Week Four, Hilary. Half way through and I have absolutely no concept of whether it’s gone incredibly fast or incredibly slow. I think it was fast, no matter how many days those 9am lectures seemed to last. Now, we all know that life as an Oxford student is one of high demand, high pressure, and high caffeine. Sometimes we think we’re handling everything quite reasonably; there’s one fewer essay this week, I’ve done more reading, etc. But then again, there will inevitably be these moments when we sit back, take our minds out of work and back into the real world, and think, “Wow…I need to get my shit together.” You realise, no matter where you look – be it your work, social, or general life-life – there will always be shit that needs to be reigned in, shackled up and pulled back together again.
There’s always the usual, boring domestic stuff that needs sorting out: there’s too much washing up, too much mould, there are never enough mugs in the world and the clothes now live on the chair as opposed to in the wardrobe. However, the latest of my increasingly frequent ‘I Need to Get My Shit Together’ moments occurred earlier this week (or maybe it was two weeks ago; time is definitely one thing on the list that still needs sorting.) I was getting some work done in the library, let’s say ‘the other day,’ when I underwent the most remarkable epiphany. I had left my computer for a mere 30 seconds, in the hands of a very trustworthy and not-at-all-mischievous friend, to retrieve some ‘thrilling’ book or other from a nearby shelf. It was upon my return that I saw it. You see, instead of my half-written, half-researched, half-arsed essay laboured across my screen, there was a very clear, font-size 72, message: EITHNE NEEDS TO GET HER SHIT TOGETHER. Now, as to where this could have come from I have absolutely no idea. Why, all who looked upon it could not fathom its origin; my work-pal could hardly speak through curious fits of strange giggles. Curiouser and curiouser. Still, there’s no need to venture too far down the rabbit hole in search of answers. The message was incredibly accurate. Sadly, dear reader, I do need to get my proverbial ‘shit’ together. This is coming to you from a frightened student who is currently writing this very article in her college library, unwashed and unshaven, ferociously fighting off not one, but two moths that keep flying into her face (I’m pretty sure those who have noticed my mad arm movements have assumed I’ve gone essay-crisis bonkers. Not half wrong, mind you). And to be honest, this pretty much sums up the state of my mind: lots of flailing without really achieving any- thing. Maybe it would be better to give some context, maybe if I were to explain some events that have led up to this point.
Now, I’m one of those people who needs something or someone to ground me. Be it an activity over the course of a month, or even just a cup of tea in the wee hours with someone who makes me smile. Being never short of opportunities for the latter, this week I made the bold choice that I would branch out into the former. This grand undertaking lead me to an audition room for an up-and-coming student play that I shall leave nameless. Hav- ing had plenty of audition experience and a sadly small amount of success, the fear of it has rather worn thin. Nevertheless, I made my arrangements to be as well prepared as possible. I abstained from a Saturday night’s drinking (a heart-wrenching endeavour on bop night) and felt gloriously ‘cleansed’ the following morn- ing in a way that I have never felt before. But as always, this served as a valuable lesson in watching the shit we think we’ve got together slowly unravel. To avoid any extended detail, I’ll summarise: lines were forgotten, people were spat on, and through a combination of a slippery floor and inadvisable footwear, I somehow ended up on my bum at the director’s knees. Not the way that was meant to go.
To turn back time, the week started with a lesson in getting the ‘academic shit’ together, which ultimately led to another of these valuable lessons. A week of perpetual slacking kicked off in the underground bunker of a seminar room, devoid of nature’s light or any light except the glare of laptop screens and fluorescent hospital lighting. Although propped up by the warm familiarity of friends and copious amounts of tea, there is no escape from the inevitable realisation that (from an English student’s viewpoint anyway) I simply haven’t read enough books. Not only do I not know enough alternative literature (or at least alternative to me) to sound interesting in my degree, I have also not read enough of the impeccably famous and ingenious. This is where that ever-elusive concept of Oxford-time really starts eating away at the limits of your shit-ordering abilities. We’re all here in this amazing place, bristling with intelligence, excitement and opportunity, but taking a moment to try and mentally grasp how much there is of it can be truly quite terrifying. I say terrifying, but really it’s just that oh-so familiar feeling of ‘Where do I start?’, ‘Where do I go first?’, ‘Am I even good enough to try?’. But I guess that’s just it: there’s always too much shit. Nothing’s ever enough to straddle confidence in a degree, or your life, entirely. No matter where you are, there’s always more that needs to be done, and even more that you want to do outside of that.
