My Visit Home-pt. 1: Morbid

I was recently home in Canada for ten days, from the 20th until the 30th of November. The reason for this journey wasn't a particularly cheery one: my grandmother (Dorothy James, nee Anderson) died in late November. That being said, it isn't as bad as it would seem, from that initial statement. This post deal with this rather morbid aspect of my trip.

Death is a funny thing, really. It's arguably the only thing that every person has in common, regardless of race, age, and any other circumstances. We will all die. It is inescapable, yet we fear it like almost nothing else. And it's always assumed to be a major tragedy. I understand why, but I'm not sure that this is either the healthiest approach, nor the most realistic.

In today's society, we have idealised life above and beyond everything else. Medical science seeks, at the expense of all else, to preserve and extend life. There is in our culture an inimitable fear of death. This is to be expected-death, aside from being the one thing we have in common, is also the one thing we can never truly understand. Simply put, nobody who's been properly dead (not just mostly-dead like Wesley in The Princess Bride) has ever been able to report back on what it's like. I'm excluding seances and Ouija boards here, and only counting real-world situations and occurrences.

So we fear death. And, as a natural consequence, we try to extend life, at all costs. But sometimes I think this goes to far; I think we have enshrined the concept of quantity of life, at the expense of quality of life. We have nursing homes full of people in pain, losing their minds, lonely and confused. Yet, we do everything possible to make sure they continue in this situation as long as possible. I'm not convinced this is the right move, for anyone concerned. The people themselves are often so confused, it's probably quite easy for them; those not actively in pain are probably so blissfully unaware of their surroundings that it's not a big deal for them either way. But I still have to wonder what kind of a life that is. And their families and friends bear an even bigger brunt of this deterioration. They are forced to witness their loved ones-previously vital, gregarious and full of life-descend into a shell of their formers selves-tired, confused and often without the dignity they so rightly deserve. I know that there's a large part of me that wishes my last memories of my grandmother's life weren't of her confined to bed, fully unaware of who she was, who we were or what was going on.

An extension to this is funeral services. I don't like morose, morbid, depressing funeral services. It is always a loss when someone you love dies. But no amount of crying will ever change that. Mourning is natural, and should occur. But I think that memorial services and funerals should be a celebration of life. Instead of looking at what you've lost, look at the time you had together. Don't mourn that this person is no longer with you-celebrate the years you had together. I've been to very few memorial services, but the ones I like are those where you tell stories about the deceased; you laugh, you cry a little, but in the end, you realise how truly blessed you were for the time you had together. These are beautiful occasions and are, to me, what all memorials should be like. Everyone touches the lives of others in different; my experience of my grandmother was very different from my father's, which was very different from my mother's, and so on. And it's wonderful to get to hear about all these different people whose lives are better for having known my grandmother.

I'm not sad that my grandmother passed away. I'm sad that she's no longer in my life; I'm sad that she won't see me get my Ph.D., will never be able to attend my wedding (if and when I get married), and that I won't get to hear her laugh any more, or chat with her over tea. But I'm not sad she died. My grandmother was 93 years old; she lived a long life, she lived a good life and she went peacefully in her sleep. We could all do a lot worse.

I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they're gone.

-The Shawkshank Redemption

See part two...

Yay for home invasions

In my life, I've had comparatively few encounters with criminal elements of any kind. I had my bike stolen when I was 13 or so, I've seen the odd fight and whotnot, but generally, not much. My first real encounter was yesterday.

I'd been working late, developing the debate society's website (for the tournament coming up in March). As a result, it was about 2:30 before I actually managed to drag my already-tired carcass into bed. Shortly thereafter, I heard some noises outside my room that sounded like movement, either from my flat or from the flat above. When I arose from bed, and put my glasses on, I also noticed light from the kitchen, where I had previously turned it off.

When I opened my door (aluminum alloy MagLite flashlight in hand), it became clear I was not being paranoid. I saw a fleeting figure beating a hasty retreat out of my house. On following him to my balcony, I noticed another, ahead of his compatriot and already around the corner; he was largely out of my sight.

In the end, these guys, who had likely come in via the far-too-frequently-unlocked balcony sliding door, grabbed almost nothing of value. They got a very old digital camera of mine, a broken cell phone ofmy flatemate's, and her credit cards, which she canceled immediately. So, in the end it was a slightly scary wakeup call, that we need to be more serious about security-notably using the security gate by the balcony door and always locking the front door. And it could have been worse.

But there's still something violating about an invader in your house. I'm more sentimental than I'll admit to most of my friends (though apparently not random internet people who stumble across my blog). My home is my sanctuary. It's my place. It where, at the end of the day, I don't have to worry about anything, unless I choose to. That's why I moved out of halls: I wanted a place that was truly "mine". And a big part of that is the settling I feel in this place. And very little is more shattering to that illusion of security and sanctity than having a stranger break in.

There's a part of me that wishes I'd been faster, and had had a chance to beat the theif unconscious with my Maglite. There's obviously a big part of me that wishes it had jsut never happened, and they'd picked another house about which to be opportunistic. But, ultimately, I just feel betrayed and violated in a way I haven't felt in a long time. This is my house. How dare he?

Novelty Music

I've never really had any real consistency to the music I like. It's been largely mainstream, but otherwise has spanned genres from Heavy Metal to Celtic Folk Rock (or wherever Great Big Sea fits in), punk, dance, electronica and so forth. However, a friend of mine once pointed out that there was one theme: I like novelty music.

