterday (of all days) to break my habit of late night bursts of energy, groggy mornings and jumpy, adrenaliny days.

It's all very exciting though. These elections have been squarely in the background of my life and everyone else's (my friends, family, fellow bloggers, international journalists etc) for at least a few months now.

On Monday night a few of us sat around after College dinner discussing a range of things from whether Australians, by nature, slightly distrust charisma in politicians (in this case Obama*), whether a black man is a more respectable form of authority than a white woman (offered up by a Hillary fan) to what reached almost complete consenus: just how deflating and stifling it would be if McCain and Palin won, and Obama and Biden lost. It would pretty much mean (or have meant!) that articulacy, intelligence, compassion and newness are just too scary. (I say 'almost' because we had a devoted Republican and huge McCain fan among us.)

*The Boy says that the Brits were similarly suspicious when Blair was first on the scene, but now expect a bit of the dazzle.

Chicago Right Now by Anthea Behm

Going off Facebook data, nearly all of my friends, especially my Merican ones, are jubilant. One Oxford pal said she will now be able to return home, her faith in her country renewed. I spotted one student say in a 'comment' that she was sad as a McCain fan but did not feel comfortable expressing her disappointment 'in these parts'. Some - mostly non-Americans - are curious, wary or even cynical about the nature of this promised 'Change' and are waiting to see how it all plays out once the god-like posters are put away. I feel positive, and definitely more curious than cautious, which is good.

Pony and Wolf

2008-10-31T09:04:00.000-07:00

garthimage

I am back in the saddle this week, the write-up saddle, that is. It's been quite slow to get the old pony (a mountain pony, as my friend says) cantering again after a week or so grazing apparently (dealing with intense family stuff).

I am in the middle of a paragraph and am clearly using this blog as escapism. But I am writing about 'ritual ordeal' which draws on the 'humiliation' literature that seems scarily relevant to my life as a DPhil student. The literature mainly comes from sociologists and psychologists interested in various phenomena, from socialization to genocide.

Scholars tend to agree that humiliation - an interaction between two or more people or countries which involves the use of scorn, ridicule, contempt and degrading treatment - is an effective mechanism to ensure the internalization or outward display of various behaviours, norms and values. Typical examples of institutions who use such mechanisms are professions (the military being the most obvious), prisons, schools and the family.

The family is an interesting one. One writer, Dr Donald C. Klein, makes the connection between the conditionality of parental acceptance and approval - a prosocial tool to shape the child into an adult - and the actute and continued sensitivity of humans (and therefore societies) to humiliation and then, in many cases, to any form of criticism.

He cites Mark Twain's The United States of Lyncherdom:

"Each man is afraid of his neighbor's disapproval- a thing which, to the general run of the human race, is more dreaded than wolves and death."

Steve Deger

Disapproval is something we fear, but at the same time with which we are familiar. Easy love and acceptance are then often perceived as ambiguous, reckless, uncomfortable, suspicious and/or stupid. At the end of his piece, Klein wonders whether there is another way of socializing children into adults.

In the middle of reading this literature, my supervisor informed me that she was going to be "very hard on me" until I submit my thesis. I am in a strange phase of life where negative stimulus still works very, very well to a certain point (and I am in many ways grateful for the push), but I tend to prefer and am trying to rely more and more on positive encouragement, and less cloudy, fearful motivations (from myself and others).

Nonetheless, it's tough to break old habits and, I've got to say, I am often and still not very far from the humiliation model. Let me know if you have any healthier alternatives for me...I will pass them on to Dr Klein as well!

Nature's Treats

2008-10-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

A school friend asked me for a hot tip for her weekend in Montreal. It took me back a couple of years to this gorgeous morning I had with a Professor-friend of mine at a food and flower market in Little Italy.

Mmm...

Fresh produce displays are perfect for photographs - kaleidoscopic, sumptuous, and, importantly, slightly haphazard and therefore cheeky - and should be distinguished from nature's nightmares: snake skin, rare skin diseases and wasp eggs.

Kate - it has come to light (by you) that you love symmetry (see last post), but would that include naturally tessellated patterns? If so, you are of sick mind and I am not sure I can help you. Actually, Kate, can you please show me some pictures of symmetrical things as phase one of my self-imposed cognitive behavioural therapy? No, really.

Sheer Indulgence!

2008-10-26T07:12:00.001-07:00

salimfadhley

I have been tagged twice - by Kate at love you big and Alice at The Plot Thickens, which essentially means I have been firmly prodded to write about myself. This has not taken much convincing. The main reason for the delay is that I have been overseas for the week visiting my mother in hospital. I feel very glad and grateful that I was able go over there to nurture and comfort her, and to make my father's experience a little less intense. I am about to write to my College to thank them for helping pay for my trip. They're good like that, Oxford Colleges.

But while I am on this train and just to balance out my otherwise fairly positive post, there's nothing quite like a shared room in a hospital to get one more susceptible to agitation and neurotic hand-washing (it was, of all things, clean hands awareness week at the hospital so I couldn't walk two metres without a sign reminding me of the micro-beasts going around), and probably, to slight misanthropy, which came for me in the form of resenting my mother's lung-challenged neighbour and his family. They happened to be Chinese. I know I am treading dangerously here, but the Chinese language is a more shouty than English and, generally, Chinese people are less concerned about dance space or sharing bodily fluids than others. That said, perhaps it was just that this poor guy was a moaner and that his large family (as distinct from Chinese people in general) happened to be loud-talkers with colds that needed immediate relief by violently snorting the matter out, who did not mind half sitting in my mother's section, thinly demarcated by a rather dirty sheet. As you can see, stress and anxiety about a loved one can lead to clawy, distrustful thinking. There's something in that.

Anyway, back to the task at hand. I am supposed to share seven random, curious facts about myself.

Fact 1: I am obsessed with banana smoothies. I think about them fondly a lot of the time, and excessively at least twice per week. There is only one place in Oxford - G&D's if you need to know - where one can buy adequate smoothies. The problem is that the English aren't really into smoothies or milk and fruit based drinks. They're just getting the hang of juice drinks with more than one fruity ingredient - what they often call smoothies - and their milkshakes are most often made with artificial flavourings. It's most distressing. Sipping a cold banana smoothie - soft, creamy, potassium-rich with a light bubbling on the surface - is one of life's true delights.

Fact 2: One of my strengths and beloved pastimes is working out (in less and less time) where people's features come from. I thoroughly enjoy dividing up people's faces according to what they received from which parent, relative or side of the family. I use this model when working out whether a relationship will last, based on research at the Ponds Institute (code name for research of questionable validity, usually evidenced by an attractive woman in a white coat pointing out how red dots turn into blue dots). I advise my friends to make sure that their chosen mate has some prominent features in common with themselves or with their family members. One of my brothers (who is married to someone who could be mistaken for my cousin) believes that this model could account for everyone since nearly everyone has 'noses' or 'eyes'. Of course, an explanatory theory that explains everything and therefore cannot be disputed is completely useless. But I would argue that he really doesn't appreciate its finer nuances. My sister and my aunt are exponents. They understand my love of baby photographs (particularly those with the blubbering parents nearby for comparison).

Fact 3: I love a hobby. My hobbies include life drawing, belly dancing, coxing, watching debates at the Union, reading, netball, bike-riding, watching films, listening to Stephen Fry's podcasts, happily selecting fruit and veg at the local farmers' market (with all the North Oxford parents in faux hippy threads) and going on nature walks. Yes, I do love a hobby. That said, I always feel a bit self-conscious about including my hobbies on a CV. I think writing 'reading', for example, sounds a bit silly or self-important. I tend to only include official hobbies.

Fact 4: I am a very good teacher. I love to share knowledge and ideas (not least because it also helps me learn). I enjoy helping other people learn and reflecting on how to better make this happen. I also take the pastoral care element of teaching quite seriously. The teacher-learner interaction makes me feel far more grounded and calm. I have taught various subjects to loads of people from each level of schooling since I was 15 and I can't wait to get back to it. I hope that didn't sound like a self-statement in a CV!?

