Bedfest is over, ending with a muddled bang in the form of 24 Hour Play, to which I contributed a scene; this means that, if one includes Project X, four pieces of my writing were performed in Bedlam over the last week and a piece of my writing was performed every day of the festival, except for Monday.
Rob and Roberta went very well- the audience laughed, gasped and even cried at one point, when Adam Butler did his best impression of Bambi in the meadow. Even my mother, whose always has a somewhat tense relationship with my writing, due to copious levels of violence, seemed to genuinely enjoy it. She came back and watched the second performance, which wasn't the original plan, and had nothing but praise for the cast and the script, so I'm just gonna go ahead and assume she was being genuine when she complimented her, although I do doubt that she would have told me had she loathed it.
On the Wasting Candles was similarly met with a lot of enthusiasm, a few laughs and even a rather bloodthirsty roar of approval when Ailish George was dragged off to be broken down to make candles- it was kind of like being at a Gladiatorial games, with a universal thumbs down coming from the punters. Still, no one could say it wasn't entertaining, which is probably how they justified the original gladiatorial games as well.
24 Hour Play was...esoteric. In the end, it was exactly what you'd expect to get if you put a bunch of tired students in a room and told them to write one scene of what is meant to be a continuous narrative, which is to say very funny, if not always deliberately so. Still, I've participated in a 24 hour play every single year of my university career, and I'm glad I continued that tradition.
Sadly, I didn't get to see my mum for too long while she was up, due to various rehearsals and othersuch commitments. She didn't even get to clean my flat, as I'd done it before she arrived (she was very flattered by this, recognising the hours of toil and risk of infection this must have entailed). However, she did get to explain to me that she hates the phrase 'I'm proud of you' as it implies that I somehow have to try and impress her and besides she doesn't feel that she should be proud of someone else' achievements, but that, were she a different kind of person, she would be proud of me. Not gonna lie, I cried a little at that.
Sunday 26 January 2014
Wednesday 22 January 2014
I Must Bide
I have a new DOS: this sort of annoys me on principle, even though in practice it matters not a jot, because I almost made it 4 years with the same DOS and now, at the elventh hour, things have changed. My DOS is not actually all that important to my academic career- the only time I've had a non-mandatory interaction with them in the whole of my uni career was when I knocked on Caroline's office door to request a reference to send me to Melbourne and she rather awkwardly asked who I was. But its aesthetically preferrable to have the same DOS all the way through, so I'm slightly miffed. Also, it seems slightly stupid to me to bother giving me a new DOS, apart from the Uni-obligated meet-and-chat in the first two weeks of term, I only see them if something goes wrong- so, as my new DOS pointed out, I sincerely hope I never see him again.
Still, when I met with Dr. Smith yesterday, he seemed very optimistic about my academic chances- certainly moreso than I, which I guess is...good? He certainly seems to think I can get a first, which is good, and was unphased when I said I was directing a show this term, so he obviously thinks it's manageable, which I was personally beginning to doubt. Let's just hope I can prove him right.
Bedlam is awash with blood this week since, in BedFest tradition, we're playing Assassins. I actually just used 'we' entirely incorrectly in this case, as I demurred to play this year. It's actually much more fun to watch from the outside- especially, since I have a little inside knowledge about who's after who. I get a peverse amount of pleasure from watching my friends all killing one another: maybe I should start making Saw movies.
My dissertation is also heating up, which worries me immensely, because I haven't really collected enough data yet and I haven't even started on my control group and Rose very kindly informed I only have ten weeks left and that means that I have to be writing 100 words a day, which isn't that much but it also has to all be pertinent and eloquent and it counts for one third of my grade! The natural solution to this problem is to work a lot on it now so it'll be less stressful later, but when have I done the sensible thing? Expect a lot of posts around mid-april about how I have to stay up all night to try and bang out 7000 words in one evening.
And finally, I've been listening to Danny Boy a lot recently, which makes me scared that I'm depressed on some level without knowing it.
Still, when I met with Dr. Smith yesterday, he seemed very optimistic about my academic chances- certainly moreso than I, which I guess is...good? He certainly seems to think I can get a first, which is good, and was unphased when I said I was directing a show this term, so he obviously thinks it's manageable, which I was personally beginning to doubt. Let's just hope I can prove him right.
