I'll see you anon.

End of the year.
It came as it always does, but the difference this year is that I can say that I am a third of the way through a degree. Most years, the later months brought about the realisation that although I am a year older, approaching thirty far more quickly that I ever thought possible, I still laugh at people when they trip over. I hoped a partially completed degree would get me respect and admiration from all those I passed, but it mostly got me addicted to 2 minute noodles and the phrase "I'll do it after I watch this episode of Star Trek".

There have been many changes. Mostly I find myself using words like sedulous, contumacious and even dude, whilst taking out pretentious books from the library. I've contemplated the idea of smoking a pipe on campus and searched for tweed jackets on eBay. I've spent a great portion of time sitting in the sun on Bush Court, eating Bubble O Bill's and laughing at my own jokes. I've received a decent amount of inquiring stares from the multitude of 18 year olds in my tutorials, who never thought that 25 year olds would ever wear bright yellow M&M's t-shirts.

Although I enjoyed my year, there are things that I would have liked to have changed, and maybe some stuff that I would have done. I would have spent more time in the library. I would have talked to many more people. I would have listened to my iPod less and smiled more. I would be more prepared but less worried. I would sleep more and be nicer. I guess that's why they give you three or so years to figure it out. 2010 will bring with it a smiling, studying, successful uber graduate. That's me.

Although this year is over and this blog was started with the intention to give others thinking of returning to study an idea of one person's first year experience, I shall continue on until I feel I am no longer humorous (and yes that means I think I am damn funny right now).

Writing is like free therapy. I get to be less insane and you get to laugh at me. It's a symbiotic relationship.

Okay. I know. I'm terrible.

So you would think I would have some great excuse for my recent blog absence. "Maybe she has been training to be a brain surgeon in her spare time", some of you may have been thinking but the truth is far less exciting. I went a little blank. Everything I wrote ended up being more like a Christmas shopping list, or an uninspired note that you write on the fridge to let your housemates know that the light upstairs in the hallway has blown. So instead of subjecting you all (Mum and Ben) to drivel while I am out there in the real world living it up with my red parking permit that I received as a prize for doing this blog, I kept silent. And you know silence can be good. Silence is when I get my good ideas. And silence can bring about order and even a little peace. So while I am brewing up something tasty for next week, here is my latest assignment that I submitted for my Creative Writing unit.

Enjoy.

I demand you to.

First Impressions

Her neon dress clutched desperately to her robust frame, slightly transparent in parts where the material struggled to contain what was inside. A chubby hand, rows of rings, sometimes two a finger, pulled at her hem. She exposed her white knickers to the waiting traffic at the crossroad, whether or not it was intentional or by accident wasn’t clear as she sat on the bench behind her, legs crossed, one animal print boot bobbing nervously in the air. Her tortoise shell glasses were pushed awkwardly forward, barely clinging to the tip of her nose, as she peered back and forth over the top of the lenses. They obviously spoiled her vision but I guess they were part of her look. Her long straw-like blond hair was held off her face with a multitude of plastic butterfly clips, some covered in glitter. Bangles, bent into slightly oblong shapes filled her wrists, while strings of brightly coloured beads slowly choked her as they wound tighter and tighter around the rolls of her neck. The contents of her bag had begun to leak out, but she didn’t seem to care. It was like her life was on offer to any who bothered to snatch it up. She knew they wouldn’t.

She looked vague, like she had switched off, feeling life was just too hard. She’d probably been brought up in a family with lots of other children. Quiet. Shy. Her only way of standing out was the outlandish clothes she wore. Her stamp of individuality. Life, in all likelihood, wouldn’t have gotten easier for her as she grew. Finding herself in and out of lover’s arms collecting addictions as she went. Alcohol would have been her drug of choice. Cheap and legal but still powerful enough to blur the hours of nothing into passing seconds. Like sleep, allowing escape and offering protection from stretching loneliness. She most probably spoke seldom, a lacking self-confidence convincing her she had nothing of interest to say.

I sat down on the bench beside her, giving her an encouraging smile, letting her know that there was someone out there who saw her and possibly even cared. Despite her strange appearance I could tell she was a good woman, just starved of the right conditions to thrive. Given the fortunate opportunities that I had, I was sure she would have turned out just like my Nanna.

