It has been one amazing year. I passed my first year exams in March, missing out on a scholarship by just a few marks, though I feel justified in attributing this to my ankle, which gave way after falling out of a tree in college 4 weeks before my exams, causing me to be in hospital for a week, have surgery and then be on strong drugs up until my exams… This was also the cause of the comment in my last report from my philosophy tutor of my being in a ‘drug induced haze’ in one of our tutorials…

Apart from the broken ankle hiccup, everything has been going suspiciously smoothly. My highlights of the year include sitting 2 metres from Richard Dawkins, shaking hands with Weiskrantz, being elected as Female welfare officer, going punting, making a snow angel, enjoying a Bulgarian (and a little Latvian) Christmas and seeing more of the world (including the south of France, Monaco, Italy, Scotland, Cornwall, ‘up-north’, Amsterdam and Tenerife).

I’m continuing to love my course. Last term the psychologists started their second year studies. I read ‘philosophy of mind’ and enjoyed one on one tutorial that involved an hour of mind boggling debates each week concerning how we can possibly describe the mind in physical terms given the Cartesian divorce of mind from body. I also read Cognitive Neuroscience, Social psychology and participated in Core practical classes where we conducted experimental research.

Next year is going to be even busier and more fantastic than the last. I aim to get a 1^st in my next exams, so I’ll be studying hard. Plus I’ll be the female welfare officer at college so I’ll be organising some events and looking out for the welfare of other college members. I’m applying to do some internships during the vacations and also looking forward to some more visits from family and friends (hint hint…)

I’m sending all my love back home; I’ve been missing home a lot more these holidays, especially since my trip to Tenerife (inspired by my craving for warmth and beach), where the warm weather had me accidentally reverting to my Australian colloquialisms, using words such as ‘arvo’ ‘Maccas’ ‘investigationing’ and other such terms I’ve since forgotten with my return to the UK. I’m worried about my accent too – whenever I Skype people back home I’m increasingly noticing how Australian they sound, which I’m guessing means my accent is becoming less Aussie… But at least it would be a laugh if I came home and couldn’t help but use my new phrases; ‘maccy D’s’, ‘chunder’, ‘lash’, ‘alright?’ (said instead of ‘how are you?’) and so on…

I hope everyone is well and the Aussie winter is coming to an end (it sure feels like summer is over here… two days after it started…)

Except that when I lay on the beach in Australia I was reading Descartes. I was thinking about how you can tell if you’re dreaming, about whether all we can truly know is “I am”, and concurrently I was dreaming about being in Oxford.

I remember the thought of Oxford. It was a knot in my chest, a burning in my stomach, a quickened pace of my heart, because to me Oxford was utopia. It was a Utopia that I would only be denied because I had not been born to money, something that was completely incomprehensible. I came to the decision that it I wanted to know anything it was that I could do anything. Whether or not I am dreaming, whether or not I am justified in the knowledge of my present surroundings I wanted to know that there is nothing stopping me from changing my present surrounding to suit myself.

And today I sat in the quad of Lady Margaret Hall, Oxford. Today the sun was out on a chill day but it still had the power to warm me. I was reading Descartes and thinking about whether we can tell if we are dreaming or not and if we can know for certain anything other than “I am”.

Except that as I was sitting in the sun, being warmed despite the general chill, I was dreaming that I was lying on a beach in Australia. I was dreaming of that big sun and the waves. I was dreaming of my friends and family.

Then I was thinking these words.

I realised I was happy. I felt so happy and content to be:

I was in between two worlds.

I was in between two dreams,

linked by one somewhat fallacious dead white male.

I was surprised at first to hear my fellow students call study ‘work’ however, in all consideration, as a full time student studying is one’s occupation. Everyone I spoke to said it would be hard work. “I know hard work”, I though and perhaps even considered their musings to be slight exaggerations, but if anything they didn’t quite hit the mark.