Bedlam is awash with blood this week since, in BedFest tradition, we're playing Assassins. I actually just used 'we' entirely incorrectly in this case, as I demurred to play this year. It's actually much more fun to watch from the outside- especially, since I have a little inside knowledge about who's after who. I get a peverse amount of pleasure from watching my friends all killing one another: maybe I should start making Saw movies.
My dissertation is also heating up, which worries me immensely, because I haven't really collected enough data yet and I haven't even started on my control group and Rose very kindly informed I only have ten weeks left and that means that I have to be writing 100 words a day, which isn't that much but it also has to all be pertinent and eloquent and it counts for one third of my grade! The natural solution to this problem is to work a lot on it now so it'll be less stressful later, but when have I done the sensible thing? Expect a lot of posts around mid-april about how I have to stay up all night to try and bang out 7000 words in one evening.
And finally, I've been listening to Danny Boy a lot recently, which makes me scared that I'm depressed on some level without knowing it.
Monday 20 January 2014
Death of the Author
I just finished reading a book by Roald Dahl entitled Switch Bitch: I was attracted not only by the fact there was a rude word in the title (although, the only other book I've read with an expletive in the title, The Bloody Chamber, definitely merited cursing and should, in my opinion, be called The Bloody Bloody Chamber), but by the promise of reading some of Dahl's fiction for older readers, which I found a fascinating prospect because he was one of my favourite children's authors.
I really wish now that I hadn't read it.
The stories all concerned sex, which is fine, but two of the four stories were told from the point of view of rapists. This does not necessarily mean the stories have to be bad- exploring the psyche of villainous characters can be extremely interesting (if somewhat unpleasant), what worried me was the way the stories treated the rapes: sadly, I am going to have to use spoilers to explain why I was uncomfortable. The first story, The Great Switcheroo, is about two husbands swapping wives without telling their spouses- they sneak into each others' houses in the dark and copulate with the women (beginning when the wives are asleep, I might add) while giving the impression that they are the women's husbands. This is treated as perfectly fine, if risky- nevermind that this is a crime in the real world known as 'rape by fraud'. The husband from whose point of view the story is told does get a 'comeuppance' in the loosest possible sense in that his wife prefers the other man's method of sex and so he feels outdone. That's it. It never occurs to him what a horrific thing he has done not only to his own wife, but to his friend's: yet again, stories where characters get away with horrific acts are not automatically bad, even morally, but the book treats this as nothing more than a joke. The men in the story know their wives would object to their plan, which is why it's risky, but they never stop to consider what effect it will have on their wives' emotional well-being if they're uncovered. And we're supposed to find this funny.
And I can't. I find it sickening.
The other story which really concerned me, although to be honest all the stories in this collection have elements of misogyny to them, was the last story, entitled Bitch. This is the second instalment in the adventures of Uncle Oswald, a character introduced in an earlier story- a rampant sexist playboy who we're meant to find 'cool' judging from the forewords to the stories, written by Oswald's nephew who thinks that Oswald 'knew how life should be lived'. Yet again, characters, even narrator-characters, in fiction having wrong opinions does not equate to the author holding them, but yet again the presentation of Oswald makes me think that we're meant to find him impossibly awesome and I simply don't. Mainly because he plans to goad the President of the USA into raping a woman on live television using spiked perfume (don't ask). He genuinely doesn't mind the woman being ravaged as long as it's caught on live TV so the President can be impeached. Once more, Oswald does receive a comeuppance of sorts- the perfume's used on him and he ends up having sex...with a fat lady! The humiliation! At least in this case, unlike Switcheroo, the rape doesn't actually occur but still, this is appalling.
And it makes me like Dahl's other works less, knowing he thinks like this. This is a problem I've encountered before- after all, I'm quite into Woody Allen at the moment, and look at the things of which he's been accused. I was going to say that at least in Allen's case his works don't betray his sentiments, but then I think about Manhattan and how accepting the adults are that Allen's character is dating a teenager and I realised I can't make that call.