Fact 5: I am a middle child and possess many of the traits associated (again see the Ponds Institute research archive) with a middle child, such as an acute sense of drama, a need for attention and assurance (sometimes a terrible combination), an informal tone, a good (thoughtful, reliable and regular) communicator and family messenger, emotional maturity and a desire to support and care for others in a quiet way, and a striking respect for authority (which does not always work well with the informal tone).

Fact 6: I have this enduring desire to learn more about Astronomy (not to be confused with Astrology, in which I am already an expert*). I have managed to buy myself Astronomy for Dummies, but I think I need some structured learning. I can't seem to get past the first few pages. I am not sure what that says about me.

Fact 7: I do not like symmetrical things.

Now in complete breach of the rules ('what about that respect for authority?' you might ask), I am not going to keep the tag going, if only because I have very few people to tag in blogland and I fear they have barely caught up with my last prod (the blog award!). But if anyone on blogland reads this - Alana for instance - please do join me on this wonderful identity-affirming slippery dip! It's fun!

Here are the rules:

1. Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself, some random, some weird.
3.Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.
4. Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

*I lie.

Best of Autumn Weather Series

2008-10-14T14:27:00.000-07:00

Two posts ago, I mentioned that Oxford had been playing the 'Best of Autumn Weather Series' on loud speaker. I thought I would put up some pics to illustrate just how lovely it has been, and for over two weeks as well! These are just a few of the many photographs I snapped happily on my way from College to my Department one morning last week. The backs of those North Oxford houses above can be seen from an adjacent street which I use almost daily. A few minutes further along towards town and I find the walled path leading to the University Parks shown below, one of the most delightful parts of Oxford. I have heard many students comment on what I too have noticed: the healing (re-energising, soothing, grounding) properties of a walk through the Parks...

Blue Day 2008

2008-10-10T08:57:00.000-07:00

October 10 is World Mental Health or Blue Day! A day when the tech and social media community in Australia can work together to raise the awareness of anxiety and depression. Register your support today.

One of my family members has depression and one thing we spoke about last night on the phone was their frustration that depression was often perceived by others as an all encompassing trait, unlike say Diabetes or a lost limb. But they also acknowledged how hard (and I would add tiring) it is for people to know what the symptoms of depression are versus what would count for any one else as 'normal' neurotic (negative, obsessive, sentimental) behaviour or critical thinking.

Fortunately, they are feeling far more balanced these days, and probably the most positive they have felt in a decade, which is wonderful. Although, I have got to say after such a sustained period of intense lows, the sudden change has left me with some vague (and not admirable) feelings of 'Hang on a minute, I have yet to catch up! No one warned me!' Overall, of course, I am feeling excited and smiley for them.

Keep going! We're all here to share in it!

Tea and Tigers

2008-10-10T03:40:00.001-07:00

Tea Flower by Autan

This week's been pretty rough. I say that, and yet I am not entirely comfortable with starting out my post on that basis. I feel quite content actually. I have a welcome breeze at my side, as part of the best of Autumn weather series that we're currently enjoying, and I have a conference paper to edit before meeting a friend for a hot chocolate on North Parade this evening. I have just received an email from Apple to say that my iPhoto book of family photographs has been shipped. I have been working on it for a while now, an epic family album for my parents, and I am quietly pleased that they can only send it to me (in the U.K.) which means that I can take a quick squiz before sending it on to its home in Australia. It's a surprise present from all the kids, so don't tell them.

But it has been rough, I've got to say. My Mum is seriously ill in hospital and it is uncertain how long she will be there and whether there will be a full recovery. I was told on Monday night. I feel like a small bird making quick darts into a caged wall. Add a family emergency and some jumpy sleeps, and Oxford can shift very quickly from haven of liberal scholars to prison of self-important shits. There have been some other difficult things to deal with as well, but I don't feel like writing about them here.

Nevertheless, after a massage yesterday, and a more restful sleep last night, I feel far less overwhelmed. I am trying to keep it manageable - one day or even one step at a time, as two friends (one in Oxford, one in Oz) have reminded me. My priorities are: (1) To do what I can to make my mum feel more comfortable, loved and positive (phonecalls, flowers, iPod of her favourite music, open communication with rest of family); (2) To finish my paper for next week's conference; (3) To give myself what I need to feel less alarmed (or ready for a tiger to swipe then munch me and my babies in the night): good food, fresh air, routine, the presence of older friends, and some space from the College scene.

One of my friends here told me that things in Oxford are far more tangible and secure than they appear when you're in crisis mode. He said that I just have to reach out and lean against its walls. It's true - a lovely friend from College treated me to tea and sympathy yesterday, my College has offered to pay for a flight if necessary, and even someone whom I have known for only a few days offered to run errands for me. Note to self: just as I would always try to help out someone else in need, most people would do the same for me. I just have to ask.

Freshers' Week

2008-10-06T00:54:00.000-07:00

HckySo

After a long sojourn au countryside, I have finally returned to my College, to a new room overlooking pretty things, which is important. As I type this, in the corner of my eye there is a golden tree being lit up by soft morning light and copied in the rippling water. I am reacquainting myself with matinal lawn-mowing. The College policy is to excessively trim and blow. The leaf-blowing can make me want to crush things. But there is no leaf-blowing today. It is crisp and promising. I am feeling peaceful and ready to work.

It's the start of Noughth Week or Freshers' Week, a week that ends when everyone has Grotty Flu. I went to the College Bar last night to rebond with friends who have returned from various trips, fieldwork stints and write-up caves. I became embroiled in rowing and Australians v New Zealander banter, which didn't thrill me, but the rest was most enjoyable indeed [wobble chin]. We asked about each other's holidays, relationships, research and plans for the year. There are many lovely 'freshers' (new students) and, as a group, they seem ebullient, if a little hyper. Every year has a personality, you see. Since I have been here it has been: eccentric, brutal, earnest, and close and cliquey. It's too early to say for sure what this year's is.

I told Kiwi Fresher, who called me 'Dingo' and kept on mimicking my voice that he had a week to get over me being Australian. He said to give him two days. Deal.

You can already see the grip of College Neurosis over the freshers in their striking need for attention and acceptance. For freshers, Michaelmas Term means an almost constant drive to give sound bites, to make sure everyone knows just how carefree your personality is (It's so carefree, don't you think? Don't you think? Tell me!), to make absolute claims about what you're about and how much you know, to link arms with people you met 30 seconds ago, to give freebie rubs and strokes to everyone - even the catering staff - en route to the toilet or the tray rack, to be involved in every dinner plan (like the international dinner which apparently took place last night), punting session or dress-up activity.

In this kerazy environment, things are often misinterpreted. Last night, for instance, Outrageous 'I drink red wine every night' Fresher completely missed the ironic tone of an admittedly fairly poor (but nonetheless objectively harmless) joke I made about freshers. I didn't think it would bring the house down, but I thought it might elicit a bit of a chortle [cross/ rejection noise from Family Feud].

When I caught Outrageous Fresher alone, I told her that I think she had misunderstood my intentions. She agreed. But it was silly of me, really. Freshers' Week is no laughing matter. There are a lot of exuberant faces, wild hand gestures and petit scandals, all of which come to a crescendo at the Saturday's 'Uniform' (with a hint of slag) bop or College party, but it's all too fresh for the freshers (haha, see what I did there?) to laugh at right now.

Do Something Pretty While You Can!

2008-10-01T11:48:00.000-07:00

Farewell Sweet Youth...

2008-09-29T07:28:00.000-07:00

The Clown by KT Lindsay

On Sunday, over a scrumptious breakfast at a cafe on Cowley Road, I experienced my first serious bout of 'Holy crap, I am nearly 30 and I am not [insert various personal/ societal expectations and one obvious biological function]!'

I am one of those treasures who has always liked the 'guess my age' game. I have pretty much always been told that I look far younger than I am. 'You fools', I think, 'it's just my smooth skin, puppy eyes and as for that merry glint in in my eye...Well, that's just in wonderful anticipation of being told I look youthful.'