At the beginning of term we had group meetings with Fiona Spensley, the senior tutor, to establish the general comings and goings of ‘work’ at Oxford (although I do recall leaving that meeting feeling completely at a loss for information concerning this key topic). I cannot forget her face as one girl answered that she thought we should moderate our work as we did at school; six hours a day five days a week. Her complexion faded and for a moment she lost that air of quiet control that paradoxically overcomes her petit frame. “w-well…” she returned, “perhaps if you had a… er… seven day week, that might suffice.” She then continued to suggest that if we wanted to enjoy a weekend then we should work for eight hours per day. I’ve since found that in order to complete work to the expected standard, sometimes even eight hours is a little sparse.

My workload, compared to some, is fairly light. My course is called PPP for Philosophy, Psychology and Physiology, however from the outset you choose just two P’s, (in my case Philosophy and Psychology) and in later years can even choose what weighting you wish to apply to each discipline. The preliminary part of the course lasts two terms, we have collections at the beginning of each term and an exam at the end of each stretch of the course (so the end second term for me). The preliminary work doesn’t count toward your final degree, however they make it clear that if you do not perform to standard (a “2.2” or above, so more than 50%) then they will ‘find another respectable university for you to attend’ to put it in their words. I have three subjects that will be tested; Philosophy, Psychology and Statistics. The statistics course is quite easy as I’ve done a lot of the work before (binomials and probability for example) however, the course is specifically tailored to suit Psychology students so the exam questions are quite different from good old high school maths. In Psychology this term we have studied Development and Perception and next term will by Physiological Psychology and Psychobiology. In Philosophy I’ve just completed a course in Logic and next term I will get to choose 6 ‘general Philosophy’ topics to study.

The workload doesn’t sound like much: I have a tutorial and a lecture per subject (except for Psychology where I have two lectures). But a lot is expected out of the work you prepare for tutorials. In Psychology I normally have an essay and 5 – 10 ‘short notes’ (explanations and evaluations of terminology) to write, which gives me about 7 – 8 pages and if I read only the prescribed texts I couldn’t expect a mark above 60. Then I have worksheets for Philosophy and Statistics. As I said though, this isn’t too bad, my neighbour has a ten page theology essay on top of the same philosophy work as me.

I remember being slightly disappointed with my first mark in Psychology, though I hadn’t known what to expect. The essay I handed in was the third version I had completed, the others I didn’t think were good enough. Coming from Davo high, where marks in the 90’s were lavishly adorned on my essays, a 66 seemed very close to a fail. I’ve since learned to be happy with this mark and any “2.1”, and ecstatic with anything close to 70 (a “1”).

I have so far explained the workload and structure, but do not think I’m going to forget to write about how much I love it! I can’t help but be fascinated by everything I read and with the quality and quantity of information available I could spend weeks just reading about one single area of a weekly topic. The Bodlein Library contains every book published in Britain (most aren’t on site though, you have to order them) and the Radcliff science library contains the books specific to my course, plus online I can access pretty much any article I like for free. The psychology course is especially contemporary, some of the experiments we learn about were published just this year and many of the concepts are still open to debate, which we are encouraged to do.

I’ve already found the Philosophy course quite complementary to Psychology, despite how different the two disciplines are. I find myself referring to Philosophers in my Psychology essays when talking about ‘innate abilities’ or ‘theory of mind’. The two ways of learning are quite different though; where I leave my Psychology tutorial with my questions answered I often leave my Philosophy tutorial with more questions than I came in, but these are juicy questions I love to mull over. It’s an odd feeling actually, stepping down the stairs of “old old hall” (part of the original 1878 Lady Margaret Hall) from Christopher Shield’s office where the walls are lined with books (Plato Aristotle, Kant, Aquinas) we talk so much about extension sometimes its like we enter another world where time slows down so much that thinking begins to hurt. I’m constantly flummoxed by Shield’s British-American accent, strange intonations and expressions involving words I wouldn’t be able to spell, let alone understand. Three of us sit on his couch, intimidated, as he picks apart our measly understanding to reveal all the holes, then sits back as we try to come up with the questions that will cause him to give us the answers to fill these holes.