And I genuinely don't know how to feel about it. I love Annie Hall, and I love Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but they were written by people with such abhorrent views that I can't help but feel that the works are tainted by association. This works the other way too: Daniel Radcliffe comports himself beautifully in the public eye, speaking out against bullying and all, but he can't act to save his life and so I can't help but wish he'd just stop. If only I could install Radcliffe's ethics into Allen and Dahl, or their talent into him. But perhaps that's too much to wish for: look at any artist you admire and I bet you'll find acts worthy of contention in their behaviour. I would hardly be the first person to suggest that an inner darkness is needed to create great art, but then what do we do? The obvious answer is to divorce the author from the work completely, say one is completely separate from the other, but in the case of still-living artists, like Allen, you then give them money every time you consume their work. You fund someone so vile. I refused to go and see Ender's Game because I knew some of the profits would go to anti-equality charities, but in that case at least there was a direct economic link between the art and the evil: Allen doesn't give money to some kind of international paedophiles fund, as far as I know. So the cases are not comparable.
I didn't write this expecting to come to a conclusion and I haven't. I don't want to stop consuming things of beauty- after all, without them life is extraordinarily dull- but I also don't want to support evil. I want to have my cake and eat it too, but the cake has been made with malice in its batter, but not consuming it will make life dull and dry. There really isn't an answer.
I really wish now that I hadn't read it.
The stories all concerned sex, which is fine, but two of the four stories were told from the point of view of rapists. This does not necessarily mean the stories have to be bad- exploring the psyche of villainous characters can be extremely interesting (if somewhat unpleasant), what worried me was the way the stories treated the rapes: sadly, I am going to have to use spoilers to explain why I was uncomfortable. The first story, The Great Switcheroo, is about two husbands swapping wives without telling their spouses- they sneak into each others' houses in the dark and copulate with the women (beginning when the wives are asleep, I might add) while giving the impression that they are the women's husbands. This is treated as perfectly fine, if risky- nevermind that this is a crime in the real world known as 'rape by fraud'. The husband from whose point of view the story is told does get a 'comeuppance' in the loosest possible sense in that his wife prefers the other man's method of sex and so he feels outdone. That's it. It never occurs to him what a horrific thing he has done not only to his own wife, but to his friend's: yet again, stories where characters get away with horrific acts are not automatically bad, even morally, but the book treats this as nothing more than a joke. The men in the story know their wives would object to their plan, which is why it's risky, but they never stop to consider what effect it will have on their wives' emotional well-being if they're uncovered. And we're supposed to find this funny.
And I can't. I find it sickening.
The other story which really concerned me, although to be honest all the stories in this collection have elements of misogyny to them, was the last story, entitled Bitch. This is the second instalment in the adventures of Uncle Oswald, a character introduced in an earlier story- a rampant sexist playboy who we're meant to find 'cool' judging from the forewords to the stories, written by Oswald's nephew who thinks that Oswald 'knew how life should be lived'. Yet again, characters, even narrator-characters, in fiction having wrong opinions does not equate to the author holding them, but yet again the presentation of Oswald makes me think that we're meant to find him impossibly awesome and I simply don't. Mainly because he plans to goad the President of the USA into raping a woman on live television using spiked perfume (don't ask). He genuinely doesn't mind the woman being ravaged as long as it's caught on live TV so the President can be impeached. Once more, Oswald does receive a comeuppance of sorts- the perfume's used on him and he ends up having sex...with a fat lady! The humiliation! At least in this case, unlike Switcheroo, the rape doesn't actually occur but still, this is appalling.
And it makes me like Dahl's other works less, knowing he thinks like this. This is a problem I've encountered before- after all, I'm quite into Woody Allen at the moment, and look at the things of which he's been accused. I was going to say that at least in Allen's case his works don't betray his sentiments, but then I think about Manhattan and how accepting the adults are that Allen's character is dating a teenager and I realised I can't make that call.
And I genuinely don't know how to feel about it. I love Annie Hall, and I love Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, but they were written by people with such abhorrent views that I can't help but feel that the works are tainted by association. This works the other way too: Daniel Radcliffe comports himself beautifully in the public eye, speaking out against bullying and all, but he can't act to save his life and so I can't help but wish he'd just stop. If only I could install Radcliffe's ethics into Allen and Dahl, or their talent into him. But perhaps that's too much to wish for: look at any artist you admire and I bet you'll find acts worthy of contention in their behaviour. I would hardly be the first person to suggest that an inner darkness is needed to create great art, but then what do we do? The obvious answer is to divorce the author from the work completely, say one is completely separate from the other, but in the case of still-living artists, like Allen, you then give them money every time you consume their work. You fund someone so vile. I refused to go and see Ender's Game because I knew some of the profits would go to anti-equality charities, but in that case at least there was a direct economic link between the art and the evil: Allen doesn't give money to some kind of international paedophiles fund, as far as I know. So the cases are not comparable.