I liked her.

“You a lesbian?”
My hand automatically flew up and felt my closely cropped hair and I laughed nervously at her bluntness.
“No”
“Short hair. No Makeup. Little bit chubby round the middle. You sure you ain't a lesbian?”
“Yep, pretty sure thanks.”
“Well I guess we can’t all be the pretty ones right? You know Darwin. Survival of the fittest and all. Ugly’s just natures way of separating us all so eventually the good lookin’ ones will survive.”

I was shocked that my Nanna-like creature could actually be so obnoxious. I couldn’t believe how wrong I was about her, but I nodded politely, actually hoping my silence would discourage her from continuing.

She spied my Coles green bag.
“It’s all about saving the fuckin environment these days”
“I know, that fucking environment. What’s it done for us lately?”
My sarcasm was lost on her and I realised that I had just fuelled her anger. I berated myself for attempting to be witty.
“Exactly! It’s getting hotter, which means I had to invest in a brand new wardrobe this summer. The environment gonna pay for that? Nah. And then I can’t even get a cleaning guy to come and clean the gunge off my pool so I can cool me’ self down. You wanna save the environment? Come round and clean me pool, that’s an environmental hazard I’d like to see cleaned. I’d donate to a guy rattling a tin for the freaking “Clean Our Pools Foundation”.

She elbowed me in the ribs, laughter shaking the Lycra covered rolls that tumbled down her midsection.

“Now just don’t get me started on those dole bludgers. I mean I have always…”
I jumped up, waving at an imaginary friend across the road, excusing myself before things could get worse.

I hated her.

Have the Vet Students lost their Bunnies?

There are bunnies.
Loose at Murdoch.

Spotted with my own eyes several times now. They aren't your regular 'curse Thomas Austin and his yearning for plentiful hunting sport' type rabbits, infested with mexamatosis, but your cuddly type rabbit, long floppy ears and sporting neat little blue jackets, straight out Beatrix Potter. Okay so I was lying about the jackets, but my point being is that if one of them came up to me and introduced itself as Peter Rabbit, I wouldn't be that surprised. They are obviously pet rabbits because on my second spotting I almost stood on one. It didn't flinch, just looked up at me lazily and then continued to chew away at a dying patch of grass.

I was captivated by this phenomenon. Who owned these rabbits? Had they escaped from being tortured with lipstick and blush by the Vet Students? (I forwardly apologise to any vet students reading. Please do not send me angry emails, because I am only kidding. Unless of course that is what you do down there in your secret section of the campus, which I am yet to explore, then I say "Shame on you". :)) Or had someone been followed to school one day, by not a lamb, as in Mary's case, but by a mob of random rabbits?

I enjoy my weekly rabbit spotting, each time adding a different bunny face to my mental collection of the Murdoch Rabbits. In fact I should consider creating a photographic account of these furry wonders. A double whammy, because I could then hand it is as my Photography portfolio due in a mere few weeks.

I only hope this Bunny Invasion doesn't get out of control and we end up with something like this.

If that happens, I may have to become an external student.

So if anyone has either spotted these bunnies, or has an explanation to why they are there, then please contact me. I must know.

I shall never call a cold ‘the flu’ again.

Growing up I always referred to a cold as ‘the flu’ knowing fully well that with it came far more pity and flat lemonade to soothe my ailing self. A cold seemed to be something that you could just work through. A cough here, a sniffle there. As long as you kept your bodily fluids to yourself people expected you to carry on as normal. The flu however involved sweating, soup and sympathy. Something that is far more desirable not only to a 10 year old trying to get out of the swimming carnival, where the only event they would compete in was the compulsory 25 metre doggy paddle, but to many an adult alike. Many an occasion in my working life have I called in sick, upgrading my cold to the flu simply to avoid the interrogation that comes when they think you’re faking it. Now I am not condoning calling in with a fake sickness, just simply to elevate your simple sickness to one that sounds far more worthy of a day in bed.

