Maps

When I was a teenager, I had a slightly outdated map of world that I had found in a pile of old National Geographic magazines that my dad picked up for me at a charity shop. It was a central feature on my bedroom wall at my dad's place. My dad is big on setting goals, dreaming big, reaching for the sky; and so I tended to be in a future-oriented mindset in the weeks I was at my dad's. I used to put little yellow stickers on all the places in the world that I wanted to visit. I was really selective about it and I poured over that map in detail. The amount of time I stood staring at the wall, considering what it would be like to walk the streets of Tokyo, or to experience the idiosyncratic wildlife in Madagascar or to go on Safari in Kenya. I considered what it might be like to live in the UK, what the French would think of my french, and how fun it would be to learn to surf in Australia. I marveled at how condensed Europe seemed in comparison to the vastness of Canada and wondered why the US bothered with splitting themselves into so many states. Choosing where to place my little yellow stickers taught me about the world.

Since then, I've always had an affinity for putting up a map of the world wherever I live. It's comforting because it reminds where I am, where I've been, and where I want to go. To me, maps serve more than their designed function; they are metaphors for life. A map of the world presents all the pieces of the puzzle, it tells me 'Justin, this is all available. All of it'. It asks me 'Justin, where do you want to go? Why? How will you get there? What do you need?'. Maps force me to visualise myself in new, exciting and scary situations. And as I live my life, in new places, experiencing new things, and meeting new and wonderful people, a map chronicles these friendships and experiences. And so Aberdeen becomes so much more than a yellow sticker. It's a PhD, it's Leigh, it's Ollie, it's Mike and Sarah, it's Stephan, it's Niina, it's Dave and Suzanne and Robbie and Karen, Bernadette and Eric, it's Falko and Jill and Marie and Derek, it's the beach, it's green, it's the feeling of accomplishment, of friendship and love. It's all those things and more, and it's why I'll continue to surround myself with maps.

Haircut

I love getting my haircut. LOVE. IT. I always forget that I love getting my haircut until I arrive for my next appointment. I think the reason I forget that I love it is that I hate talking on the phone. HATE. IT. (to the extent that it is actually my new year's resolution for 2010 to make all the phone calls at home). And because going to get a haircut involves phoning, there's this weird anxiety attached to it. Strange.

Self-analysis aside, I got my haircut today. It was awesome. The whole process. "Can I take your coat Justin?" Sure! "Would you like a coffee Justin?" Would I?! Then the hairwashing, which involves a shampoo. Then a rinse. Then ANOTHER shampoo. Then rinse. Then conditioner. Ah-mazing. I literally take 1.23 minutes washing my hair everyday. Having someone else put a ridiculous amount of time into what amounts to a scalp massage is nothing short of bliss. Then the combing of my hair, slicked back - like I'm some badass gangsta whose out ta get ya.

The sitting in the chair, and the familiar "what can I do for your today Justin?" At this point, I feel there's an unspoken understanding between the hairdresser and I: "look at the state of me. clearly, I should have come in about a month ago, and how could I show my face in public, please help." I'm not a fancy guy. I wash my hair, dry it, then go. My two decision rules for getting a haircut are a) Leigh asks if I'm growing my mullet out, or b) I can't see because my hair is in front of my eyes. Because of my simple haircare routine, I feel slightly bad for my answer to 'what can I do for you today Justin'. I feel like they want me to say something challenging and complex and interesting. Something that's versatile, that I can wear 8 different ways, with 4 different molds, putties, waxes and mortar. Rather, I deliver the standard line: "I like it long. I want this look, only so I don't have a mullet/so I can see (depending on decision rule)." Sorry hairdresser, I'm no [insert hip dude's name], just a regular guy.

And then there's the haircut chat. It's awesome. It starts with the usual boring weather chat, but as soon as I work in that I'm doing a PhD in Psychology... Floodgates = open. I love hearing about people's lives - their dreams, their goals, what they do. awesome. And hairdressers are typically very chatty to begin with and are happy to discuss the ins and outs of their lives. Fascinating.