I didn't write this expecting to come to a conclusion and I haven't. I don't want to stop consuming things of beauty- after all, without them life is extraordinarily dull- but I also don't want to support evil. I want to have my cake and eat it too, but the cake has been made with malice in its batter, but not consuming it will make life dull and dry. There really isn't an answer.
Friday 17 January 2014
Working Title
Rob and Roberta has been given a second performance; my Candlewaster, On the Wasting of Candles (which, as you may have gleaned from the title, is kind of esoteric to this show), is being acted out on both days that the candlewasters are showing; The Wonderful Wizard Of Oz was granted a second performance by the Bedlam Committee a couple of weeks ago. It seems strange to me that all the shows I've pitched this year have been so widely accepted- it wasn't even my idea to double up Rob and Roberta or On the Wasting of Candles- since, as previously discussed, at one point it was hard to get people to even consider staging my writing.
 |
| This was the only promotional image for one of the earliest shows I did- A Million Ways. I was gonna post it next to the Rob and Roberta Poster to show how far things had come, but I'm actually just gonna leave it here on its own because it adequately sums up how I feel about my workload. |
I've just come from a double bill of rehearsals for the two of the above-mentioned shows that I'm directly involved in, and now I'm working on my dissertation (you might contradict me and point out that I am, in fact, blogging, but fuck you, having the Word document open counts.)
This is indicative of the week I've been having and I'm slightly scared to think it might be a microcosm for fourth year in general: on Wednesday, our landlady came around to see the flat for the first time since I moved in and this meant that a certain amount of...correcting had to be done. And so, two days into term, I had to skip all my classes for a day and clean my damn room. On the plus side, Anne- my landlady- said I was 'obviously very tidy', so dodged a bullet there. On the plus plus side, it means my room is inhabitable for other people again and so I was able to invite Adam in to eat his lunch, picnic style on the sofa in my room- I felt like a proper host.
Other stresses, apart from the shows and general work load, are dissertation, which is really starting to kick in now that Christmas is over; TEFL work, which I have to complete by the end of January or pay a fine; another round of job applications, some of which are for work which seems really quite shady; and writing a press release for Rob and Roberta, which was fun but difficult. I ended up using words like 'brash' and 'lurid', which aren't actually positive in their original definitions but I think can be spun in an approbatory light, given the context (can you tell I've been studying semantics?).
Adding to the stress of this week was Stageageddon, a name I sadly cannot take credit for but which I do really enjoy saying, especially in the heavy metal tones that I feel the bold font implies. I'm not actually sure what happened- some say the stage was declared unsafe, others that essential building work merely went on too long, personally I like to think that John Rushton escaped from his cell in the crypt- but the result was that we were not allowed in the auditorium anymore. A week before a festival. Eep.
While this did effect me directly- and give me a few stress-induced headaches trying to work out where my rehearsals were, how many I'd lost and when I'd make them up- I'm mainly writing this to express my respect for the people who stepped up and helped solve the crisis. Well done, Bedfest team, and Bedlam Committee and everyone else who helped. I think you did really well: much better than I am doing facing about half the level of stress that that must have been, to which my response is to curl into a ball and sob.
As indicated by his wonderful quote from Tuesday, Professor Cann is proving to be a brilliant professor and his subject is kinda complex but varied and interesting- definitely more so than that other discipline he trash talked so pithily. I'm glad about this not just for the normal reasons of not wanting to have to dedicate time to something that bores me, but also because, if I apply myself- properly and actually- I could possibly, just possibly, get a first on my degree. I'm currently on a 68; which means I need to average 72 this semester to counter that. I think I can do that- I'm doing subjects which really interest me, and I managed to get a 78 on an essay just a couple of months ago. I let myself down a bit on my exams last semester, but I think with a bit of dedication, I could make the grade.
Literally.
Finally, I'm going to relate a story which will only make sense if you've read/seen Rob and Roberta, which will obviously be all of you come this time next week. Emma, Laurie, Izzy and I were sitting reciting the script at a table in Pleasance- eventually, we came to the Bees Monologue, and I noticed a man standing near us, waiting to be served, clearly listening in and being absolutely horrified. A testament to Laurie's acting ability, yes, but also a powerful warning against Eaves-dropping.