But perhaps this whole squinting at the screen all day has started to take its toll, or perhaps I am more of a drinker than I think I am (I am pretty sure I am of the 'nurse one drink for 3 hours 'kind), or maybe it's all this damned endless worrying about how I might not look or feel young at any point and therefore had better make the most of my youth by acting recklessly that is sapping me of my vital chi. Maybe I should be going to bed for lights out at 9:30pm instead of 11:00pm for some reading and analysing.

In any case, I was reclining against the wine red cushions on the bench, half-committed to the papers, very committed to my hot chocolate, when my new German friend (and it's not that relevant that he's German, but it might explain how seriously I am taking his comment; they're not known for frivolity or exaggeration) made a comment along the lines of me 'getting on in life'. I said, rather perplexed, 'How old do you think I am?' He said, '29'. I said, a little winded, 'Yeah, I am. How did you know?' He replied, 'You can tell it from your eyes, they look like they've seen and experienced a few things' (or something very similar to this, Your Honour). But what I heard was: 'You can tell from your crack whore, heavily-lined eyes that you're a bitter, washed-up, hopeless, has-been who should either be married with brats or at least not hanging out with people in their early 20s'.

I said, 'Wow, most people think I look around 26.' He said, 'Does this bother you? Is this something you worry about all the time?' (Clever bastard). I wanted to say that I felt like he had just drop-kicked me into the backyard BBQ of a team of 30 year olds: the men (big boys) sporting babies strapped to their chests, Mambo T-shirts, cargo shorts and chunky slip-on shoes and the women singlet tops, floral skirts or linen pants, bulky diamond rings and gold sandals. Men tending to the steaks, women tossing the salads. Opinions on property, skiing holidays, school selection and fees competing with the latest Ministry of Sound compilation.

I wanted to say that I hadn't really worried about my age before, and thank him for pointing out my quickening march towards death, and, what's more, for making me feel like that undignified parent who tries to make friends with their children and their children's friends, those ones who brought out Champagne at parties when you were 13 and you sensed that the world wasn't quite as ordered or safe as you'd been led to believe.

What I said was, 'No, no, I am not worried about that at all.' But I am. I am not devastated, I can see the light-hearted side of it all, but I am changed somehow. I know this is tied up with vanity and perhaps I should embrace my overflowing wisdom and more even temperament, but I also feel this whole thing has doused some of my sense of play and sparkle.

If you have any words (your own or of others) that would help me perceive this differently, I would be most grateful.

Airfield Adventure

2008-09-23T13:36:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, when life felt so much kinder, The Boy and I embarked on a 3 hour walk from my write-up retreat (his parents' house). It was one of the clearest, warmest days of the year.

There was something about the combination of barn houses, poppies, crop fields, a lazy airfield (with your planes, gliders and skydivers) and my obsession with North by Northwest that made our afternoon stroll seem like a film, probably a thriller ending with hand held camera (chasey cam) in the cornfields.

I am an Award-Winner!

2008-09-23T09:24:00.000-07:00

I probably won't receive this type of lovely praise until after I submit, and by then I will probably be too tired and bitter to receive it, so I am going to lap this up and hope that it lasts a while. It's a blog award from Kate of Love You Big. She is my most consistent and active reader which makes it even more special. Thanks Kate! Quelle suprise!

The rules of this award are:
1. Choose seven of your favourite blogs to nominate and link back to them
2. Link to the person from whom you received the award
3. Leave a message on the blogs that you've nominated
4. Post the award on your blog (optional)

I could spend some time hunting around for blogs which connect more closely to mine, or those which are supremely pretty or popular. But I am going to award those I currently read and thoroughly enjoy (and some of them are very pretty and popular too!). The rules ask for seven and I have seven on my blog list. If that's not fate, well...(double chin wobble)

I include Kate's blog, even if it may be in slight breach of the rules.

And the winners are:

1. love you big: for gorgeous design, crafty activities and general inspiration
2. Law and Letters: savvy, sassy musings of an aspiring Law Professor
3. My Wandering Days: a young Californian writer perfecting her craft in Oxford
4. I Hate Mornings: Ben Walker' songs, social media commentary and tributes to rural England
5. The Plot Thickens: the ultimate film blog - I am sure of it
6. Words and Pictures: for photography love
7. Residualimage: for the thoughts, talents and experiences of a Harvard PhD student

Permission to Rest

2008-09-23T03:55:00.000-07:00

image from fffound.com

I have a Man Cold. It started as a scratchy throat and escalated last night into intense nausea, stomach cramps, achy wrists, and a blocked nose. I was up for most of the second half of the night, breathing like Darth (why did he have to die?), telling dark shapes that I have changed my mind about England: it is too epidemic-friendly (half of Oxfordshire has a cold, the other half look like they have had one) to remain a serious contender as the location for my nest. I am in the country (population: 100) and the little beast still managed to track me down and pounce on me, cunningly taking advantage of my post-conference fatigue. I simply get ill more often in this part of the world. I would say I am on about two colds and one random icky bug/year. It may very well be the thesis (and student lifestyle) making me constantly vulnerable, but I think it has a lot to do with having to touch people here, having to share all sorts of things. There's almost always at least a metre between people in Australia - we respect dance space.

I am less concerned with my nest and dance space right now, and more with my thesis timetable (and my supervisor's expectations). I am in that awful situation where I have 10 000 words to edit, but very little energy to concentrate, let alone feel positive about it. I have given myself permission to do 3 solid hours only and spend the rest of the day resting. I think that's a pretty fair deal, right?

It's Con-ference, It's Con-ference Time

2008-09-21T11:06:00.000-07:00

I presented a paper at a conference in London last week. BTW, I have Business Time (Flight of the Conchords) in my head, hence the title.

Highs:

Escaping my bubble (write-up) within a bubble (Oxford) to meet other, more experienced academics in my field. Even just seeing that there are breathing people behind all the articles and books is comforting.
Cruising (avec iPod) to the conference each morning via Blackfriar's Bridge and Temple Gardens. Felt that elusive sense of being on my own and liking it.
Learning something from the extra-curricular activities: 'how to get published' and 'how to get funding' - both vital in this crazy publish (preferably empirical or policy based research) or perish world. The Cambridge University Press representative frightened the baby scholars like me with grim statistics and a warning that theses with an 'international' dimension fare better. Fate united us in the lift later on and I told her that I had decided, after what she had said, to pack it all in, that there was no way I could tack on an international element. I am not sure if she knew I was not serious.
I was going to end my presentation by saying 'Now, I welcome positive, constructive feedback' but I figured that I might sound like a hyper-sensitive, stupidly proud academic (who me? I eat unhelpful, personal attacks for breakfast!) so I didn't. And, quite surprisingly, the comments were all positive and helpful. Got to be happy about that.
Receiving four emails the day after my presentation asking for further copies of my paper, suggesting potential research collaborations and future presentations. Noice.
Giving out my pretty special MOO cards which have photographs symbolising my research interests on the back. Smooth.
Having a 'blind' reviewer inform me that my article I submitted three months ago has been accepted into a solid journal. Yipee! Am ticking the boxes!

Lows:

Craving sweets throughout the day, red wine in the evening. Not being able to resist either.
The lights from the opposite building creeping through the curtain, aggravating my already jittery sleep.
Giving this nervous female academic (15 years my senior) this pep talk about how women often undervalue their work and that she was entitled to be there, that she would be able to handle the feedback etc, only for her talk to then be rather weak and poorly received (gulp). I felt like a mother taking off the training wheels and sending her child into a tree. I still remember her face - eyes blinking - turning to me for help. I could not think of a question that would bail her out. It was awful, she felt bad, and the more I tried to reassure her, the more she would repeat that I would be OK because I was from Oxford. Geez.
Spotting a couple of English guys huddled together after the 'how to get published' talk and asking them in a fat jolly chef kind of way if they were 'negotiating a book deal?' I hadn't picked up that they were the smug and impenetrable English type - not to be confused with the cool but polite Constant Gardener type and one of them said, 'We are actually, now sod off'. I said lightly, 'OK. I can't wait to read it'.
Hearing academics whose work I admire slag off each other behind each other's backs. I just felt like saying 'Oh, please don't.' Actually, I did tell one person that I did not feel comfortable and that I was not in any place to comment. A gratuitous bitchfest felt so last century for me in my personal journey down the road of life, that winding road of life. My Head of Dept has since told me that I should not expect academics to behave any better than any one else.
Post-conference fatigue. I feel like I have been to an early 90s rave or at least that's what I think I would have felt like had I been to one.
Befriending someone there - a really gentle, nice guy - who is now convinced we are bosom buddies. He has emailed me three times since I returned home. Conferences are like reality TV shows: people think they have bonded more than they really have. We just walked back from the conference to the accommodation a couple of times. I think that merits an email if he is ever in Oxford, that's it.