Oxford, I am continuously amazed by. There are talks, lecture, seminars on every day and night, there are books and people, just channels of knowledge to access. Every bystander on the street, who isn’t a chinese tourist, is an expert in some field or another.

Play

From the first moment my fellow students at “LMH” were welcoming and friendly, promising to destroy any notion of Oxford as a place completely populated by pretentious twats (not saying that stereotype is completely unwarranted). My college family is fantastic: My mum, Nina, studies PPP like me, my dad, Tom, studies English and is a crazy rower and my ‘sista’, Helen, also studies English. I remember the first day, Nina took Helen and Abby (my second year sister) to the local pub with other families, and Helen was talking so fast and everyone had a strange accent and there was no room to be nervous, everyone was just immediate friends. Helen and I have big plans for LMH’s own aerobics society. I have also (to my real mum’s initial horror) gotten ‘married’ to my neighbour and good mate, Blake, who studies French and is the head of everyone’s favourite, Dirtee Toynbee based, Loitering society.

The number of societies to join in Oxford is seemingly infinite. This term I signed up for so many; drama, irish dance, dancesport, assassins, juggling, music, rowing, art, psychology, law, cross country, Advertising, several newspapers, the drinking society, movies and probably a few more. Whilst I enjoy the constant spam, I only really get involved in the dancesport (ballroom dancing conveniently in college every Sunday), rowing (with which I competed in the Christchurch regatta this term) and the Psychology Society (for which I am a first year representative this upcoming term). The loitering society is unavoidable, living on ‘Dirtee Toynbee’ my hall is a main commuter corridor, with the bar just outside my window, the library down the hall along with the ‘venders’ and the ATM and change machine. Plus I’m right across from the pantry. Loitering is also ongoing and perfect for study break elongation, there is always a welcoming conversation, whether it concerns the merits of unemployment payouts or Graham’s love life.

Oxford city is incredible to live in. I live in LMH which is a little way out of the city centre, but also very nice. We have a nice big backyard and also our own entrance to the University Parks, where I go running in the mornings. Its about 5 minutes to the city centre by bike, that’s where the Bodlein Library (bod) the exam schools and Tescos are (these are my notable ports of call). Also of interest is the covered markets (with ben’s cookies – thanks for introducing me Chris!) the missing bean café (again thanks Chris) Blackwells, the Varsity store, Fire and Stone (£4 pizza on thursdays) and Primark (a one stop shop for bop outfits).

What about the nightlife? I small part of me was willing to accept that a University with the prestige of Oxford may not be best place for nightlife. This small part of me was happily slaughtered during fresher’s week. Because LMH is a little way out, we normally go out as a big college group which traditionally ends up being ‘varsity events’, simply put the popular student club nights. The most popular is Fridays and Wahoo (a personal favourite). I would describe Wahoo as small and dingy, with bad service expected, bad vodka cheap and bad music the same every week (don’t tell my college friends I called the music bad, but it is the commercial same-same that I would drive me crazy if I heard it day in and day out). Despite this description, Wahoo is guaranteed fun; it’s a laugh and a good escape from the intense study.

It seems that every night there is something interesting going on in Oxford. There are plays, music recitals, interesting talks, poetry nights, balls, dinners, formal halls, crew dates; it’s crazy! Unfortunately I don’t have time to get involved with all these things, but the few that I’ve experienced have been amazing.

As you can see I’ve been working hard and playing hard – living every moment and making the most of everything Oxford has to offer. And I’m loving every minute of it!

Nietzsche once said “Really, there is nobody living about whom I care much. The people I like have been dead for a long, long time…” However, as much as I cannot deny Nietzsche’s genius, neither can I deny that he was a nihilistic misanthrope who failed in his life to see any joy that was unaccompanied by pain. I too am inspired by a myriad of ‘dead white males’ from Socrates to Descartes to Nietzsche himself yet I am gratified in my knowledge that none of them could instill in me the passion for life that my family, friends and even friends of friends have done.

