State of the Nation (II)

from here.

Why, hello! It is Moz who writes.

After my last blog post I thought I'd be back within a few days to regale you with tales of my university exploits.....and I meant to, I promise! Instead life got in the way, and now I'm writing one of those dreaded 'sorry I haven't been blogging but I have a really good reason' posts. The ones everyone hates to read. 

I'm a firm believer in blogging only when you actually have something to say, and it seems that I suddenly do - a whole heap of things, in fact. But I thought I'd take advantage of a day of relative clarity to update you all on a rather dramatic semester. Because, my friends, that is almost exactly how long it has been since I wrote anything on this here blog - a full 13 week semester and that's not even including the Easter break. Two weeks out from my final exam for Italian, and a few days after passing my probationary period as a postgrad researcher, now seems a good time to stop and reflect on things. 

Juggling the study of Italian with a heavy research load is complicated enough, but thrown into the mix has been my maternal grandmother's health. A few weeks ago it really looked she would die at any moment, but she seems to be clinging on, although it's just a matter of time before her heart gives out. My grandmother helped raise me, and in many ways was more supportive of me growing up than my own parents were.This individual kind of attention is even more impressive when you consider that I am only one of 34 grandchildren on my mother's side, yet she manages to always make me feel special and wanted. Helping take care of her for a few nights in hospital felt like small repayment for years' worth of support and encouragement.

My research has been haphazard at best. My topic is now finessed enough that I was able to pass my three month review panel on Monday, but the real test will come when both the mentor and my auxiliary supervisor give me more detailed feedback. (Given they are both much more familiar with my area of study their feedback is also much more likely to be critical.) My mentor has been on leave this semester, and apart from a few messages back in February to let him know I was accepted into the program we haven't spoken since November. I've missed him dreadfully, there have been times hen his advice would have really helped, and his personal relationship with me always helps when my health isn't good. Put bluntly, I think I've done just enough work to get by, but I will really need the break between semesters to get my work up to scratch. I can't afford to fall behind any more than I already have. 

                                                                    

from here.

Italian has been hard. Learning a language is always tricky, and I really struggle with the listening and comprehension tasks. I am very worried about the final exam, which will likely be very difficult but I think I can do well enough to soothe my restless expectations. 

So that's where I'm at. I want to write about my grandmother some more later in the week, and I have a number of posts kicking around in my head that have to come out sometime. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I promise to be a better blogger or, as I like to think of it, correspondent from now on. Like a lot of you I prefer to write conceptual, thematic posts rather than this little list hastily typed out and thrown on the page, so I'm feeling guilty and like a failed blogger right now.

To any of you still reading, thank you. What have you been up to? And how do you manage to blog so often?!

Welcome To Wherever You Are

I wrote this post last July and never got around to publishing it, I'm not entirely sure why. I'll follow this up with something else later in the week - I start back at uni again tomorrow, so I should have plenty to talk about by the weekend. 


I like my university campus when classes aren't in session - well, apart from the fact that the main library's opening hours are significantly restricted and my supervisor isn't around. I like walking around all the big beautiful buildings and not having to muscle my way through the throng of students all in a hurry. At certain times of the day you feel like it's all yours and no one else is around, that this place belongs to you. 

I don't know about you, but I rarely feel like I belong. Although it took a while, uni was the first place where I felt like I did. Honours has been difficult, and especially since I carried my work over into this year it can be lonely at times, but my work makes me believe that I am in the right place, my place. 

I keep strange hours, mostly. On the days I go in, I leave the house a little after 5:30am for the walk to catch my bus that takes me into the city. I like the walk in the dark, it means I can sing along to my music without being embarrassed. The bus, when it comes, travels along a very old, ugly road that most people dismiss, but I like passing all the derelict warehouses and shopfronts that seem to have been there forever. There's the section of the road that has nothing but car dealerships, and then the section that seems to have nothing but bridal shops, followed by the section with vinyl stores and pubs and novelty shops owned by those that manage to eke out a living in the inner west. 

The sun is usually rising (at this time of year) just as I get out at the second stop near the uni. I wander over to the cult coffee shop that opens a few minutes before I get there around 6:30am. It's a family business that just lost its founder to a heart attack, and the kids and their mother are still recovering. It's still weird to come in every morning and not see the father at his table that was kept just for him, but his picture is everywhere, if not his booming laugh and friendly presence. His daughter expertly makes my coffee and I have her tell me what she's been up to, which is always more interesting than anything I have to say.

