8 years have passed since I last wrote an essay. A lot has happened over the past 8 years and although my essay writing skills have laid dormant in the depths of my mind for this time, I assumed all it would take is a quick dust and polish and they would be as good as new. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been using language and writing for these erstwhile years. Surely essay writing will be just like writing an email, or my shopping list. And surely quoting and referencing will be just like when I hear a really funny line off Family Guy and rush to find a pencil and some paper so I can later refer to it and experience the humour all over again, carefully noting the ‘author’ of the line so as not to misquote them or to be accused of plagiarism by a friend far more educated in all things Family Guy then I.
“I never knew Biscuit as a dog, but I did know her as a table. She was sturdy, all four legs the same length…”
(Griffin, Stewie, 2000, The Road to Rhode Island, In Family Guy, USA)
How wrong I was. As I sit here and write my first essay in years, each word painfully flowing from my fingers into the keyboard, face screwed up in literary agony, I breath heavily with exertion and the end of each sentence is celebrated with a nice lean back in the chair and a jatz cracker. As I watch the word count creep closer and closer to the magic number which I know will put an end to my painful reintroduction to essay writing, I find less things to distract me, as the promise of liberation becomes more reality than a mere dream of freedom.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
The Week Five Phenomenon
A strange and unfamiliar feeling invaded my body as I set out for uni. Was it the tofu casserole that I had eaten last night? Or maybe it was the realisation that I had four assessments due already that week? You know, the one that normally resides, sitting comfortably, in the background of your mind, never quite leaving you alone, shouting, mostly unheard, every time you do something else besides study. I was convinced that it somehow had stolen its way to the forefront of my mind and was currently fighting for control of my body, thus causing this unexplained feeling. But as I strolled confidently from my car across Bush Court to the seemingly hidden and out of the way room to which I visit once a week for one of my tutorials, I was hit with a blinding realisation of what that unfamiliar feeling actually was. For lack of a better description, I labelled it the Week Five Phenomenon.
I suddenly realised that I no longer felt lost.
No longer did I walk slowly, meticulously scanning each sign as I passed, hopelessly praying to find one that matched the room number on my print out off Myinfo.
No longer did I have to try to maintain a cool demeanour when I realised I was walking in the complete wrong direction and had to do an obvious about-face, trying to avoid the eyes of the other students who could tell that I was lost and were either secretly laughing at me or feeling grateful that it wasn’t them.
No longer did I linger after a lecture hoping to catch someone who looked like they may be heading off to the same tutorial as me, so I could follow them, all the while trying to act like I am not in fact stalking them and about to steal their small change and their iPod.
No longer did I find out that I was in fact following someone who was heading off to the Ref and not my next class, thus finding my genius plan thwarted and then having to anxiously scan the crowds to find someone else who looks like they too may be going to my next class.
No longer did I have to plan my day with half hour time frames slotted before each class to give myself time to wander the deserted halls of the EH building, convinced that I have somehow sashayed into a restricted zone and would promptly be told off, left to scurry red faced from the teachers lounge, just so I would have time to find my room.
No longer did I turn up to my classes 20 minutes early to be faced with at least half a dozen others who had obviously also scheduled ‘getting lost’ time into their timetables. Faces plastered with shock, that they hadn’t indeed gotten lost.
In the erstwhile weeks I had managed not only to find all of my lecture halls and tutorial rooms, but even all my assignments boxes. And throughout my wanderings I had even discovered the offices of a unit coordinator or two. I had traipsed newly familiar paths and sought out multiple other ways to get where I needed to be.
I felt a disproportionate amount of pleasure at my discovery, more suited to say, the discovery of gravity, or a cure for cancer. But although I didn’t conceive a grand solution to any of the greater problems of the human race, I had achieved what seemed impossible merely a few weeks earlier. To be able to stroll the campus, stop and chat with friends, enjoy the sunshine, all the while knowing exactly where I was headed.
I suddenly realised that I no longer felt lost.
No longer did I walk slowly, meticulously scanning each sign as I passed, hopelessly praying to find one that matched the room number on my print out off Myinfo.
No longer did I have to try to maintain a cool demeanour when I realised I was walking in the complete wrong direction and had to do an obvious about-face, trying to avoid the eyes of the other students who could tell that I was lost and were either secretly laughing at me or feeling grateful that it wasn’t them.
No longer did I linger after a lecture hoping to catch someone who looked like they may be heading off to the same tutorial as me, so I could follow them, all the while trying to act like I am not in fact stalking them and about to steal their small change and their iPod.
No longer did I find out that I was in fact following someone who was heading off to the Ref and not my next class, thus finding my genius plan thwarted and then having to anxiously scan the crowds to find someone else who looks like they too may be going to my next class.