I’d like to thank everyone who’s supported me in getting to Oxford, but also for being part of my life so far. Now I’ve moved so far away I’ve come to realise the deep respect I hold for all my family and friends. I’m lucky to have been surrounded by people who don’t struggle to dream, to make the most of the present and to accept the quirks of those around them. You’ve inspired me. From the boy all those years ago at the folk campfire who enlightened me to the idea of reaching for the moon, to the lady who, in teaching me to make coffee, also showed me the happiness of accepting one’s circumstances in utter contentment, all in true testament to Oscar Wilde’s premise that “nothing that is worth knowing can be taught”.

Oxford may be my zenith but in going to Oxford I take with me a Utopia of memories.

Thank you.

One of my aspirations in coming to Oxford was to meet some of the alumni, Will Self was definitely in the top ten. Little was I to know that I would come across an opportunity to soon! There I was, on the floor of my room, shuffling through the 15 different Oxford handbooks I’d been given (including the LMH student handbook, examinations handbook, international students handbook, student union handbook and many more) when I came across a stray flyer from the “Daily Info”. One side was covered in cinema information but I flicked it over to find a nice bright title: Theatre. “Thats very Oxford,” I thought, “I wonder what’s going on there” and to my greatest surprise, second from the top was the emboldened name, WILL SELF! My heart skipped a beat, my mouth went dry, the eyes flew to the date and, when I saw it was today I literally leapt to my feet. As I was reaching for my bag I noticed the time, it was to be at 5pm, and it was currently 5:35pm…

To be honest my initial woe subsided at the thought of being released from the obligation of walking all the way to the Oxford Playhouse and then forking out 11 pounds simply to listen to him read selections from his new book, “walking to hollywood”, however, had the opportunity been more favorable I would have been there in a heartbeat. If the future doesn’t present the opportunity for me to be in the presence of Will Self I will eternally regret my lack of trying to catch the last five minutes of his appearance

But the other day I smelt something in the air; it was a warm smell, slightly wet and a little ashy; it was summer. I looked up at the sky and realised there were hardly any clouds, the sun was out and it was a nearly summer sun!

There are 51 days until I leave for Oxford. I have two shifts left at Hoyts and then I will be back to a human amount of work. Before I go to Oxford I’m going to get back to being me again.

Summer: I’m ready.

Both monday and tuesday I had 15 hour days (9am till 12am)!! I was pretty proud of myself for this and so decided not to pick up a night shift on wednesday and, better yet, not set my alarm for the next day… I woke up at 3:30pm, leaving a relaxing 2 hours before I had to be dressed and ready for work.

It’s shifts like those that allow me to forgive myself for the occasional winge about customers (ok, maybe more often than occasional…)

Many of the people I come across in my various occupations are not at all at the higher end of the IQ metre, however they all have their redeeming features. One couple, during an especially frustrating night decided to spell everything out to me as if I was an idiot, even making me repeat their order just incase I was somehow impaired and god forbid I didn’t get that they wanted lime in their soda.

After returning with their drinks I was touched by a renewed effort to make personal contact with me. “Give them another chance” I thought, as they made a comment about my name. Apparently they knew someone with the same name as me, and we look similar too. “Righto, time to make an intelligent comment, save you from spending 10 precious minutes repeating everything they say” I decided.

“Perhaps she’s my doppelganger, Finally! I’ve been looking for her everywhere!”

Brilliant! though the sentence involved polysyllabic words it also included elements of pop culture and a touch of humour so that I didn’t sound too pretentious. Then came the reply:

“No, you don’t seem anything alike.”

So although I don’t comply with Freud’s ideas, perhaps he was a little clueful in some areas: Projection of personal traits onto others. Note to self; if people treat you as an idiot, give them extra tolerance, for they are probably compensating for their own ignorance.