This being said, I, in my 25 years of life, have somehow managed to avoid the actual body aching, head exploding, elderly killing flu. So proud I was of this fact that I had considered making a t-shirt exclaiming this achievement, like some kind of demented expression of my resilience, reminiscent of a particular species of baboon that proudly displays a red splendour on it’s chest to suggest, to potential mates, his virility. Whether or not this would work for me was never determined as my t-shirt plans were recently dispelled by my first ever experience of The Flu.

It came quick, swiftly knocking me down while I was still convincing myself that I had just a cold. My head, thick and slow, shot pain behind my eyes and down my spine. Complete stillness brought no relief as bright lights filled my vision and tested my constitution. Chills plagued my body as I lay in trackies, a jumper and ugg boots, in front of the heater wrapped in a blanket, while thirst tormented me, as my stomach rejected water.

Nine days passed in a blur of tissues, vomit, self-pity and stacks of weekly DVD’s collected diligently by my housemate. After shlumping through the haze and beginning to come out the other side, drastically weakened, but well informed about the early years of Baywatch, my thoughts returned to assignments. Though The Flu had stopped my life for 9 days, it had unfortunately left uni life to continue on without me. A glance at my colour-coded timetables immediately informed me to the fact that I had 3 assignments due anon, each demanding my attention and intelligent thought immediately. I staggered at the idea of catching up, a seemingly impossible task that time would simply not permit me to complete. Falling behind was always a fear of mine, one extension granted would simply cut into the time I had allocated for the next assignment, pushing each one back until I found myself collecting shopping trolleys for a living.

I re-scheduled, I planned, I drew up even more colour coded tables hoping that their organisation would magically create more time. Each table spoke worse than the last, their conclusions all the same. I would have to put aside my fear and ask for a couple of extensions. As I typed the emails, instead of increasing my anxiety and causing me to research Ockey Straps and the Idiot’s Guide to Trolley Steering, I found myself relaxing, smiling oddly at my computer, whilst whistling nasally to myself, bringing on a post flu coughing fit. Once my extensions were granted and plausible timetables for their completion were drawn up I realised that perhaps extensions weren’t as scary as I had made them out to be. Just like Return to Oz, which I had rented out during The Flu, a movie that tormented and disturbed me as a child. Scenes of Wheelers and Queen Mombi with the 30 heads had spent 20 years polluting my mind and tainting my soul all because I had thought it was going to be just like the Wizard of Oz, with it’s dancing munchkins and shiny brick road, each turn celebrated with a catchy tune. How wrong I was. After so long of allowing Return to Oz to be placed in my mind along side horror flicks and deranged art works, I decided to give it a chance, after all I was a fully grown adult now. The first 20 minutes filled me with dread as each twist and turn in the plot brought back strong memories of fear, like certain smells or sounds can do. But as it progressed, although it was far darker than the original Wizard, it wasn’t as scary as my 5-year-old brain had thought it was. The experience that I had thought would be painful ended up being…well enjoyable. So although I may not find my assignments, complete with extensions, enjoyable, I no longer fear that falling a little behind and asking for help will necessarily end up with me asking “Do you want fries with that?”

Lecture substantiates hate for Aussie Idol

Now I don't have anything against music. Nor do I look down upon young people trying to transform their talent into a money filled lifestyle. Hell, if there was a show called "So You Think You Can Recite All The Words To The Lord Of The Rings Trilogy" I would be right there in front of the Burswood Dome at 4 in the morning, fully made up and dressed as an Elf from the Woodland Realm, ready to audition and praying to make it big. Yet Australian Idol makes me want to run way, become Amish and live out my days tending to wheat in Pennsylvania and wearing a cotton pinafore, simply to avoid ever having to watch this show. Why? Because it drains creativity from the souls of the heedless. They go in there to audition and, amongst all the people in weird costumes (some probably mistaking it for the auditions of my LOTR show) their singing reminiscent of either a jet plane taking off or the monotone strangulation of George W choking on a pretzel, they stand out because they can actually sing. Some quite well in fact. Some even play musical instruments which suggest they may have more then just a passing interest in music. You think to yourself maybe this year will be different? These people really seem like intelligent, talented individuals surely capable of producing music that doesn't fade into the background along with The Pussycat Dolls and all those folks who think putting a drum beat to an old song constitutes song writing. But alas, as the weeks continue and they are forced to sing other people's songs, dance around the stage in sometimes hideous and embarrassing outfits, their individual creative talents begin to trickle out of them. Firstly it's indistinguishable, but becomes blatantly obvious when the winner finally produces an album, so far removed from who they used to be but reflecting only who the show has made them. Which is whatever the record company thinks will market well to an audience made up mostly of teenage girls.