No longer did I have to plan my day with half hour time frames slotted before each class to give myself time to wander the deserted halls of the EH building, convinced that I have somehow sashayed into a restricted zone and would promptly be told off, left to scurry red faced from the teachers lounge, just so I would have time to find my room.
No longer did I turn up to my classes 20 minutes early to be faced with at least half a dozen others who had obviously also scheduled ‘getting lost’ time into their timetables. Faces plastered with shock, that they hadn’t indeed gotten lost.
In the erstwhile weeks I had managed not only to find all of my lecture halls and tutorial rooms, but even all my assignments boxes. And throughout my wanderings I had even discovered the offices of a unit coordinator or two. I had traipsed newly familiar paths and sought out multiple other ways to get where I needed to be.
I felt a disproportionate amount of pleasure at my discovery, more suited to say, the discovery of gravity, or a cure for cancer. But although I didn’t conceive a grand solution to any of the greater problems of the human race, I had achieved what seemed impossible merely a few weeks earlier. To be able to stroll the campus, stop and chat with friends, enjoy the sunshine, all the while knowing exactly where I was headed.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The many things that become severely important when trying to study!
As I sat at my desk, trying desperately to convince my wayward mind that I in fact really did want to be doing my assignment, my eyes came to rest on a picture of an iMac that hung from my cork board reminding me of the sweet days that would soon be upon me, and any chances of concentrating on something that was not an iMac, were dashed.
My visions of 24” screens, Quad Core 3.2GHz Intel Xeon Processors and sleek packaging that draws me close to weeping with anticipation, were blinded by a startling solution. Not only could I get out of my hot box of a room, and the guilt that follows me around the house whispering softly in my ear every time I sit down to watch an episode of the Amazing Race, but I could also be doing something directly related to my education thus silencing my guilt completely. I jumped onto the Internet with a speed that normally accompanies the arrival of a new DVD in the mail, and found that there was a free Art Show in Fremantle, on which I could base my shortly due Critical Analysis on. I felt a sense of accomplishment usually reserved for after I finish cleaning the house, and proceeded to rifle through my closet trying to find an outfit most closely resembling that of a young, funky yet slightly nerdy art critic.
Putting aside my disappointment at finding a closet full of jeans and t-shirts, I headed towards Fremantle with a smile on my face and Traveling Wilbury’s in my ears.
As my first 30 minutes at the Art Centre passed with only displays of old Merry-go-Round horses and examples of the cells in the old insane asylum in sight, I began to wonder if I had in fact come to the wrong place. The plethora of old people wandering the grounds seemed to confirm my concerns as I expected to be girt by appropriately dressed, young, arty, Fremantlians. Although I was pleased to be the best looking person there, the lack of an art show ate at me like a flesh eating bug. I wandered the grounds trying wretchedly to look like I belonged and wasn’t in fact lost and finally stumbled upon the exhibit I was looking for, that was tucked away right at the back, unsigned and so vague in it’s actual location that I thought they must have done it on purpose to make it more creative. Or to drive off the stupid people, as their displays were so mind blowingly interesting that it was only safe for intelligent people to view. As I found the majority neither mind-blowing or particularly that interesting, my thoughts were filled with worry that I wasn’t as smart as I professed to be, as I sauntered back to the car, finding the outside surrounds far more engaging than the exhibit itself.
My thoughts swiftly turned to food, as I realised how hungry I was. As my blood sugar dropped, my thoughts turned more often to orange juice, jellybeans and hash browns and before I knew it, I was indicating and pulling into my old favourite hangout, the local organic store. Now when one is working full time and earning a decent wage they can be forgiven for indulging in expensive organic produce, but the knowledge that I am now a poor student loomed over me as I tentatively entered the store, wondering if I would set off the ‘poor people’ alarm. The silence and lack of security guards tackling me to the ground shouting, “Can you afford to be here Miss!!” set me at ease and a comforting fondness palliated my tense demeanor. After completing my initial circuit of the store I reviewed my purchases and calculated roughly that to pay for what I had stashed in my basket, I would have to somehow get pregnant, give birth and sell my child on the black market, all in the next 5 minutes, before the old Nonna in front of me finished unloading her San Pellegrino and Pasta Lensi. I again used my superior math’s skills to calculate the odds of accomplishing that feat and my answer caused me to return all but three essential items in my basket. I progressed through the checkout with my drastically desolate purchases and was surprised that I found myself cringing at the exorbitant total as I was quite aware when I entered that I would be using up a weeks worth of icy pole money.