Lost in a Village

2008-09-17T13:12:00.000-07:00

Tiny bits of England I am learning to love...

2008-09-07T07:55:00.000-07:00

Stephen Fry
Women from old money - those dotty ones who garden a lot, have a sharp tongue and generous chat
Noel Fielding
Dry stone walls
Withnail and I
Mock the Week and Never Mind the Buzzcocks
Punting
Buttercups
The pink dawn scene in Pride and Prejudice
That being ugly is OK, sometimes an advantage
Flatness (panoramic views, such as this one of Kirtlington, Oxfordshire taken by me or The Boy - we haven't agreed on that one yet)

Having had a look over my list, one thing's clear: I am getting wussy! Someone please send me some tan bark, a bluebottle, sun burn, a manly man from Manly (as The Boy calls Aussie blokes), a waratah, delusions of grandeur, a knuckling to the head.

Getting Crafty

2008-09-07T06:52:00.000-07:00

One of my cosmic siblings (no, not in a SWF kinda way), Kate, continues to astound me with her Crafty McCraftiness. She sticks and varnishes maps onto shelves, pops out swanky badges, bakes robot cakes for her preciouses and creates breathtakingly sweet cross-stitched hankies. You should check out the stuff she sells...especially while her September sale is on.

So this morning, I decided to get a bit of tactile time in before tending to the little bastard (next chp). I made some fairly cute cards. Half of my family and friends, it seems, were the product of shameless (Australian) summer lovin.' They arrived into this godforsaken world therefore in the already crowded months of September and October. I am going to unleash my cards onto them although they don't necessarily deserve them more than anyone else.

Otherwise, am about to finish Coetzee's Slow Man, watching snippets of The Mighty Boosh and getting a lesson in Debussy from The Boy (who wants his babies).

More CowGummy Goodness

2008-09-02T14:17:00.000-07:00

Some more enchanting photographs and designs from CowGummy, including a picture of the Radcliffe Camera, Oxford (top), part of the Bodleian Library, and where I spent loads of time during my first couple of years here.

I have started my next chapter...so, yeah, about those six things below...um, ahem...yeah. I am a little smoothie!

Purge Please

2008-09-02T06:08:00.000-07:00

Photo by CowGummy

Starting a new (ethnographic) chapter involves conjuring - it requires faith, intense channeling, intuition, and magic.

Here are some thoughts that are pawing me like a cheeky cat, blocking my ability to summon this little bastard chapter forth:

1. I am in a room by myself. I need attention. Who wants to play? Writing my chapter or clicking Firefox logo...empty page or sleepy fox?

2. I wrote an email to a Professor whose article I used in my last chapter telling him how brilliant it was. He said it made his day. Glad to have brought some generosity and positivity to the academic world...But will I continue to do so once I take a sip from the glory cup? Mwahaha!

3. My best eggs are going each month or thereabouts. Babies have recently become appealing and cute instead of strange and boring. But the problem is: I don't want to keep one. Have I mentioned my velcro wall on which I hope to stick any future kiddies?

4. Love...marriage...the usuals. Can I be bothered?

5. Extrinisic versus intrinsic rewards...another regular in the pub of my mind. What a liberty!

6. I have specialised too much. I know beaucoup about the legal profession of England and Wales, a bit about law, some neat theories from Sociology, Philosophy and Education, a tad from Anthropology, I have a smattering of History (Europe 'between the Wars', American, Australian, Art), I can tell you about UK Higher Education policy, how not to make a short film, but then nothing else. I am still not over the grandiose desire of my teens to know a little bit about everything, even just a bit more science and politics...and that damned Russian literature. Got to get back to that. I'm a lightweight who will never be great at anything. I can barely get my head around Microsoft Word.

The Brick Testament

2008-09-01T14:54:00.001-07:00

Who wants to see photography of Lego depicting The Bible stories?

I wish I could provide a sample of this inspired art, but it would be in breach of Rev. Smith's terms and I just can't do it!

Click here and then let me know how excellent they are. My fave so far is Jacob wrestles God from Genesis.

Pretty Angleterre

2008-09-01T14:13:00.001-07:00

This is where I am spending the Summer. The Boy helped me take these:

Dangling carrots

2008-08-27T03:08:00.000-07:00

I have just recovered from having a draft chapter (that will hopefully serve as a conference paper, or perhaps it's the other way round...) knee-capped by my supervisor. Her criticisms were almost all valid (per ugge), but it's the old 50s-style no positive feedback or simple 'you can do it' encouragement which, made me, already tired and vulnerable, feel so punished.

I have this dreadful sense that I will, on some level, feel tired, defensive and inadequate until I submit (Kate???).

When you're in write-up mode, small escapes count, like yesterday when I rode up from my Department to Summertown, North Oxford. It was thrilling.

Here are a few carrots that I am dangling from a stick attached to my head:

1) The 12 October release of the Cohen Brothers movie, Burn After Reading. I am certain my cousin, cinemaphile Alice, will provide a deft analysis (hint hint!) on her blog. I saw the preview a couple of weeks ago and it made me feel uncomfortable excited, as if small stars were being drilled into my stomach. The cast alone makes you froth, right?

2) Seeing Frankie Boyle, the acerbic, outrageous Scottish comedian in early October. I just found this YouTube tribute to him. (Be warned. It contains a lot of slut jokes which makes him seem misogynistic instead of what he is: dark about everything.) Later that month, I am seeing Russell Howard, the little Brighton-born cutie who is less stinging than Frankie but no less witty. Click here for his YouTube salute. They're both regulars on an excellent television show I try to catch: Mock the Week, a satirical comedy based on the week's news.

3) Receiving used books from the exchange system, BookMooch. I have the black heart of an idealist - I can't quite believe that people are so honourable. Three goodies to....walk into my arms soon. I will let you know when they arrive.

Nerds are super hyper disco chouette...

2008-08-23T09:10:00.001-07:00

They send you email invitations like this one that was sent to me from an English DPhil student in Physics (one of my oldest, most adorable pals in Oxford) who is about to start a post-doc in the big bad US of A :

Ladies,

On Thursday (or possibly Friday, its a bit like Smiths's driving test) next week, four years of dubiously allocated government funds will hopefully terminate with my viva.

Young master Brown has become strangely coy about advertising a house warming party/Sarah's birthday planned in his very own house on the evening of Friday the 29th which no doubt you will all be invited to anyway. Perhaps he hasn't officially informed the rest of his housemates yet, who can say?

Now that my supervisor has given me a massive vote of confidence, viz. "we should probably assume you'll pass, just don't say anything stupid", I intend to hijack the party with viva celebrations. Pending the outcome
of our deliberations there will either be a presentation on my far reaching and momentous contributions to human knowledge or a selection of alcoholic beverages.

It would be good to see some of you there, especially if you are good looking or witty. If you are both then I'm not sure we've met and if you are neither then I doubt I'd pretend to like you, so your inclusion in this list must be accidental. Any significant udders are also welcome, so that I can judge you by your choices.

If you can't come then don't fear, I'll hunt you down in the days and weeks to come and make you pay for the slight by selling you into the Dale Winton topless prize fighting circuit.

Incidentally and for your edification, I have attached a picture of a genuine physicist in America.

Peace out,

Ambient Dog Fuck.

PS. I can't find Beckths email address so she's not invited.

I am indeed attending this party, but I have asked that the hosts desist from the following: sitting in groups of three on the grass to compare bike repair stories or cycling routes, juggling any objects (especially those on fire) and playing hacky sack. Whenever you play hacky sack with these guys, for instance, no one playfully grabs you when you miskick. They just laugh at you nervously or kick it at you even harder. I have asked for some splashy-splashy. One of the guests overheard me making this request and he said he was too scared to come now. I told him we needed to learn from each other.

Meet you at the bonfire?

2008-08-21T12:14:00.000-07:00

I have spent most of the last few weeks in a manky, mismatched tracksuit. I would like to think I look like the cutie (Alexa Cheung) below, but I rarely have a lollipop by my computer and my hoodies are for boys.
When you're a student it's easy to continue to dress like a teenager. Every year I tell myself that I will dress my age, more like these pretties:

I have decided that the end of my thesis means goodnight to my grotty teenager wardrobe. Who wants to come to my thesis submission party and burn tracksuits, and 1991 conference and heavy metal band t-shirts with me?

Fragmentation is Freedom

2008-08-21T07:30:00.000-07:00

This is my first post in a while. I have been preoccupied. It's been so tragic and lovely.

I had an old boyfriend in town. He's been travelling. We ran from College to College, avoiding the angry rain and the hordes of Italian teenagers. We passed neat quadrangles, stone corridors and important man paintings, shouting out things over the heads of school teachers like 'So you didn't find yourself in India then?'

I had to say goodbye to a new friend, on the last corner of Queens Lane. He did not like how I kept on looking away. His eyes made me feel uncomfortable.

And The Boy thinks that I, as a PhD student, am making him grey. I did back-hand the pile of my birthday cards off the table and onto the floor in front of him two days ago. I was raging against my unruly conference paper. It has been causing me trouble for weeks and I have no one to talk to about it. I didn't feel ashamed by my tantrum, but I do feel a bit bad that I am quickening The Boy's decay.

I had a long telephone conversation with one of my brothers recently. One by one, he listed our family members and his complaints, peppered, of course, with careful qualifications and some more generous remarks. I understood. He hadn't seen them in a while.

I had a friend, Kate, come over to play. She took the photograph of the two of us in our 50s party dresses in the bedroom next to where I work. I was a little bit scared.

A local man from the village with a big face and a hidden chin told me that as an Australian, and with Australia lower on the Olympic medal tally than Great Britain, I was a miserable peasant, a bad loser and without electricity. It made me think about some things.

So these are some fragments of my life and only glimpses. I have only been offered glimpses by them too.

I found this little gem from Eric G Wilson, a professor of English at Wake Forest University:

To be against happiness is to embrace ecstasy. Incompleteness is a call to life. Fragmentation is freedom. The exhilaration of never knowing anything fully is that you can perpetually imagine sublimities beyond reason. On the margins of the known is the agile edge of existence. This is the rapture, burning slow, of finishing a book that can never be completed, a flawed and conflicted text, vexed as twilight.

Walk of Shame!

2008-07-24T08:45:00.000-07:00

I decided to video myself giving a birthday messsage for a loved-one back in Oz yesterday and, completely against the spirit of the whole exercise, it led to two shame laps for me: the recording itself and then the play back.

In the recording my lips are slightly tighter than usual, my voice is rather shrill and my gestures noticeably more girly; twisting hair around finger, looking up as if to ask the camera to tell me what to say. While watching it, I started to do a mad robot dance on the spot to reflect my malfunction in front of the camera. In both instances I alleviated my discomfort by ducking my head into the chest of the Boy, as if by hiding it would mean that it didn't really happen.

Am I this lame?

I cheered myself up by spotting a blog entry by Merlin Mann:

I thought I was the only person in the universe who made an unconscious little noise when remembering something stupid I did or said.

It is dedicated to the sounds one makes when one feels embarrassed or relives embarrassing moments. So, my sounds would be those of a dalek or some baby bush animal. When I am by myself, I relive the pedestrian moment in my head and then say dryly and slowly until the last two words, with exaggerated mouth shapes: 'I can't believe you DID THAT!' If it's particularly atrocious, I may add a Napoleon Dynamite 'You idiot' on the end.

I have a beach of shameful moments that are replayed from time to time (brought on by stress and fatigue). They range from grossly inappropriate things I have said (like when I was 8, I asked someone whose parents had died in a car crash whether there was blood and guts on the bumper bar. I had heard that line in a movie, Bigfoot and the you-ruined-my-life Hendersons, and thought it would cheer them up), done (a Jerry Maguire Mission Statement-style research funding proposal that I realised only after, having discovered more about the funding body, would have caused much amusement and was duly rejected) and worn (my androgenous phase of my late teens/early twenties makes me quite uncomfortable). I have plenty of noises and mannerisms that accompany these images.

What about you? What's in your shame file? What do you tend to do when you're being sent on that lonely, well-lit march off The Weakest Link?

Aussiephobia

2008-07-20T12:53:00.001-07:00

I did not give much thought to my Australianness when I nervously anticipated how I would be received as a new student in Oxford way back in 2004. I thought about my first days of high school, and about not having my brothers and sisters around. I wondered whether I would be able to continue to say to myself, 'It doesn't matter what people say about me or my personality, I have loved-ones who have said worse things about me'.

What I did not prepare myself for in the slightest was the barrage of balls that would be thrown at me for being Australian and therefore either (or a combo of) competitive, brash, obnoxious, entitled, unintelligent, anti-intellectual, backward, racist (a cab driver asked me only the other day whether Australians were hateful people), unsubtle and therefore unfunny. The most persistent comments come from the English, but I've got to say, the New Zealanders are up there... Even a South African man came up to me last week (having only met me once) to let me know that South Africa beat New Zealand in rugby union and that it made him feel 'good that the Aussies would get smashed.' How did the Aussies come into it?

Our energy and enthusiasm is seen as crass and annoying or evidence of stupidity. A Danish student remarked to me recently that she'd never hurt such vile things said about a population than the comments her British friends make about Australians. I tried to explain that it was only because of our special, parent-child relationship (where the child leaves the parent) that Brits felt so stridently comfortable about making comments that they never would about Africans or Asians, for instance, or even Canadians (the good son who does his own thing and does not cause trouble). It did make me wonder though. And come to think of it, an English guy recently told me that he could not tolerate 'Colonial women' because they (we...me) were too aggressive and upfront.

I have been trapped in awful, drunken conversations at 2am about shrimps on barbies (caught by trying to explain that no one in Australia uses the word 'shrimp'), Fosters (same thing), backwardness (our literacy rate is higher than that of the UK!), convicts (the proportion of convict descendants; the intentional policy of enforced labour in the colonial period), the arrogance of Aussie males (sporto jerks everywhere; you're projecting because you're smaller than them), The Ashes, our Olympic medal tally. The list goes on. And each time I engage I just feel depleted, infantile (like when your brother used to upset you with the same bait each time) and silly. Usually and increasingly, I concede to a few points - Australians can be too much sometimes in some contexts (especially on Contiki buses) and the male, macho culture (bushman, Anzac hero, sportsman) is intense and sometimes nauseating.

But I still don't like the conversations. I don't like being patriotic. It's akin to loyalty to 'houses' at school. But I must be. How else can I explain why I have to force a smile after the third Aussie-bashing joke in almost every Flight of the Conchords episode?

I didn't even consider that I would be representing Australia in the UK. But I am. I would prefer to represent myself and maybe my family. Apparently I am here to prove or disprove the very strong, prevalent (and most often not jokey) viewpoint that Australians are crap.

What's your problem with Aussies, mate? (eager, but not aggressive tone)

Lady Crush

2008-07-19T10:25:00.000-07:00

photo (c) Tom Plant (via LittleFeat.net)

Shaun Murphy, I will have to tell you: you have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you...

Shaun is the wonderful, soul singer in Little Feat (est 1969). I saw 'the Feat' play the other night in Woolver'umptun. I feel like a bit of a shonk calling them 'the Feat' when I was one of only a handful of under forty-year-olds, one of three people who didn't dance in a kind of trancy sway, one of two humans without a long grey ponytail, and the only one there who didn't know every word of their songs off by heart. I was in the front row, centre, next to this guy with his chin on the stage sending special messages to (my) Shaun.

Shaun Murphy is talent and goodness embodied. Her smile is magical, she looks at the audience members, nods as though she recognises you, blows kisses and offers her hand to the fans (who you know have cut out pictures of her all over one room of the house). Shaun has a powerhouse voice but thankfully resorts to none of the hand gestures of Celine or Idol contestants. Plus, she is the best tambourine-player I have ever seen. She beats hard but smooth; they have a good relationship those two.

In a baggy buttoned shirt over jeans, with red pointy shoes and a helmet of red hair, Shaun looks like she would cook your breakfast on a Sunday and ask about your homework on a Monday, but then she could also just decide that she wanted to leave you to play tambourine in the fields.

I must say that my hand went pathetically limp when she shook it and I gazed upwards like I was at the gates of heaven (she does have stunning blue eyes). I couldn't get rid of my dumb grin for two days...and I am still in love. But it's a lady crush, which is very different to a girly crush.

By the way, if you want special treatment from grotty little muso kids at record stores, watch a couple of these Feat clips below (the third showcases my Shaun's talent), somehow bring them into your conversation at the desk and you'll probably get a discount. 'Little Feat' is pretty much a secret code in musoland for 'I am a serious musician/music-lover so give me rushpuct.'

Fat Man in the Bathtub

Dixie Chicken

Sailin' Shoes

Justice Kirby comes to Oxford

2008-07-19T09:31:00.000-07:00

Justice Michael Kirby of the High Court of Australia gave a speech at Rhodes House yesterday evening. Kirby is known for his liberal, activist approach to his decision-making, his tireless advocacy for law to serve the weak and vulnerable, and also for his openness about being gay. For anyone who studied law in Australia from the mid-1990s, Kirby was your bread and rice. He represented - pretty much invariably - the dissenting view and was therefore in all your textbooks and then in all your essays. Students love him, partly because of the humour factor ('he's at it again that crazy cat'), but mostly because he has such a refreshingly political, compassionate tone in his judgments.

Justice Kirby's talk was on the impact of international human rights law on the construction of the Constitution of Australia. He did not seem overly interested in giving this talk; I had the impression he would have preferred to (continue to) talk about Oxford, the Rhodes scholarship (that eluded him), the benefits to the UK in financially supporting Australians and other non-national students, and the importance of lawyers and law students to be energetic, to maintain a positive, idealistic version of the law, and to uncharacteristically extend their knowledge to inform their understanding of law.

Nevertheless, he dutifully gave a well-cited overview of the developments in Australia - only once looking to his notes, which was refreshing in this powerpoint era (boo to people using powerpoint as palm cards!). He argued that Australian judges are, for the most part, willing to refer to the judicial interpretation of foreign Bills of Rights to help them with their own reasoning, but that Australia (like the United States and...China) was still unhealthily reluctant to engage with the wider international (legal) community.

At the end of his talk (which he marked by asking us to 'now give an applause' for him), Kirby addressed the student body directly, reminding us that our marks at university were only a small part of success in life and that being a successful human was more important, not least, because successful humans were more likely to become more giving, generous, thoughtful lawyers. He told us to remain idealistic; even though the law is good at keeping rich people rich, it also has the potential and power to help less advantaged groups in society. He singled out Professor Julius Stone as the person who most inspired this unswerving belief in the law.

The law does make one very confused sometimes...It's difficult to remain idealistic in an active, confident way, but it's also intellectually dishonest and unhelpful to maintain that it does not have the potential for good within our (capitalist) society. I sometimes wonder though if we give it too much credit for its 'potential'....It gets away with a lot, the old law! But then again, it's expected to do a lot...Hmm...Confused again.

(photo courtesy of ABC)

Cowley Road Carnival

2008-07-09T03:00:00.000-07:00

On Sunday Cowley Road hosted their annual Carnival to celebrate cultural diversity. What a relief! There are times (long periods) where you feel, as an Oxford student (or perhaps it has more to do with being a PhD student?), that you're the only type of person on the planet. You meet so many people from different countries here, sure, but several common traits dominate: high achiever, cashing in on their silver spoon or cultural capital (in whatever form it came in) while seeking to save or change the world, happy to enjoy parties with olives and elderflower water in the meantime. (I am just waiting for someone to bring out some homemade olive or elderflower ice-cream at one of these Oxford dinner parties!)

The town versus gown phenomenon (where there are two distinct communities in a University town) is joked about only because it's true and discomforting. One of my friends lamented that Oxford is becoming more 'Cornmarket' (a paved, pedestrian street lined with franchised food and retail shops, where groups of young locals gather and play music from their mobile phones, put dummies in their babies' mouths and shriek and push each other) than 'Turl street' (the quieter, parallel street for students to ride down, past a few old-fashioned tailors, barbers, wine bars and the flank of a pretty, sandstone church where a rose vine grows).

During the Carnival, you're no longer an Oxford student, you're just someone who happens to live in Oxford, along with a bunch of other people - from India, Pakistan, Poland, the Caribbean and Africa, and even white folk who are (brace yourselves) NOT Oxford students! There are many reasons to be there: to march in the midday procession either for a specific cause or to simply express diversity and creativity (with rainbow butterfly wings or kangaroo spring-legs), to bop in front of the reggae tent whilst enjoying the sweet smells of roasting corn from the bbqs, to enjoy the rustic, folky rock bands (including my friends' band, Stornoway), to join the groups of unofficial bhangra dancers outside the 'Asian' restaurants, to watch the local break dancing, belly dancing, ballet or Alabanian folk dancing talent, to have a beer with friends.

It's nice to get outside yourself for a while.

Moving House and Man Cold

2008-07-04T12:47:00.000-07:00

So, I haven't written for a while. I have two excuses:

1) I have moved house.

2) I have a Man Cold.

We all know that moving house is akin to a funeral in terms of stress levels. I am sure there are some classic psychic reasons why having one's wordly possessions packed away or thrown out and one's home turned into a shell are profoundly disturbing. We like caves. But it was the timing of it this time that made it particularly anxiety-provoking.

I have had to move out of my College accommodation for the summer so that the College oldies can rent it out for even more obscene amounts to conference delegates. Summer-booting coincides with the end of the academic year here, when students - home and international - flee back to their homes, homelands, sometimes for holidays, often (now that one year Masters courses are all the rage, much to the frustration of the Admin) to start new jobs, new lives "without routine fire alarm checks", as one French student recently put it to me. Despite the promising, even cheerful weather, early July is the time of upheaval: multiple goodbyes (that become less sentimental as they go on), the rearrangement of alliances, seeking reassurance, facing the reality of solitude, even loneliness. Loneliness in the sunshine somehow feels worse than in the Winter. It's easier to shake off in the Summer, but there's none of the comfort that comes with the rain on the window pane, a menacing fire, a dark painting in the hall, looking at your own white hand.

My brilliant cousin sent me a link to Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) which she said would make me giggle. Were it not this time of year, it would have. Watching it today made me smile sadly. It reminded me of just how wonderfully fortunate I am to have shared time, food, conversations and dance floors with so many students from all around the world. Of course, there are times when you wish that you were around your own people, where you don't have to explain yourself, where you don't have to conduct an autopsy on conversations because no one's cultural, or even personal, boundaries were crossed, where you're sure that you are loved. But most of time, for me, I have delighted in connecting or not with the motley crew that is the graduate community at Oxford (OK, I am sure someone could run a class analysis on the student composition and question its primarily middle class character).

I love the fact that only last week I had dinner with a skinny German physicist who found my jokes confronting but laughed all the same, a gregarious Italian historian (who obligingly told me every Lygon street story he had) and a psychologist from San Francisco who is all about playing with language and says ridiculous but great things like "in cognitive linguistics the visual-spatial representations of height frequently indicate the positives, power, prominance and so on. Radiohead is expert in exploiting that format" or "this flourish of post-neural ideation, as it were, owes a good and especially grand deal to Nietzsche, to date the world's absolute best world-&-tempo craftsman of the EXALTED."