I work in the cafe for an hour or two, usually boosted by at least another coffee and sometimes something off the excellent and cheap menu. (During semester this is mostly where the mentor and I have our chats.) Then I take my work over to my department in a building a few minutes' walk away, where I stay for about six hours, trying to get stuff done. Most of the staff aren't around, but even the ones who are leave me alone in the common room, assuming, I think, that I'm a postgrad student and perfectly entitled to be there. It's quiet and, the real plus, kitchenette adjacent, so I can make ten cups of tea a day and play my music as I write.

At about 3pm I head over to the library, which mostly depresses me these days. It's not because it's an ugly building, but rather that the collection was decimated about two years ago and now the library is less like a library and more like a building that just happens to have a few levels of books. To accompany my book run I switch my iPod back on and climb the stairs to the top level, working my way down as I need. My favourite book run music right now is Foster the People's 2011 record, Torches, which for some reason is perfect for the job. Striding about purposefully, my arms full of books, I then try and figure out how to use the self service machine to get them on loan. It's not unusual for me to set off the alarm as I leave and have to try again, the bastard thing. Still - I'm not as bad as the girl who nicked a bunch of toilet paper rolls from the ladies' and then forgot to borrow her books so she got caught.

After my book run, and after I've done some photocopying and scanning, I emerge from the library to watch the sun setting over the most beautiful building on the campus. It's a perfect view from just outside the library, and one which touches me every time I see it. 

This is my patch, I think. I'm going to be here studying a long while yet, it's a good thing I love it so much. 

Lisztomania (Take 4)

Like so many people, Christmas is all about the ritual for me. I'm not alone - my father adores decorations and usually has our tiny house overflowing with them, crowned by his spectacular lights in the front yard. (This is the part where I'd show a picture as proof, but my phone has a crappy camera and I don't own another one.) My sister has the endearing habit of running a trivia contest on Christmas day for our immediate family, trivia about...Christmas, no less. She buys prizes and everything. 

For what it's worth, I won this year, so I haz bragging rights. 

My ritual is known to longtime readers of this blog, the annual Christmas mix CD. Previous mix CD inclusions can be seen here and here.

This year's effort is outlined below:

Little Houses

Adam and the Ants - Stand and Deliver
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Sacrilege
Haim - The Wire
Palma Violets - Best of Friends
Any Bull - Keep On Running
Poliça - Dark Star
The Griswolds - The Courtship of Summer Preasley
The Preatures - Is This How You Feel?
Vance Joy - From Afar
Jeremy Neale feat. Go Violets - In Stranger Times
Frank Ocean - Lost
Robyn - Dancing On My Own
Pulp - Common People
Patty Smyth feat. Scandal - Goodbye To You

Looking Forward, Looking Back

One of my dirty little secrets is that I love Christmas, probably because it always seems to be a time for looking back and reflecting. (For someone who reflects far too much and is in danger of having a crooked neck for looking over her shoulder too much, this isn’t always a good thing.) Of course, this time for reflection on what is past comes immediately before New Years, which is the king of all dates for looking forward and being hopeful – something I don’t do well.

Christmas is the holiday of memory. We spend the holiday period comparing our wins and failures to what has come before, whether it’s the successes of our academic year, or, as in my beloved sister’s case, that she managed to knock over all her Christmas shopping in one afternoon and beat her personal best from last year. We reminisce about Christmases past with those we love, and every now and again we adjust as someone we love is taken from us and the world as we know it shifts. There are the holidays in which there are young children once again, only this time they belong to us rather than our parents. There are the Christmases we spend apart from those we love, and the Christmases we spend in solitude, or perhaps only with a significant other. We travel far, we stay close to home, but ultimately we compare one Christmas with all the others we remember. Some of us try to recapture a sense of child like joy, and others just drink to get through it. But I’m willing to bet that at some point during the lead up to the big day, if not the day itself, you find yourself comparing the holiday to one that has come before and working out what that means to you.

I spent most of my recent trip to Melbourne anxiously checking my phone for the e-mail telling me what my thesis mark was. It was in a smelly ladies’ toilet that it finally arrived on my final afternoon of the trip. One of my other dirty little secrets is that my Honours result ended up being a lot lower than it should have been. It’s a secret that’s hard for me to admit.