Tuesday 14 January 2014
The Most Pithy
I've just come out of a class where the most miraculous thing was said.
I'm so happy.
"The more you study Semantics, the more you realise that Syntax is useless."-Professor Ronnie Cann
I'm so happy.
Sunday 5 January 2014
A Million Ways
I had a dream last night, which I won't call a nightmare because I don't always feel the need to exaggerate: my mother kept trying to convince me that Invocal were never making anymore music and that I should pack away all my Invocal merchandise and find a new favourite band. While the first part of this (that Invocal may not produce any more music) might very well turn out to be true- they haven't recorded any new songs since my second year of uni, after all- this still made me extremely upset; probably because I knew it was a distinct possibility. I spent the day listening to Invocal to cheer myself up, and thought more on the deeper meaning of the dream, because I am just the sort of person who believes that every single thing their subconscious does not only has meaning but is also important, beautifully symbolic and pertinent: I've been applying for jobs to begin after I finish uni in May, a concept which utterly terrifies me. Quite understandably, it's been my parents who've been pushing me to do this, after all, they're the ones who'll have to live with me if I don't find employment. Do you see where I'm going with this? A fun, cultural, formative and deeply personal thing- Invocal/my time at uni- is coming to an end, and so I must put away childhood things and focus on new pursuits. In the dream, I thought my mother was being brutal and totalitarian, but in reality I completely see her point of view, and, what's more, I don't want to live with my parents: I want to go somewhere new, make new friends, try new things and not be in fucking Shropshire. But, even more, I want Invocal to make more music.
Please?
In the process of applying for jobs referenced to above, I have been sending out a CV and, occasionally, a photo (one ad specified a 'smiley' photo, to wean out those damn anhedonics). This the photo that I've elected to use:
This was taken by Daniel Harris, for the production of Spring Awakening that I was in. If you know me personally, you'll know that my face is not normally so...nice; I made the mistake of watching Daniel photoshop my face afterwards. It was odd, watching the blemishes and imperfections that make up the majority of my visage be wiped away to leave a landscape only dominated by those features that society deems fashionable, like an avalance of unpockmarked skin. I recognised the face that was left, obviously, but it wasn't quite me. It was a tiny bit sci-fi, if I'm honest.
I equate that experience with writing my CV: wiping away all the blemishes- the times when you weren't working, the jobs you applied for but didn't get, the areas you think you're not so strong in- leaving behind only a supremely capable and experienced individual who is totally, utterly confident and not afraid to show it. Yet again, you know the things being written are your own achievements- they do come from you- but the picture feels slighly incomplete without the pimples and freckles of self-doubt to weigh them out. It's you, yet not. I guess you could say that it's the ultimate version of you- the best you can be, but I find that idea kind of sad- like the experiences which taught me lessons (which are, as wisdom dictates, the ones where I made mistakes) have no value. I think that's kind of prudish, to be honest.
Please?
In the process of applying for jobs referenced to above, I have been sending out a CV and, occasionally, a photo (one ad specified a 'smiley' photo, to wean out those damn anhedonics). This the photo that I've elected to use:
I equate that experience with writing my CV: wiping away all the blemishes- the times when you weren't working, the jobs you applied for but didn't get, the areas you think you're not so strong in- leaving behind only a supremely capable and experienced individual who is totally, utterly confident and not afraid to show it. Yet again, you know the things being written are your own achievements- they do come from you- but the picture feels slighly incomplete without the pimples and freckles of self-doubt to weigh them out. It's you, yet not. I guess you could say that it's the ultimate version of you- the best you can be, but I find that idea kind of sad- like the experiences which taught me lessons (which are, as wisdom dictates, the ones where I made mistakes) have no value. I think that's kind of prudish, to be honest.
Friday 3 January 2014
2013: A retrospective
2013 began in infamy: an indicator, I believe, of the following twelve months' continual pattern of presenting seemingly terrible turns, only for something lovely to blossom out of it instead- like a forest fire which allows new trees to grow.