I love the fact that the other day someone knocked on my door and I asked from my desk 'who is it?' and this (older) woman replied 'C'est moi'. I said, 'You've got the wrong room, I'm sorry.' She said (in that dramatic, pouty French way): 'Pourquoi tu me parles en Anglais?' I said (coming closer to the door): 'I am not who you're looking for' (and thought of Ben's 'these are not the droids you are looking for...'). She frantically tried to open my door (I could see the handle jerking around) and wailed: "Qu'est-ce qu'il y a? Pourquoi? Pourquoi?' She was now crying. I am not sure whether it was the onset of my Man Cold, but I was by then too afraid to open the door. I was half sure that a gypsy woman would jump on me and suck the blood from my neck, so I said (in my best French): 'Je suis desolée madame, je ne parle pas Francais. Je suis Australienne. Vous n'avez pas la bonne chambre.' She sobbed, 'Oh, tu es la. Pourquoi tu n'ouvres pas la porte. Je voudrais te voir. S'il te plait...' She still thought I was her haughty daughter. I didn't open the door. I said (in my best wounded French tone): Laissez-moi tranquille!' (Leave me alone!). She quietly said 'OK' and crawled away. I continued putting my notes into new piles as part of my vow to sort out my desk.

It's the physical task of moving that distresses me the most (smooth segue!). I am one of those irritable and irritating shits who deeply detests ordering things neatly. I shove my clothes into my holiday suitcase, I push and scrunch my money into my wallet (a habit Oprah once said was evidence of someone destined never to be rich) and I certainly do not have my books in any functional order (criterion: what looks pretty). I seem to expend as much energy moving from half-done task to half-done pile as doing the actual scrubbing, compiling, packing or lifting. Music helps, but it also gives me an excuse to do some 80s moves (headslides, skip claps and shoulder shimmies). I was supposed to be out by midday. At 2pm one of the cleaning ladies yelled up to my room: 'You've got to be out of there. You're supposed to be out of there now!' I replied sulkily (as if it mattered): 'I am trying my best...gosh.'

I have moved to the pretty Oxfordshire countryside amongst the hedges, stone walls, sheep, horses, crops, hay and manicured English gardens. I will tell you all about the local villagers in a future post...

Until then, I want to tell you more about why I haven't written for a while - either my blog or much of my thesis. I have had a Man Cold! A Man Cold is a common cold that you decide people are going to know about, a lot of people, and for which you're going to receive some extra special care. You may even convince yourself that your hefty cough is borderline fatal, as you dramatically douse yourself in Vicks (with big circular motions across the chest) in front of the unsuspecting, elderly check-out attendant. You allow yourself lie-ins and longer breaks. The reason it's called a Man Cold is because when men have colds they tend to behave as though they have been struck down by a tropical disease from eighteenth century sea travel. Man Cold was superbly enacted in the Man Stroke Women series. I am not quite the man on the couch in this scenario, but I think with a little less thesis-guilt and child-of-unsympathetic-doctor-shame, I could very well be! "I said 'Laura', but you didn't come, so I dialled 999!" Genius.

Thesis Write-up Distraction number 23

2008-06-24T05:57:00.001-07:00

My current needs and wants:

Rainbow space clothes
A few throwable stars made in my throwable star making machine
A throwable star making machine
Blonde hair (childhood is easier for you bitches!)
A flashy horse
Some fuzzy and non-fuzzy friends (including Buddy, a hot blue dude with a star sweatband) to do the grunt work at my throwable star factory
Enemies who don't hold grudges when you put them through the ringer
A job in charge of colours

Belly Dance Faves

2008-06-22T04:13:00.000-07:00

Middle Eastern dance or belly dancing is my principal hobby here in Oxford. It's a wonderful form of female bonding and expression, exercise, stress-reduction and confidence-boosting. I connect more with its female-only origins (fertility and marriage rites) than its relatively recent connotations as a public spectacle for men and I have found that people 'in the industry', both female and male, experience and perceive it as something beautiful, graceful and playful rather than bawdy or even primarily erotic.

For me, belly dance is a lovely excuse to wear sequins, coins, bindis, layered skirts, mermaidesque outfits, eclectic jewelry, feathers, flowers, veils, and gold ballet slippers. The sensuality, vibrancy, and fellowship of belly dance are especially dear to me while I spend most of my time by myself in front of a computer screen analysing things.

Just in case you're thinking about taking it up but are nervous about your lack of dance background: I was not one of those jazz-hands or tight-hair bun-with-glitter gel-and-scrunchie kids and I have rarely felt frustrated by it. You really can start at any level of ability and experience. Belly dance fits around you!

Here are two of my favourite performers at the moment who represent two very different forms of dance ('traditional'/ sensual and Tribal):

Blanca

Samantha Hasthorpe

Pity Party

2008-06-19T02:42:00.000-07:00

While I often scoff at the English, I do admire their steelines (or emotional unavailability) at times. When my (English) boyfriend's friends are having difficult times they will meet at the pub, engage in playful banter of the Jeeves and Wooster variety and go home. Whenever I ask about the psychological well-being of his friends, he provides me with a few broad comments - fish to the seal's mouth - but generally no details. Indeed, Australian men also like to assuage their grief with a spot of tennis, surfing or drinking. That said, the one: one (woe is me) talk is noticeably more popular amongst men these days (along with skin care regimes and long fringes).

Women are more likely (perhaps soon only barely more likely) to share every fear, change of pulse, criticism received, perceived injustice and confrontation. Now, I don't like giving women a hard time - we're beautiful, creative, complex beings and we have enough to deal with already - but I've got to be honest, I'm a bit frustrated with our tendencies to have 'pity parties'.

Pity parties are festivities where people sit around in a cafe, college, or bedroom and go round the group to exchange long, solemn explanations of a series of catastrophes that have happened in the last 24 hours. What's more, even though the feedback is nearly always sympathetic and often very thoughtful and practical, it's not uncommon for one of the other party guests to be heard telling the exact same story of horror to a new earnest listener only hours later. Wanting problems to be validated rather than immediately solved is fine - there's nothing more frustrating than an quickfire solution when you're actually looking for reassurance. But there's also something to be said for exercising 'the right to silence', as Theodore Dalrymple has put it. In other words, not saying anything at all, just letting it pass from the mind, having a brisk walk or a dance in the living room to "Somebody Else's Guy," or even just exercising a bit old fashion suppression (not for too long, of course, and not for things that are actually traumatic and overwhelming).

I have been thinking about this for a while. It came to a particularly intense crescendo when I attended a feedback session for a Springboard (women's professional development) course I was signed up for as a last minute filler. As an aside, I would recommend certain aspects of the course, specifically learning the skills needed to ask for what you want or need from bosses, colleagues and associates. Put simply, this involves communicating in an assertive (not an aggressive or sulky) way and being aware of the 'Flossy' syndrome: the tendency of certain women and some men to work in a diligent, but approval-seeking way whereby colleagues dump more and more work on them - thinking to themselves 'great, a cheap PA as well' - while the poor sod hopes that the boss will take it upon himself or herself to translate their productivity and commitment into financial and status rewards. Na-ah girlfreeeend!

In any case (ahem), all of us decided that a couple of months after the course ended we would get together to discuss what 'specific actions' we'd set for ourselves and whether we'd meet them. This seemed like a beneficial and constructive activity. And on my way there, I had that feeling that the winds of high-spirited, unrestrained joy were going to whip my face so forcefully that I would have to put vaseline on my cheeks. But what transpired was rather the opposite: a bunch of drowsy, pitiful women with rounded shoulders expressing various forms of disssatisfaction about how their specific actions (including having the walls painted as part of the broader 'goal' of finally getting the renovations done) had been thwarted (by lazy tradesmen and unsupportive husbands). Once someone had almost finished what she was saying, at least two women would frenziedly agree and declare their equal or worse painter/tradesman story. While some of the other specific actions were more grand and therefore made me feel slightly less pathetic by association, they still engendered the same response: lots of gasps, dumb nodding faces, 'how are you coping?s' I was waiting for someone to hold their heaving bosom and break down. At least then there would be some sort of bubbling over.

I could barely hide my contempt. Actually, I didn't. My eyes became squinty and I may have chucked out a few barbed comments as a sort of tantrum. I said I didn't want to meet up again if we were just going to sit around and share catastrophes. Not too smooth. It was, of course, partly about my own inadequacies as a queen catastophiser - something that I am trying to shake off rather than indulge (I say, as I write a blog).