But during this time of reflection, I try and acknowledge that things could have been a lot worse. Despite my illness being a greedy bastard for 10 of the last 12 months, I managed to finish Honours. I did more than well enough for acceptance to the advanced Masters program I want to study next year (I’m still waiting on this news, one way or the other). I have sung in beautiful venues and heard my voice ring out. I spoke at an academic conference and evoked an enthusiastic question time. I travelled for pleasure and for business on my own and managed not to get lost more than half a dozen times. I turned 30 in a room filled with my closest friends, and was touched by the love and compassion they show me every day. I stood in rooms filled with people as amazing artists and bands played and made me feel alive.

I am still alive. As bad as it got (and it got very, very bad) I am still here and still trying. I still have plans to make and things to look forward to, and I want to stick around for those.

This is my 31^st Christmas, and I’m kind of excited about it (although maybe that’s because I don’t have to cook….). I hope the same for you and those you love, and I thank you for continuing to read this little blog of mine. Frankie is written and dispensed with, but I’m going to be a student for some time yet and I hope you’ll stick with me for that. May your tomorrows be bright and sparkly, friends. 

Be Our Guest

I'll be writing here again soon, but in the meantime I am over at A Brave Life offering some thoughts on turning thirty and finishing a thesis. I'm not one to really offer advice, but Kim's a long time friend who I actually got to meet in person last December when she visited Australia with her husband. 

I'll be posting something more substantial here over the weekend, but in the meantime you can read my stuff over at Kim's. 

Election Night

Hi everyone! Just a few thoughts from my weekend here, but as of today I won't be blogging again until at least the second week of October. My thesis is currently more than a full time job, and I just can't afford to be writing anything else. I hope you'll all come back when I start writing with some frequency again.

On Saturday, I got up very early and went to a local polling place to work for the Australian Electoral Commission. Australians had to vote on Saturday for a federal government (it's compulsory to vote here, at all levels of government) and the conservatives came crashing in.

It's a long day, working a polling booth. My job as a 2IC is a sort of catch all position, basically anything that the manager needs to palm off. I was working quite a small booth this time around, and my manager was up to the task, so the day could have been a lot worse. 

We don't have it perfect here. The Senate voting paper is ridiculously complicated, especially for people who don't speak English (my electorate and the one I was working in have a much higher number of non English speakers than most), and the turnout was much lower than it should have been. But as I lined up to vote on Friday afternoon at a pre-polling venue, I couldn't help but get choked up at what I was about to do.

We vote in peace, without harassment (unless you count party workers, which I don't - usually). The AEC is mostly a well oiled machine, with pencils and paper so no defective machines for us. Rarely do you have to wait more than half an hour to vote anywhere in the country. There are sausage sizzles and lamingtons on offer at little stalls at many venues, fundraisers for the local sporting team or school. 

As the sign on every voting screen said, your vote is a valuable thing. Democracy, for all its faults, is a beautiful thing. And even though I hate the administration who just came in, I still feel strongly that our system of government and the way people are elected is one of the best going. It is a privilege and a responsibility that I cherish, and I exercise my right to choose with pride.   

Some time soon I will vote overseas, perhaps in an embassy, while I'm on a fellowship or a research trip. I can't wait, just like the little kids who eagerly push their parents' votes into the overflowing ballot boxes every election day. I remember doing the same when I was little, and I still poke mine through gleefully. My vote matters, and it's a personal, beautiful thing. 

Great Expectations

It's probably pretty obvious by now I expect a lot of myself. I feel like all my life I've been this untapped potential and chronic underachiever - and I'm sick of it. 

I had a frustrating time yesterday as I got one of the marks back for the seminars I took as part of my Honours work. It was bad enough that I was really upset, and it occurred to me that perhaps I should ask for my second mark back so I could get all the upset over with in one day. 

So I asked the mentor for the second mark. It was slightly better, but still far short of what I wanted, nay needed for the overall mark I am seeking from this ridiculous exercise in self discipline and self doubt. I was right to get it all over with, and mourn what I can't fix. I woke up today ready to try again and make the thesis, which is worth 60% of the final mark, as good as it possibly can be. 

Look, they're not bad marks. My supervisor assured me that I'm in the top couple of percent of students with these marks, but still. It feels like a failure.

Expectations can cripple you. If you're a perfectionist and you want the best, sometimes you can paralyse yourself and not even start. The blank page is both frightening and exhilarating, because you know it probably won't be as good as in your head.

The trick is to start, to draft, to cut, and to believe that it can be better than you'd hoped. Over and over and over again. 

I leave you with this video of Dylan Moran talking about one's potential. I worry that he's right, the bastard: