Preparing for Home

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

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

Rebooting the Old Blender

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

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

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

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

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

Class Action for Perennial Daylight Saving Time: Evidence File

Taken at 5pm on Sunday evening. Reflection from window behind. Actually, the precise composition doesn’t matter – I certainly couldn’t see much at the time (Your Honour) – so long as you note the fright-trees, the enticing duvet, and the grades of grey.

Working in the Dark

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

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

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

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

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

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

One Can of Spam

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

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

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

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

Radio Silence

photos by: Simpologist

photo by: Pdam2

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

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

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

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

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

Oxford: a tremendous (painfully realistic) comedy drama

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jam and Jerusalem teasers on YouTube

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

Turning to Some Self-Help

Hugh MacLeod

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

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

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

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

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

1. See the literature review as context not conflict – new writers often feel they need to prove that other researchers got it wrong.

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

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

Some Funny for the Weekend

image

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Comic gold. Hope you have a happy weekend.

Things Brought into My Life….

…which I want to pass on to you.

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

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

Aspire Style tea

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

Cath Kidston mug

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

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

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

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

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