People Problems

I have a friend, let’s call her Amanda Nicol, who, in 2003, wrote a highly insightful and devastatingly emotional novel about a young guy and his struggle with mental illness.

But it’s not fiction.

Everything that the main character – ‘Dan’ – describes and experiences, is what Amanda Nicol went through, as she struggled with swings of extreme hypomania, bipolar affective disorder and manic depression.

Amanda’s description of her/Dan’s psychotic symptoms, delusions and hallucinations are, surely, educational and informative.

It is compellingly chilling to read of Amanda’s/Dan’s loss of control as she/he gradually becomes aware of periods of episodic behaviour that have occurred during frequent mental blackouts.

I got to know Amanda very well, we became truly close and, if this doesn’t sound too weird, I started to love her.

It was a good, a healthy, a non-sexual love, but yes, it was a kind of love above friendship, and it had sprung out of the devastation that her words – that the vivid description of her illness – had inflicted upon me.

This week I became aware that a person I know, a person I have immense professional respect for, has been battling – not too successfully – with bipolar syndrome.

I can understand a little of where she is, the person behind this new discovery. I can understand some of her confusion; I can appreciate the periodic snaps of her loss of direction.

But over and above these things, the one feeling I’m struggling to come to terms with is an overwhelming sense of devastation that a person so young – a person with so much of her life ahead of her – and a person so full of such obviously outstanding talent, is desperately trying to deal with such a debilitating mental illness.

And I feel for her.

Absent friends, not close enough to touch

I have a friend. Her name is Ruth.

Ruth has been a gossip buddy for many years – since before Daughter was born (though Daughter would probably insist that nothing existed before she was born because she is, after all, the Princess of the Known Galaxy).

Ruth has been funny and serious, she has teased me she has supported me. She has held my metaphorical hand and, at times, kicked my metaphorical bum.

Ruth edited and proof-read my first novel, and what a pair of hellish tasks they both must have been.

Ruth has helped shape my writing, in long and short format.

A few weeks ago, over the Easter weekend, Ruth was unexpectedly admitted to hospital and underwent immediate, and very serious, surgery.

Surgery that only someone like Ali Booker, or Ruth, would be able to fully understand.

It was a shock to learn of it, but it must have been a thousand times more shocking for Ruth, to be the subject of an emergency admission, to have had such a terribly interventionist operation when, up until that time, there had been no inkling… No idea that something was so wrong.

I have never met Ruth.

I feel as if I know her so well, we have shared secrets that only two people who have never met can share.

I kind of love her. Quite a lot.

I have thought of Ruth, and her illness and the trauma she’s been through, every day.

I can’t comprehend it fully.

But that doesn’t stop me from thinking.

And wishing.

And hoping.

I know she has her family and they will help and support and, more importantly, will be there for her.

I can’t be there for her.

But that doesn’t stop me thinking.

And wishing.

And hoping.

Please get well Ruth.

Spring and Babies and Nests and Whimsies

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

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

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

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

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

Tips for Finishing a PhD

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

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

1. Carve out huge chunks of time to focus.

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

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

On… Breasts

I was browsing through this evening’s TV schedules when a programme called ‘My Breasts Could Kill Me’ leapt out from the electronic page.

Possessed of inquisitiveness (yes, it really is a word) I delved deeper and discovered that the somewhat populist title masked a two-part documentary on breast cancer.

I’m annoyed, and I’m annoyed on two levels.

Level The First: I’m annoyed that the television-makers have set such an obvious trap.

Level The Second: I’m annoyed that I fell in to the obvious trap.

Do you see what they’ve done? They’ve taken a body part that more than 50% of the population is attracted to, and created an attention-grabbing tabloid headline-style title around it.

Is it big? Is it clever?

Yes, I really am annoyed that I fell in to such an obvious trap, but the point is, it worked, didn’t it?

The trap – the tabloid headline-grabbing programme name – caught my attention and made me delve deeper.

So what is the lesson to be learned here?

Is it that I’m not as erudite as I think I am? Or that I am as susceptible to schoolboy diversions as, well, a schoolboy?

Or is it that I am relieved that I won’t run the risk of suffering from breast cancer, unlike my childhood schoolfriend and still very good friend Lesley, who underwent treatment so punishing that the cure almost killed her.

Pauses for a long, deep thought

Whilst education – and the programme in question is undeniably an educative tool – is important, I can’t help wondering if, in the interests of sexual equality, the makers of My Breasts Could Kill Me will be filming My Cock Could Kill Me, or My Prostate Could Kill Me…

I doubt it.

Tabloidism begins and ends with breasts.

I must drop Lesley a line. We haven’t had one of our world-famous catchups for ages, and we’re massively behind on our emails.

The last big catchup we had was when she flew over from Texas to Eire and I flew over and joined her and we talked, almost non-stop for 24 hours.

Stone me, it’s *cold* out there!

It’s Saturday. The snow has melted away in the overnight rain and the temperature is 2c.