I traveled home, munching on my bio-organic licorice rope and sipping my organic fat-free choc milk, whilst Rod Stewarts voice skipped from the back to the front speakers every time I went over a bump in the road. I opened the window and with my mouth full of licorice, exclaimed to the world “Bring over some of your old Motown records”
My visions of 24” screens, Quad Core 3.2GHz Intel Xeon Processors and sleek packaging that draws me close to weeping with anticipation, were blinded by a startling solution. Not only could I get out of my hot box of a room, and the guilt that follows me around the house whispering softly in my ear every time I sit down to watch an episode of the Amazing Race, but I could also be doing something directly related to my education thus silencing my guilt completely. I jumped onto the Internet with a speed that normally accompanies the arrival of a new DVD in the mail, and found that there was a free Art Show in Fremantle, on which I could base my shortly due Critical Analysis on. I felt a sense of accomplishment usually reserved for after I finish cleaning the house, and proceeded to rifle through my closet trying to find an outfit most closely resembling that of a young, funky yet slightly nerdy art critic.
Putting aside my disappointment at finding a closet full of jeans and t-shirts, I headed towards Fremantle with a smile on my face and Traveling Wilbury’s in my ears.
As my first 30 minutes at the Art Centre passed with only displays of old Merry-go-Round horses and examples of the cells in the old insane asylum in sight, I began to wonder if I had in fact come to the wrong place. The plethora of old people wandering the grounds seemed to confirm my concerns as I expected to be girt by appropriately dressed, young, arty, Fremantlians. Although I was pleased to be the best looking person there, the lack of an art show ate at me like a flesh eating bug. I wandered the grounds trying wretchedly to look like I belonged and wasn’t in fact lost and finally stumbled upon the exhibit I was looking for, that was tucked away right at the back, unsigned and so vague in it’s actual location that I thought they must have done it on purpose to make it more creative. Or to drive off the stupid people, as their displays were so mind blowingly interesting that it was only safe for intelligent people to view. As I found the majority neither mind-blowing or particularly that interesting, my thoughts were filled with worry that I wasn’t as smart as I professed to be, as I sauntered back to the car, finding the outside surrounds far more engaging than the exhibit itself.
My thoughts swiftly turned to food, as I realised how hungry I was. As my blood sugar dropped, my thoughts turned more often to orange juice, jellybeans and hash browns and before I knew it, I was indicating and pulling into my old favourite hangout, the local organic store. Now when one is working full time and earning a decent wage they can be forgiven for indulging in expensive organic produce, but the knowledge that I am now a poor student loomed over me as I tentatively entered the store, wondering if I would set off the ‘poor people’ alarm. The silence and lack of security guards tackling me to the ground shouting, “Can you afford to be here Miss!!” set me at ease and a comforting fondness palliated my tense demeanor. After completing my initial circuit of the store I reviewed my purchases and calculated roughly that to pay for what I had stashed in my basket, I would have to somehow get pregnant, give birth and sell my child on the black market, all in the next 5 minutes, before the old Nonna in front of me finished unloading her San Pellegrino and Pasta Lensi. I again used my superior math’s skills to calculate the odds of accomplishing that feat and my answer caused me to return all but three essential items in my basket. I progressed through the checkout with my drastically desolate purchases and was surprised that I found myself cringing at the exorbitant total as I was quite aware when I entered that I would be using up a weeks worth of icy pole money.
I traveled home, munching on my bio-organic licorice rope and sipping my organic fat-free choc milk, whilst Rod Stewarts voice skipped from the back to the front speakers every time I went over a bump in the road. I opened the window and with my mouth full of licorice, exclaimed to the world “Bring over some of your old Motown records”
O-Week - giving students the chance to run screaming, "What have I done?"
An insistent and irritating beeping was infiltrating my early morning dreaming and no amount of burrowing into my doona would make it stop. As I reluctantly lurched out of bed to switch off my alarm, the realisation that it was the beginning of O-week brought with it a mix of excitement and anxiety, causing me to somehow both rush enthusiastically and dawdle at the same time. One part of me was yelling, in a high-pitched, responsible and financially aware voice, "Why are you leaving a good paying, secure, full-time job to go back to full time university study at 24 years of age? Just think of all the lovely things that you could buy with all the money that you soon won't be earning! If you stay working full-time, you could buy a wide-screen TV....or a house...or even that original retro Transformer that you had your eye on in eBay." Then, of course, the other part of me realised that I didn't actually like that job that I was doing, that uni would get me a job that I adored and that, in fact, I don't actually even want a large screen TV, a house or even expensive Transformers.......well, okay, maybe I do want the Transformer.
Putting aside my desire to own a large variety of childhood-memory inducing paraphernalia, I allowed my excitement to grow. On arrival at campus, I was met with many new faces, all trying desperately to look like they belonged and wondering if it was cool or not to be wearing your coloured lanyard. I was delighted to see people both younger and older that I. which put to rest my fears that I would be taunted for being 'matured aged' and relegated to the outskirts of university society for the duration of my degree.
Nervous smiles, beautiful surroundings, the dawning promise of a new outlook on life and knowledge. This was the place for me.
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