What does this mean? Well, I'm a big Weird Al Yankovic fan, for starters, and-more recently-Richard Cheese. But beyond that, I have a strange and (even to me) inexplicable draw to covers of songs. I have dozens of tracks on my iPod that are techno remixes of something that was never designed to be an electronic song (Beethoven's 5th, The theme song to Titanic, Phantom of the Opera, etc.) and a variety of punk covers (including Mrs. Robinson, Hotel California, Barbie Girl, Baby Got Back and so forth). One of my top-rated songs is a bluegrass/country/folk-rock cover of Snoop Dogg's Gin And Juice (really).

I'm not really sure why I like these so much-I'll often prefer the covers to the original tracks. I think that it's because I find it fascinating to see how someone can take a work of art and reinterpret it to something wholly different, yet referential to that original. Plus, if there's a song that I don't really like (e.g. Gin And Juice), I may well like the genre into which it's been interpreted. I just think it's a cool way to do things.

Anyway, needless to say, I am all but addicted to this. And I feel the need to share its wonderment.

First year report, new family member and the first debate tournament

So, there are three major events that have taken place since I last posted.

First News
The first is my progression to my second year, and thus my official entrance into my Ph.D. program. In the UK, the way it works (at least for many departments, including my own) is that when you're admitted into a Ph.D. program you technically start out in a Master's program (M.Phil). After your first year, you do a transfer report (detailing what progress you've made in the past year, and your plans for future work) and an oral defense.

I did this in the middle of September. My report was a monster of a report (90 pages, 20,000+ words), but was well-received, as was my oral defense. So, all in all, it went very well. There are definitely some areas in which I need serious work, but I'm getting there. However, this means that I really have to bear down, now. I was able to scrape by with having done quite little in my first year; the same sense of slackerdom won't fly this year. I realise the irony of saying this on my blog when I'm supposed to be working, but there you have it.

The point is that I'm very excited because I'm now officially a Ph.D. student (now that the fancy new online registration system has stopped screwing up so massively) and, once I get my funding issues with the system solved, will be well and truly into my second year. I've booked in some time this Wednesday on our fancy-pants £1million FIB (focused ion beam) machine, so I get to try and drill some itty-bitty holes into the oxide layers on my sample. Very cool.

Second News
The second piece of news is that I'm now a first cousin, once removed. My cousin Ben, in cooperation with his lovely wife Jutta, has managed to reproduce. Jason Connor St. John was born on September 23rd (about ten days early, if I recall), and everyone seems to be healthy, happy and doing well (though I suspect that by this point, Ben and Jutta's sleep deprivation has reached epic levels). While I'm not a proponent of me having kids, I know this is something to which they've been looking forward for some time, so it's great to hear that they've gone and done it. Sort of ruined my plans to go visit them for Oktoberfest, since apparently having a drunk and full-of-sausage university student passed out on your floor isn't high on the list of priorities for most 9-months-pregnant ladies or brand new mothers. Yeesh, some people, eh?

Third and final (for now) news
We went to the first debating tournament of the year this past weekend. President's cup, hosted by University College London is a novice-only tournament, and is always the first tournament of the year. Manchester sent a big contingent this year-6 teams, and as many judges. We competed, we partied, we had a great time. And the novices we sent kicked serious ass! We had five teams come first in the first round (each debate has four teams, so any team can come from first to fourth), we had two teams make it to the semi-finals (Catriona/Mady and Chellsie/Hannah), and one of those two (Chellsie/Hannah) made it to the finals. Mere words cannot express the pride we feel for these guys. We watched the semis and finals and they were fantastic. Our novices really came through, and I cannot wait to see them continue this trend going forward. The MDU's legacy is safe and secure in the hands of these indominable debaters. Well done, all, you've blown us all away.

Motivation

It's a funny thing, motivation. It seems so simple, yet proves itself thoroughly elusive to so many.

As many of you who read this blog will know, I'm neck-deep in my year-end report right now. And this thing is huge; it basically decides whether I stay in my Ph.D. for two more years or flunk out and get deported. It's easily in the top three most important documents of my educational life. I had this entire weekend earmarked to getting it done.

And I've done.... nothing. Well not quite nothing, but not far off. On Saturday, I went to the gym, I helped Sabrina edit her dissertation and Dan and I worked on some stuff for debating. So at least then, I had a somewhat legitimate excuse for my non-productivity, though in reality, there were many hours I could've (and clearly should've) been working.

But today? Other than grocery shopping, and some cleanup around the house, I've done almost nothing of value. I've watched episode after episode of Friends, each time telling myself this would be the last one. I've done cleanup around the house that really didn't need to be done (I swear, my house is never cleaner than when I've got something huge due!).

I wish I knew why I can't focus. This thing is huge; it literally is a lynch pin towards my future. And yet, every time I sit down at the keyboard to do some more writing, I do something unrelated, and unproductive. I want to get this done; I'm just tired. And for some reason, I just can't get down to it. And I wish I knew why. Because I have no real excuse. Yeah, I'm tired, yeah I've got some other stuff on my mind, but so what? This is nothing new for myself or anyone else. There must be some deeper reason. However, until I can find that reason, I just need to sack up and get this done. I just wish I could do so as easily I can talk about doing so.