Fourth Floor

Once again, Elder Sibling throws down the gauntlet for me in terms of blogging. Incidentally, I have changed the way I speak since being at university and it troubles me somewhat. “I would argue” comes up more often than it should, as does “in terms of” and “in regard to”. Don Watson would have a field day, really.
Anyway, the blog. I have been slack, but there you go. I realise this is probably going to be a self-defeating exercise in censorship, since the primary audience will be people I really have no interest in telling salacious stories to*, but there’s something to be said, nonetheless, for making a semi-regular commitment to ordering my thoughts coherently.
I get around most days here appreciating the big things and getting frustrated at the small things. I’m healthy, happy, have excellent friends, and exciting things are beginning or looming everywhere. Conversely, a friend sent me a text message that read “Jst saw XXX in Greema (sic) place. Was with YYY. Looking v. Pretty and dressed up with makeup!!! Lks like something for the gossip tree. Spread the word!”. Case in point. A few nights ago was a foul exhibit of the worst about college life- the finals of the pool comp, complete with jocky law students getting dressed up and drunk, and foul commentary from said law students. The infamous Lawheads, a naming and shaming of those who have misbehaved (and there were many), took place, and it wasn’t pretty. One of my favourite people at college got riotously drunk and spewed forth gay jokes whilst trying also to make cultured references to 17th century history. I likened the feeling to watching Kofi Annan drunkenly hit on your little sister, whilst simultaneously stubbing his cigarette into someone’s arm.
But the next day was beautiful and I took my books down to the shores of Lake Burley G and read, then went to visit friends at a neighbouring college, stayed for dinner and got to see my dear dear cousin.
The next three weeks are going to be ridiculous. Every night this week has an inescapable social commitment. Then it’s my college’s ball; the following week I’m heading to my sister’s “Presentation Ball”. Another week, then I’m heading north. In the meantime, I have about a third of this semester’s assessment due, and am trying to help a few friends who are fraying under all the pressure. Uni is anything but a bludge.
Until next time.

*i.e my mother, and mother’s sisters.

Me and Friends of Albury Library

Compadres.

Well. Chifley Library. It is the library of choice de jour bon mot habeus corpus mis-en-scene for all arts-based folk at the ANU, also being the largest, the busiest, with the savagest librarians. It is not, shall I say, uncommon, to be surprised by kids you know from tutes, or wind up in discussion over why certain ex-Singaporean Leaders with histories of human rights abuses shouldn't be awarded honorary degrees in Law. It is where I am now and where I've been, pretty much constantly, during my days at this national institution. I've just had a lovely feed from the local cafe with an old friend from Wodonga, discussing the merits of Arts Vs Science and the questionable nature of his hometown. Incidentally, K-Rudd was there earlier this morning, and at my college, which he attended, filming a piece for 60 Minutes. Oh K-Rudd, how could you?

I'm having some major issues re: artistic license at the moment, writing as I am a piece for an "ideas journal". My idea of an idea is something "fresh" and "relevant", not a wank about "perceptions" and "the media". Alas. I hope I can get it published under a pseudonym, lest I be scorned by all in the realm of the pen. At least, the experience is providing a good experience as to what it feels like being ravaged by an editor.

Thankfully, my old noggin is beginning to get back into gear. I have three (3) large pieces due in the next two weeks which frightens me a little. Nonetheless I find it invigorating strolling around campus with purpose, head held high, carrying a copy of the Communist Manifesto-not to be a lefty per se, but also because it's handy for the old sociology. The world of timetables and assessment and debate and lectures is still foreign after a year of pulling pints, miming "$20", and travels.

College life is beginning to get my proverbial goat, which is perhaps not a good sign, I feel, given it's the first semester of six I will be spending there. I woke today to people in my room asking me about politics, whilst above me was the electric guitar whine of the Boy Who Can't Play. I haven't actually bothered to find out who he is yet. I want to smack some people right on the jowls the next time they talk about their maids or compare private schools. At night, across the carpark, comes the sound of drums from the chumps at Rival College. However my day was significantly brightened by dear mother sending me cake in the mail. Confusing, yet endearing.

Next week is Easter which makes me happy inside. Amongst other things: wine, a boat trip, sleep ins, and shindigs with old pals.

Onwards and upwards!

Overture.

Good evening, readers. First post, what to say, what to say, and all those patently insincere offerings the aspiring writeress must include. I aim not to make this one of those “tales of an idiotic undergraduate yob” (Boys! Scandals! Jagermeister! Spelling the word ‘Jager’, an abbreviation in itself, YAYGIR!!!!11! as you’ve never bothered to read the bottle and assume it must be deeply traditional German medicine when actually it’s the invention of some science boffin in the 20^th century and actually one of the ingredients are oranges from Australia! )affairs one sees so often when you tarry awhile in blog land. Rather, I hope that I can provide some balm for the blogstress soul of my elder and considerably wiser sister, as well as assorted loved ones and stalkers who may swing by my way.

I’m well into my second month of university and finding it quite pleasing. The ANU is, as denoted by the N in the title, a National university. There are those from Darwin and Perth and the Gold Coast next door to lads and lasses from Cooma and Orange and Young. There’s me, saying I’m from between Barnawartha and Yackandandah, mainly to spite the North Shore Girls. My genius (honest to god) neighbour aptly pointed out to me that most people here are rich or on a scholarship. Readers, I am firmly in the latter category. As evidence of the former, I tell you that a blue metallic VW Beatle (the new kind) with a personalised numberplate resides in the carpark under my room. It was an eighteenth birthday present. But college is home to more than that. Canberra is the Diplo-Brat capital of Australia and many of them live here whilst their parents are in America or Guyana or St Kitts and Nevis. There are plenty of jocks, despite our neighbouring college having the reputation for masculine brutery and rugby Boyez. Mainly, though, I have met amazing people. More of these later, but for now I say Hurrah! My years of disheartenment in my generation are well over! Everything my elder relatives muttered to me in my mid teens about “university will be better” is true! Heavenly choirs!

For now, Good Night.