A schism that would eventually rend my friendship group apart began to form in the final hours of 2012 but really fissured the following morning, and eventually swallowed us all over the ensuing months. For my part, I chose a side early and paid the price for it- a rather vicious rumor was spread about me, and in a way, this helped me out: without the anchor of Rec Room 2 at Yarra, it allowed/inspired me to get out more and explore more of Melbourne and, even more excitingly, Australasia in general. This is the year I visited the Great Barrier Reef, the Rainforest, the Bush, Summer, Rosebud, New Zealand, Uluru and Seoul, if only for an evening. I also started doing theatre again, after taking a semester off- I acted in a twenty four hour play; I had a part written specifically for me; I starred in Amadeus again, surely securing it as a recurring motif in any autobiography I may or may not write (its themes of jealousy and anger would also be somewhat apropos); I even had to turn down a role because I was too busy (so Christopher Walken); my writing was performed on a new continent, twice, officially cementing me as an international playwright.
On top of this, the prolonged implosion of my social circle forced me to go out and make new friends, as well as strengthening relationships with old ones- Victoria, Aspen, Finny, Michael, Simon, Charlotte, David, Laura, Maddie, Declan, Greta, Daniel, Andrew A., Alana, Emily, Andrew K., Jess, Darcy, Anna. I'm not trying to say they're replacements, but I definitely felt the need to expand my network of friends and I found an ample supply of very worthy candidates. All this is to say: thanks, malicious rumormongers, your petty, destructive vindiction were my gain.
Of course, in July, I returned to Great Britain, leaving behind all these tantalising locations and lovely people (also some not so lovely). And, here's what I'm really thankful for from this year: I didn't get depressed.
Not that Britain is inherently depressing- but I have been known to sink into funks of mindnumbing depths, and I was extremely concerned that this would occur upon my return.I attribute my lack of depression mostly to my mother (and a tad to myself): she worked tirelessly to ensure that I was engaged by and motivated with my life, despite the fact that Shropshire is a profoundly unengaging and actively demotivating place. She made me get up, and look up old friends, and go for walks and work in the Second Hand Shop. She constantly checked up on my mental state and made sure that, even if I wasn't happy, I wasn't miserable. I found it sort of annoying at the time, but now I couldn't be more grateful (I made the point of telling her this over Christmas).
And then, of course, I returned to Edinburgh.
Socially, things have certainly changed- and mostly for the better, I feel: lots of the people I knew are gone, but then I hated most of the people I knew. And now I'll never see them again- huzzah! And the freshers, despite my initial reservations, are proving to be much the same as any other group of people- some rotters, some good'uns, wheat and chaff, curds and whey, salt and vinegar. Just sieve the gold from the river muck, as my Grandad probably said entirely literally. I am sad that people I counted as close friends, like Matthew, are gone; but, hey, if I want to get in contact with them, it's easier than ever. And to make up for it, I feel I've become much better acquainted with people who were part of my life before, but were never particularly prominent: Emma and Jonathan, for example, started Bedlam when I did, but our paths seldom crossed. Until now. Yay.
Academically, I have found the trasition from frittering about and occasionally handing in some hastily-penned essays to my grades actually mattering extremely stressful and horrible, but then it was always going to be, so at least Iwas should have been prepared. And, hey, I got a first, so it wasn't all bad.
Financially, my parents actually told me they thought I wasn't spending enough money- no joke- and they're going to up my monthly stipend. Woot. Still don't have a job here, though. Ah well- if at first, you don't succeed, et cetera, et cetera.
Romantically...well, I guess realistically that this year was as much a dud as every other romantically. Except that I had four potential suitors this year, all of whom expressed some degree of interest in me- at least one of which was even just purely physical, which I genuinely never expected to happen. So, I'm gonna chalk that up as a win, even if none of them really led anywhere (at least, not for very long).
What I'm saying is, this has been a very good year, especially when imagining how easily it could have gone wrong: my final few months in Oz could have been ruined by childish insults and churlish malevolence; I could have fallen into depression after the end of my year abroad; I could have returned to Edinburgh and found all that I'd missed gone forever and only vulturine newbies in its place; I could have failed to pick up the pace academically; in short, I walked a knife edge, and mostly managed to stay on top (I do realise, I should say, that I live an incredibly privileged life and none of these troubles match one tenth of the woes faced by most other people, but they still plagued me). I'm proud of what I accomplished this year, especially in terms of what I managed to avoid, and how much gold I actually did sieve from muck. On to 2014- may it be even better.