Anti-cultural

In chinatown one must say that the environment is created out of chinese culture. Similarly in Leichhardt there are strong European cultural influences. There are many pockets of culture all over Sydney, and certainly there is a fantastic selection of cuisine, but how multicultural are we in reality? Having been to Japan I can surely say that when people call Chatswood “Asian” it is no where near as “Asian” as Japan itself. There’s the food, the people, the shops, all of which contain elements of Asia, but none of which add up to the incredible experience of Asia that was Japan. Chatswood is rather like a a faded watercolor of Asian culture, Asia minus the essence of Asia. Similarly, having been to France, I am entirely disappointed by the “Bread of France” bakery at my local shopping mall, not that it isn’t a fantastic bakery (one of the best I’ve been to in Australia) but it fails entirely in recreating for me the experience of a French croissant. A French croissant should be bought from someone who refuses to speak any language other than French to foreigners, it should be still hot from the oven and taste of French butter, it should be eaten outside, and impose on the eater the true juxtaposition between the fresh white pastry and city air, that mirrors all that Paris is… I’m certain the same could be said of other microcosms of culture around Sydney. Even in the QVB, where the architecture is evocative of Victorian buildings, there is something lacking, something that prevents the pedestrian from making the mistake of thinking they’d just walked into an old British building. One can go to an Indian restaurant, but what they experience is not a slice of India, but a reminiscence of India as the restaurant cannot possibly recreate the essence of such a place. Each culture in Australia is reminiscent of the original, but fails to capture the essence of it.

What I have concluded from this is that Australia should not be called multicultural, as no microcosm of culture truly reflects the macrocosm it is borrowed from. Rather what Australia has is anti culture, as it doesn’t ascribe to any particular predesigned culture. It is a collage of images that make a new image, one that overcomes the relevance of any one image that makes it up.

History

I think what Australia lacks, that gives other cultures their “essence” is History. Australia probably has the longest Histories of culture, yet it has been so trampled on and torn apart, pieces of it lost, and it conflicts so much with the majority of people’s everyday routines that it fails to permeate into our lives. I know and appreciate the stories of the Rainbow Serpent and why the crow is black, but they don’t impact my day to day existence the same way that the  presence of the Eiffel tower in Paris brings constant symbolism of what it means to be Parisian, or the old palace in Kyoto that gives a signal essence to what it is to be Japanese to population of Kyoto. This lack of history is incredibly sad, and I think that is one of the reasons I see Australia as having Anti culture.

A New World

Perhaps Anti culture isn’t necessarily a bad thing. One of the grand topics of my English Extension class last year was what was to follow Postmodernism? The epitome of Postmodernist ideals is in the rejection of the objective truth. I see Postmodernism as questioning all that came before, as re-interpreting and and freeing the individual from the clutches of the majority. Texts are appropriated, critics are criticised, history is questioned. And now we have this wonderful environment in Australia, one that appropriates culture, one that lacks history and one with an environment that allows for free though, speech, et cetera. So why are we not all existentialists? Perhaps we have moved past Postmodernism and a preoccupation with denying objective truth, or at least past the cusp of it.

To elaborate I shall include a little anecdote:

Last week I went to a cute restaurant to farewell a friend who is going traveling. This restaurant was typical of “mod” Australia, appealing to the youth who uphold ideals of being “indie” and so forth. It had been in “Yen” magazine, another magnet for “indie” gen-Y, and its website proclaimed the restaurants philosophy to aspire “freely to the utopia of unitary urbanism” and the concept of “psychogeography”. Our fellow dinners were only to be expected; a gay aryan couple, a group of asian uni students and some amateur food critics who thought it a great idea to go outside for a smoke before trying to enjoy panacotta – why not just ask to chef to serve it with a sprinkling of tobacco, or have it set in an unwashed ash tray? (this made me doubt their identity as food critics, but they were taking photos of the food and had four courses). Back to my point – the lure of cynicism is so strong – so we sat in this restaurant and I though, “this is contemporary Australia, this is the image that has come from all those microcosms”. The food was a great mix, we had Pakora for an entree, and I had fish in a creamy Thai-reminisce sauce, whilst my companion enjoyed Italian penne in mediterranean vegetable sauce. The walls were adorned with mod-art, a mix of train inspired imagery and postmodern minimalism (in the bathroom there was a picture-frame containing only a tiny little ‘stop’ sign). Did I mention the cocktails? Far from what you’d find in Northern Beaches Americanised TV culture hubs: they contained ingredients such as Elderflower liqueur and rose water. And on the wine list; it was more difficult to find a Savignon Blanc than a Pinot Gris!

Strangely I was tempted to forget the clear facade of its philosophy and the falacy of those who aspired to it and go along with the idea. Just as one can look at postmodern art and see it as lacking in skill and taste, or enjoy the comfort of it. Furthermore the restaurant wasn’t trying to belong to a particular culture and wasn’t pretending to have a history it didn’t, it was very much a present tense anti-culture. And in the anti-culture I forgot the need for truth. I was simultaneously able to appreciate and doubt the integrity of the “indie” atmosphere. I took pleasure from this.

Let me finish with integrating some thoughts from Dan Dennett (my new favourite). In his paper “Postmodernism and Truth” (1998) Dennett proposes that throughout History mankind’s remedy to doubt and fear has been improving “truth-seeking methods”, in fact truth has been the goal of most of our innovations; measuring, arithmetic, maps, etc… “…the goal of truth goes without saying, in every human culture.” I propose that now, in a world freed from culture and history, perhaps we can also be freed from our addiction to truth (even subjective truth). The question is whether this will only inflate the blind consumerism that eats away at this world or create the contentedness that I felt and disconnect the young from the “I want” paradigm. Can we take pleasure from anti-culture and a lack of history or would this be simply placing a curtain over the doubt and fear that forces our continual search for truth and meaning?

So I was at work, going about my business, though at a slower rate than usual because it was one of those slow sundays, when all of a sudden I was confronted by what I can only think to name a Rude Old Lady. Now id you’ve come across several old ladies you may know that many defeat the stereotype of senile superciliousness, however this was not one of those.

I was working at work as I’m paid to do, and to my least expectation this lady opens her mouth and comes out with:

“Clean that up.”

Three words, hardly a sentence at all. I was so shocked I thought I misheard her, perhaps I’d got the end of a conversation that was not directed at me. Her face looked bland, ignorant of the contempt the words implied, rather she looked as if she’d just said “I feel like going for a tranquil walk in a park and sitting under a shady tree and knitting a pink tea cosy.”

“What was that, sorry?” I said, not my best sentence either, however I do think I did well considering my confusion, I was still trying to think up possible alternatives that could sound like what I think I heard.

“Clean that up.” Loud and clear this time, there was no mistaking it, no excusing it, this lady was actually being very supercilious and I don’t think being senile is any excuse.

“Just a moment” I replied and promptly attempted to repress the conversation.

Yet, as I was ignoring her, I couldn’t keep it out of my head, and the horridness of hindsight forces me to set out in public what I should have said, and what I will attempt to say in any future situations:

“I’m sorry miss, I realise this place doesn’t look as though there are any unwritten laws of etiquette that apply but I do have some expectation of common decency from patrons. If you are not going to leave me a tip, which you are clearly to cheap to do, I at least expect a thank you/please to come with your demands, otherwise I shall pretend you don’t exist and leave you to sit in your own mess like a baby in a diaper.”

Not that I would ever have the nerve to say this to someone’s face, but it feels better to put my true feelings into words.

Now, finally, I may be freed from regret and be able to repress those few moments of my life, perhaps avoid pts and be able to go back to work and feel as though the customers are aware of my being a person, not a slave or a machine.