Now, today as I sat in a darkened lecture theatre, it's dim lighting and slight stuffy warmness far more conducive to sleep then learning, my hatred for Aussie Idol was justified. Last semester, when tackling a particularly tricky essay I was told by a tutor that you can really argue what ever point you desire as long as you can find someone credible to agree with you and reference them. So just like the moment when you finally come across an obscure book on the bottom shelf of the mustiest corner of the library, written completely in German, but once translated contains the gem of wisdom that supports your argument, which before that was completely unsubstantiated and your argument consisted of "because I think so", my lecturer provided me with the research material I needed to geekify my Aussie Idol argument. No longer did I have to just yell "but I don't like it" louder than those yelling "but I do like it". I had proof. I had someone who agreed with me. I had street cred. Or lounge room debate cred. Whatever you like to call it. He was talking about Post Modernism and in particular the notion of pastiche - the stealing, copying, borrowing of artistic works without any regard to it's meaning or cultural significance. The example was given of Aussie Idol where we watch them sing other people's songs, often without knowing or caring what it's about. Even the judges will say that they aren't engaging with the song. They are not creating. They are not trying to put across a message. They are simply imitating and we just don't care. Well I do, and I am sure others do as well. But now I have the proof. I knew I went to uni for a reason. To win arguments.

Aussie Idol has ruined my life in other ways too. I used to love Michael Jackson's "Can You Feel It", often alarming other drivers with my frantic car dancing, getting so worked up that I am sure other motorists thought I was perhaps having some kind of seizure and just in case, they changed lanes to avoid me. Along with strange looks, this song brought me joy. It's upbeat and makes you want to dance. I guess that's why Aussie Idol decided to use it on their advert. Either that or they have a secret and unfounded hate for me and decided to do it purely out of spite and are currently sitting behind their big mahogany desks, laughing their little asses of at my misery.

You decide.

We're Not Going To Make It

I live a 2 minute drive from uni. And though you would think that this may in fact encourage me to walk the mere 1.4 kilometers every day, my laziness prevails and I continue to pollute the environment by driving my car whilst putting all my vegetarian, recycling, 4-minute showing taking efforts to shame. I should be penitent but that's what 2 solid months of Star Trek watching will do to one's fitness levels. While I was training to climb to Mt Everest base camp, a fellow loon (aka those who wake up at 6 in the morning, put on a pair of hiking boots, fill a backpack full of water bottles and various other heavy stuff to then proceed to Jacob's ladder in Kings Park and scamper up and down a concrete stair case until it's time to go to work) told me that you can lose your fitness in a measly two weeks. It took me almost a year of training to get fit for Everest and after I conquering that mountain all it took for my newly found fitness to fail me was a couple of weeks eating Nepalese food with my hands, spending most of my time in a taxi/rickshaw/any mode of transport not involving my own personal movement and eating more Nepalese food with my hands. In fact I think that was the only time I moved. Hand from plate to mouth. All the while I was thinking that I would return to Perth a wonder woman and everyone would want to date me as I ran past them, my high altitude-trained lungs working at only half steam propelling me forward like a super hero. When I arrived home I found myself puffed as I struggled to pull my suitcase, visions of Super hero-dom vanishing swiftly like of those plates of food I had consumed only days before. I have never regained that fitness, there's nothing quite like the tallest mountain on earth to get you motivated and funnily enough running the city to surf really didn't cut it for me, so I remain teetering between exceptional laziness and a more moderate laziness. And getting back to the point, Star Trek marathons, involving superfluous snacks, encourage the former kind. Hence the driving.