Clifford Orwin's description of Neitzsche's view on pity, as a kind of inhuman fear of personal suffering, chimes:

Pity, while a temptation (even the final or most powerful temptation) to the higher man, was primarily the preserve of lower ones. These, Nietzsche dared to think, wallowed in it as swine do in mud, their pity for others being indistinguishable from their pity for themselves. This preoccupation with pity, the modern epidemic (which, as Nietzsche says, glancing at Schopenhauer, “has made even philosophers sick”), was the sign of a declining life form, an anesthetic for incurable sufferers. It pointed the way toward the last man, who would feel nothing and long for nothing.

Although Nietzsche often described himself (and has been described by others) as an immoralist, his ultimate objection to compassion was an ethical one. The core of humanity was its ambition to greatness, and all greatness depended on suffering. The modern project of compassion, then, taken as the elimination of suffering, was ipso facto a campaign against humanity as such in favor of a descent into the subhuman.

I have managed to say to myself already today (in the shower as I began bemoaning my lot), 'Pull yourself together!' (I tried the 'let it pass' approach, but sometimes that's not enough.) That's what I am going to say if one of my friends calls me up for another 45-minute session about the shortcomings of her man. That or, 'please exercise your right to silence'.

Dorset Day Trip

2008-06-16T13:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my boyfriend and I had a day trip to Dorset in Southern England. When I arrived, my state of mind was still critical and slightly threatened. The car journey had not adjusted my outlook of the day of study before, nor of the morning being too hot in my covers and disturbed by dreams about .... I had found the car trip down there worrisome because the brakes on my boyfriend's car are bald and so I kept imagining us careering into a 'lorry' and being on the ITV news (with a gruesome reporter at the scene and then quotes from my facebook wallposts read out).

We arrived in Poole, parked our car in the carpark that had so many "beware of thieves, together we can catch them" signs that I almost decided to can the whole idea and just go home. We bought our tickets to the famous Brownsea Island (birthplace of the scouts) from the ripe banana ticket booth. Yes, the garish colour drew us to that particular booth (and ferry company) over the more tasteful white with blue trimming one next door that was technically closer to the car park. "Ferry riders must still pay an admission fee on the island" - I wondered how many people complained of being misled before that sign was put up. Actually, I wonder how many English people did not complain about this before the sign was put up.

My fellow passengers on the unripe banana ferry were young families (with nearly every kid in pastel-striped clothes, mothers with broad bottoms, pedal pushers, singlet tops or vests, as they call them here, and streaked blond hair and fathers dressed like 14 year olds in simple shorts to the knee, boring cotton t-shirts, new sunglasses with reflectors and chunky 'sandals' and chunky watches), "I can imagine exactly what you looked like as a teenager" scout leaders defiant in their (1984 Australian Olympic team) uniforms and their befringed (and then spiked down into sections across the forehead) charges.

A few of the kids were crying. One child was crying with her mouth full of chocolate that kept falling out onto the floor, only for the mother to put more in her mouth, then the dad kept picking her up and tipping her upside down to make her laugh. She would invariably start to cry and motion for her mother. I saw this family later on the island and the little boy was screaming while the father gave him the classic 'twisty arm' (pull around the arm while slightly lifting kid off floor). He was saying 'this is not how a scout should behave!' Then his friend said to his son 'see, this is what happens when you're naughty'. At the same time, the first father gave his son a camera to take a photograph of the peacock as a kind of peace offering so the second father had to say 'I meant what happened before is what happens... Now go take a photo with Jake!'

My blood pressure did not drop or my mind ease until I was in the middle of the woods, when the trees enveloped me, when the moss from the trees blew cheeky breezes on my arms. My feet enjoyed spongy earth, pine cones, greasy foliage, grey pebbles and then, finally, a thin strip of light orange sand being covered and uncovered by the gently foaming sea. There is nothing as dramatic on Brownsea Island as the scenery one can find in Australia with far less effort. But it is a different process to be calmed by the safe simplicity and delicateness of nature (even the mountains in England host buttercups and happy horses), than to be humbled by its might and splendour. I breathed out.

After lunch, we headed to Durdle Door, Lulworth Cove. This is one of the most incredible parts of England I have seen. Perhaps not surprisingly, it is its magnificent scale that delights me. The grass on the vast hills is short and contented green, the cliffs are chalk, the water is the best water green-blue there is. I have swum giddily off this coast before. It is as though you could swim out forever, make a run for it, escape the land mass and your life for a bit. Couples who have not laughed nor playfully grabbed onto each other for a long time do. They help each other step back to their towels over the tough, fall-away stones. They moan in a way that says you are my best friend. All this splashy, splashy makes me turn to my boyfriend and laugh and put smooth (velvet, melted chocolate, silk, jelly-smooth) pebbles in a pattern on his face. He says he feels like a fish on the bottom of the sea. As we stair master up the cliff again to the car park I ruin the moment of present-mindedness by pointing out the painfully pretty flowers on the coastline and asking him whether they would make good wedding flowers or whether people would think they're not really wedding flowers. My few hours of bliss are over. It's time to get in the car and to begin getting tired and irritable again.

Self-presentation Through Facebook Photo Albums

2008-06-14T12:55:00.000-07:00

The other night I was in an insipid bar with fellow graduate students. The mood was grim with the heavy weight of exams, thesis write-ups, and general alcohol and college food-related sluggishness. We self-consciously and frantically cheered each other up with drinking games (throwing a penny in a glass to enforce skulling), grisly dentistry and burn stories, unsubtle sexual comments and by re-enacting happier times together; what have become our collective myths.

But we rode home on our cheap town bikes with flashing LED lights feeling desperate, undignified, wanting, calculating who had received the most attention, why our jokes and anecdotes were not indulged but, rather, taken as challenges for someone else, why no one cared about our academic progress, our families, our dreams and goals since these seemed to get in the way, to be incomprehensible and dull, or to be seen as bait for the insecure and competitive.

Let's face it, most graduate students at elite universities would be more likely to share verbal gun shots than anything else if there weren't the threat of collegial sanctions, and of course if there wasn't some chance that these verbose frenemies would soon become the next leader of one's country, one's boss, a celebrity campaigner with a rainbow family, end up in statue form.

What has become a prevalent way to release envy, tension, boredom, to make things right, to restore a sense of wholesome fun, egalitarianism and community is the immediate creation and posting of Facebook photo albums. Often these albums are created seemingly at the same time that the creator is moaning about their supervisor and necking their house red. Through the creation of online albums, one can present all of those moments where one's social group is together, giggling, leaning on one another, touching breasts, intensely pouting, making silly faces, tipping beer on someone's head, cuddling, smiling crazily. This is where one can erase all those moments only seconds before the photograph was taken where we wondered what on earth we were doing with these people, again, when we wondered whether things would become more interesting if we stayed, when we anxiously hoped that we would be accepted, validated, understood, made to feel clever, funny, popular, astute and special.

Facebook is, as Alice Mathias has said:

an online community theater. In costumes we customize in a backstage makeup room — the Edit Profile page, where we can add a few Favorite Books or touch up our About Me section — we deliver our lines on the very public stage of friends’ walls or photo albums. And because every time we join a network, post a link or make another friend it’s immediately made visible to others via the News Feed, every Facebook act is a soliloquy to our anonymous audience.

Mathias was in all likelihood drawing on Goffman's (1959) dramaturgical analysis. Goffman sees social life as though played out by actors on a stage. Most of our social lives can be divided into the front stage - where we act our formal roles in our encounters with people - and the back stage - where we assemble props and prepare ourselves for these "onstage performances".

This feature of Facebook allows for a curious and disturbing form of self-performance. The photo albums we present to ourselves and to the rest of our online world can eclipse the actual experience (indeed the very act of taking the photographs can engender a sad competition to be included amongst friends). The albums allow us to deceive ourselves and each other that the past was glorious, that we are celebrated.

But sometimes we're not celebrated. I'm still waiting for one of last night's photos to include my exuberant face.

[photo courtesy of mrquicknet under Creative Commons license]