So why does it feel absolutely bitter, colder than it has done all week?

Or maybe it’s me; perhaps everyone else can feel the benefit of a daytime temperature that’s four degrees warmer than it has been at this time of day.

Noon.

Anyway.

Do you know anyone who would like a chance to make a pop video? It’s a big opportunity to make a film for an unsigned, up-and-coming band who might just be making a big impact in 2010.

So could you ask the potential video-makers to get in touch with me? I will be asking this question again in the next couple of weeks.

Umm, what else?

Oh yes, I’ve had my haircut.

I went to the glass-and-chrome decored (is that even a word?) hairdressers in the precinct in Witney. I got ‘done’ by the attractive, shapely, blonde girl and resisted the temptation to nestle my head in her bosom as she worked behind me.

After I got my hair did I went to Café Rouge and joined Sophie and her colleague Lisa for a Latté.

Lisa has man troubles, it’s a shame and she doesn’t deserve them; she’s quite sweet and very fit, but she overtalks to hide her fundamental insecurities. She also doesn’t deserve the arseholes she’s been plagued with. I’m only saying this to provide a benchmark; I’m a discerning, choosy kind of guy, but if I was single and in the market? I probably would.

After Latté and gossip, Soph and I went to the cinema and bought two tickets for tonight’s 3D showing of Avatar.

And then we came home where we are now on the couch watching Dennis Hopper ham it up in Speed, and admiring the gorgeous Sandra Bullock.

As soon as Speed is over I’m going up to the stables to ride Vin and Tom. I expect to have the piss taken out of me because of my haircut.

Umm…

My laptop has started having tantrums. It’s done three memory dumps in four days. There are no I/O or hardware conflicts (as far as hardware goes, the laptop is still in its factory spec) and I’ve rolled back the system to 1st Jan which predates the memory-dumping by a long while. Needless to say it hasn’t fixed the problem.

Dell Support say the problem is BIOS or possibly motherboard-related. The laptop is under full warranty, but being without it while it’s being fixed would hurt me. And I disagree with Dell Support, I strongly suspect the Wireless adapter is the cause.

Right, gotta go. Sandra Bullock is pouting attractively at me.

Turnout, weather and lunch

Tom’s first day of turnout after more than three weeks of ‘confinement’; things were fraught!

By 7am we were schooling in the indoor arena.

An hour and a quarter later Tom was out in his new field, cavorting around like a two-year-old; bucking, rolling, bucking, rolling then bucking again.

Then he had a canter around the field, checking out the new fencing. I don’t know if he was looking at it thinking ‘Nah’ or sizing it up with a ‘That would be easy!’.

After what seemed an age but was really less than five minutes he’d got it all out of his system and was head-down, grazing.

I stayed and watched for ages, just to make sure he stayed put and then legged it out of the rain in to the tack room for tea and ahem biscuits and ahem cake.

I kept checking on him, but every time I looked he was a) still in place and b) grazing peacefully.

The weather deteriorated so I fetched him in at 11.15; the conditions were so awful that Tom walked up to me and put his head down for the headcollar.

After I’d swapped rugs and carrotted and generally loved both Vin and Tom, R arrived.

I showed him around the yard, introduced him to the girls who were on duty (I may have said that he was single and loaded and in to horses) and then we legged it through the sleet to The Lamb Inn in Shipton-under-Wychwood.

Lunch, beer and gossip was had.

Back at home Soph and I fell asleep whilst watching High Society.

And now it’s back to the diet of Grey’s Anatomy and Pringle sandwiches.

Welcome to my day.

Geek Pursuits

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

1. Warhammer
2. Documenting lichens in the forest/bush
3. Battle re-enactments
4. Chess club
5. Coding

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

The Oxford Murders

A month ago I was at a party in Paris when I first met Todd Zuniga of Opium Magazine who also runs Literary Death Match. Being English, I made the unguarded comment, ‘You should do that in Oxford. Everyone there’s a writer.’ Being American, he replied, terrifyingly, ‘Sure – how about the first week in November?’.

Luckily I know Xander Cansell, Oxford’s literary Mr Fix. Despite a slow start persuading people to be involved (might have been something to do with the word ‘death’ in the title*?) we ended up with a fine line-up including judges: multi-award winning poet and writer, Kate Clanchy; Idler editor, Dan Kieran and last-minute (I mean literarlly 30 minutes before) replacement for Tom Greeves, Ben Walker, who was not only lanconically hilarious but improvised on his guitar to order.

Reading were the fabulous Jake Wallis-Simons, Miranda Ward, Megan Kerr and LDM champion, George Chopping (‘the love child of Hugh Grant and John Hegley’ – Kate Clanchy). Here he is:

The pen is mightier than the sword. Those who live by the pen, die by the pen (or perhaps by a particularly savage game of musical chairs…).

Oh yes, and I did some live drawing…

 

  

 

(Poster and bad photo by me. Good photos by Garrett Coakley)

*No living authors were harmed during the making of this event.

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.