As it takes me only minutes to drive to uni I often go home in the breaks between classes to make myself a sandwich that costs me only $1.40, instead of spending $7.95 for a funny tasting salad, a big tray of chips, or the world's most expensive apple. I have to save money to fund my eBay habit somehow. And today was one of those days in which I had drove to and from uni a couple of times. After my last class, iPod in, and with a swagger in my walk I strolled in the direction of the car park. Singing along to Marilyn Manson, wondering if it would be possible, like in the movies, to have a soundtrack to my day to day happenings. Cursing the hills as my calf muscles ached reminding me of the cringe you feel as a opera singer hits that high note. Uncomfortable and wondering if an injury will ensue. As I closed in on the car park I realised that I had no idea where I had parked. I had parked in two different areas that day and my surroundings were looking vague and unhelpful. Was it the first or second time that I parked illegally on the median strip? A red Saab caught my eye and I thought maybe I had parked next to it, subconsciously remembering it to avoid such a calamity. Alas, no. There was no car graced with an Apple sticker in sight. I began to worry that I would be forever traipsing the university car park, begging for extensions from passing tutors trying to get to their own cars, because I had never made it home and I didn't have all my books on me. Each row of cars looking identical to the next, I began to jog. Marilyn Manson began to fade in my ears and the strains of a new song began to emerge. I was hoping for something inspiring like "Your Car Is Just Round That Next Corner", you know, that country song by Ima Fullo Shit instead I got "We're Not Going To Make It" by the President's of the USA. My only response at this time was to sit down were I stood and refuse to move, oddly childish of me, but somehow cathartic. I felt my strength returning and as I lifted my head, and leaned on the nearest car for support I realised that that car was mine. I wiped away a tear, gave the tyre a small kick and went home.

The moral of the story....be childish. It works.

School's out for Summer....okay well winter actually, but no one wrote a song about winter.

Assignments delivered. Exams attended and hopefully completed with success. Old books put away and new ones taken their place, primed for the next semester along with a new timetable, it's colour coding matching the dividers in the pristine notebook sitting on my shelf. It's newness indicative of the new slate that the beginning of new units brings. The semester 1 information that I had fought so bravely to contain within my grey matter, begins slowly to leak out, leaving only remnants of that information, deemed important to remember for future reference. With one semester finished and seemingly never ending weeks till the new one begins, one begins to consider options for the "Hooray, I have finished my exams and have an awfully long time till I have to pick up another book that is not related to either Elves or Wizards and contort my brain into remembering things that it really wishes to forget, all the while creating plenteous excuses not to study" celebration. Some call it simply the "End of Semester" celebration, but I believe the former is a far more vivid and lively description.

Celebrations surrounded me, like geeks surrounding the newest release of World of Warcraft. Logging onto Facebook I saw multitudes of students preparing for the post semester wind up. Parties to the left and trips to Northbridge to the right. If I so desired I could have visited all the great party spots of Perth in, what was described on one event's pages, "the most awesome 10 hours of your life." As I didn't desire anything of the sort I began to consider what I could do in 10 hours that would blow these parties out of the water. It was easy. It was a given. There was no choice really. If anyone has a spare 10 hours and reason to celebrate, I could recommend only one thing. One thing to delight. To maximise those 10 hours in the most worthwhile way possible.

My post exam celebration was to be a Lord of the Rings Marathon. Who needs parties, loud music and alcohol when you could have 10 blissful hours crammed with Gandalf, Aragorn, several Hobbits and a convoluted story about the one ring to rule them all, one to to find them, one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them? I say no one. Lord of the Rings provides you with all the sustenance one needs for a post exam repose. It's full of iron, protein, Vitamin B12 and zinc, and so much more that it could be mistaken for Centrum. The only thing it's missing is artificial colourings and flavourings, saturated fat and a shitload of sugar, so being the responsible adult I am, I went shopping to ensure all my nutritional needs would be met......


With a belly full of Pineapple Hunks (okay I am sure they used to be called Chunks, not Hunks), and visions of far away lands enveloping me, creating warmth like a great pair of ugg boots, the next 10 hours of sheer delight were like a pat on the back for all the hard work I had put in over the previous 14 weeks, emptying my mind just enough to allow some room for next semester.

Frodo: "I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened."
Gandalf: "So do all who live to see such times but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."