A schism that would eventually rend my friendship group apart began to form in the final hours of 2012 but really fissured the following morning, and eventually swallowed us all over the ensuing months. For my part, I chose a side early and paid the price for it- a rather vicious rumor was spread about me, and in a way, this helped me out: without the anchor of Rec Room 2 at Yarra, it allowed/inspired me to get out more and explore more of Melbourne and, even more excitingly, Australasia in general. This is the year I visited the Great Barrier Reef, the Rainforest, the Bush, Summer, Rosebud, New Zealand, Uluru and Seoul, if only for an evening. I also started doing theatre again, after taking a semester off- I acted in a twenty four hour play; I had a part written specifically for me; I starred in Amadeus again, surely securing it as a recurring motif in any autobiography I may or may not write (its themes of jealousy and anger would also be somewhat apropos); I even had to turn down a role because I was too busy (so Christopher Walken); my writing was performed on a new continent, twice, officially cementing me as an international playwright.
On top of this, the prolonged implosion of my social circle forced me to go out and make new friends, as well as strengthening relationships with old ones- Victoria, Aspen, Finny, Michael, Simon, Charlotte, David, Laura, Maddie, Declan, Greta, Daniel, Andrew A., Alana, Emily, Andrew K., Jess, Darcy, Anna. I'm not trying to say they're replacements, but I definitely felt the need to expand my network of friends and I found an ample supply of very worthy candidates. All this is to say: thanks, malicious rumormongers, your petty, destructive vindiction were my gain.
Of course, in July, I returned to Great Britain, leaving behind all these tantalising locations and lovely people (also some not so lovely). And, here's what I'm really thankful for from this year: I didn't get depressed.
Not that Britain is inherently depressing- but I have been known to sink into funks of mindnumbing depths, and I was extremely concerned that this would occur upon my return.I attribute my lack of depression mostly to my mother (and a tad to myself): she worked tirelessly to ensure that I was engaged by and motivated with my life, despite the fact that Shropshire is a profoundly unengaging and actively demotivating place. She made me get up, and look up old friends, and go for walks and work in the Second Hand Shop. She constantly checked up on my mental state and made sure that, even if I wasn't happy, I wasn't miserable. I found it sort of annoying at the time, but now I couldn't be more grateful (I made the point of telling her this over Christmas).
And then, of course, I returned to Edinburgh.
Socially, things have certainly changed- and mostly for the better, I feel: lots of the people I knew are gone, but then I hated most of the people I knew. And now I'll never see them again- huzzah! And the freshers, despite my initial reservations, are proving to be much the same as any other group of people- some rotters, some good'uns, wheat and chaff, curds and whey, salt and vinegar. Just sieve the gold from the river muck, as my Grandad probably said entirely literally. I am sad that people I counted as close friends, like Matthew, are gone; but, hey, if I want to get in contact with them, it's easier than ever. And to make up for it, I feel I've become much better acquainted with people who were part of my life before, but were never particularly prominent: Emma and Jonathan, for example, started Bedlam when I did, but our paths seldom crossed. Until now. Yay.
Academically, I have found the trasition from frittering about and occasionally handing in some hastily-penned essays to my grades actually mattering extremely stressful and horrible, but then it was always going to be, so at least I
Financially, my parents actually told me they thought I wasn't spending enough money- no joke- and they're going to up my monthly stipend. Woot. Still don't have a job here, though. Ah well- if at first, you don't succeed, et cetera, et cetera.
Romantically...well, I guess realistically that this year was as much a dud as every other romantically. Except that I had four potential suitors this year, all of whom expressed some degree of interest in me- at least one of which was even just purely physical, which I genuinely never expected to happen. So, I'm gonna chalk that up as a win, even if none of them really led anywhere (at least, not for very long).
What I'm saying is, this has been a very good year, especially when imagining how easily it could have gone wrong: my final few months in Oz could have been ruined by childish insults and churlish malevolence; I could have fallen into depression after the end of my year abroad; I could have returned to Edinburgh and found all that I'd missed gone forever and only vulturine newbies in its place; I could have failed to pick up the pace academically; in short, I walked a knife edge, and mostly managed to stay on top (I do realise, I should say, that I live an incredibly privileged life and none of these troubles match one tenth of the woes faced by most other people, but they still plagued me). I'm proud of what I accomplished this year, especially in terms of what I managed to avoid, and how much gold I actually did sieve from muck. On to 2014- may it be even better.
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