This graph is a good representation of the on-going experience of evaluating the progress of my haircut: http://www.thedoghousediaries.com/comics/uncategorized/2009-10-16-2c33d5a.png

Ok, maybe not everytime, but often. But I accept it. It's part of the fun. My mundane haircut instructions usually mean that hairdressers add their bit of flair and creativity at the end. I'm happy to oblige. I've gotten a head massage and good life story - it's the least I can do.

Urban curiosity #1: The Roslin Street bimney

I love living in the UK. Its the history - you don't need to read a single book about it, you simply need to walk the streets and look around. I love it. I love the walls whose mortar has been patched up innumerable times. The tombstones summarising the lives of people who walked the same streets before the country I'm from could fathom calling itself a nation. From the moss-lined ruins of a castle that once stood proud, to the old granite building that somehow now houses my flat, the history is alive, its visceral, its experienced.

Tragically though, in no time at all, those wonders become the norm and so easily ignored on daily commutes and dog walks to the beach. But they're still there and so is that sense of wonder. I just need to dig a little deeper and pay a bit closer attention. And not just look, but document and consider and discuss and debate. Are there treasures hiding in plain sight? Pilot's cap with goggles on? Check. Map with X marking the spot? Check. Sense of adventure? Check. Daily requirement to walk dog? Check check.

The first discovered curiosity is some sort of canon-like chimney or bell. If you know what this is, please let me know- but until then, I'll call it the Roslin Street bimney.

Doing and being

I recently got back into reading fiction and it's been awesome. It's one of those things I didn't realise I was missing. Picking up a book had this profound effect on me, reminding me that I am so much more than what I do. It reminded me that I can spend a day reading something that has no bearing on my work and that can still be beneficial to me. Sounds silly, I know. It's not to say that I don't love reading non-fiction and academic papers, because I do. But in doing so, in immersing myself so deeply and completely in my studies, I've slowly lost touch with a lot of what - who - I am outside of my work. I've somehow begun to define myself by what I do rather than who I am. And that's a problem. Defining myself by what I do requires me to put a lot stake into what other people think because what I do has certain normative markers that are largely judged by other people. And the danger then becomes that I define myself not even by what I do, but by what I think other people think I should do. And we can't have any of that. No sir-ee.

Conversely, defining myself by who I am and who I want to be requires only one judge: me. It also reminds me that what I do is not an end in itself, but a means to being and becoming the man I am and want to be. It reminds me that I'm in the UK not only to do a PhD, but to live, to love, to laugh, and to grow as a person. I'm here to build a life with Leigh, to explore, to try new things, to meet new people, to enjoy the company of great friends, to be myself.

Ollie

A few weeks ago, we adopted Ollie, a 6 month old collie x spaniel cross puppy from the local dog shelter. While the first week of having him was among the most difficult ones I've had in the last little while, it was in no way due to Ollie, but rather to me.

I hadn't really thought through what owning a dog really meant to my life. Sure I thought about it when deciding to get a dog, but things concretised so much more once he finally arrived. Thankfully, I had the support of family and friends who were there for me when I needed to vent or for advice, and that first week really brought Leigh and I closer together than ever.

In the end, I think I blew things out of proportion a bit. The things that worried me about having Ollie were superficial, and I must admit that my new 'normal' is outstanding. I wake up and go to sleep happy, my stress levels are down, and I feel as if my life is much more balanced. I feel at a point in my life where I need to feel like I'm moving forward, and the addition of Ollie to our little family has really fulfilled that need in my life.

Week 3 - Jan 2009

Leigh and I made the big decision: we're getting a dog. We've wanted one for ages, but I always seemed to have an excuse to put it off, thinking that 'later' would be more convenient. But its a bollocks excuse that I think I'm using far too frequently. Life is now, I need to start living beyond the fake walls I've put up around my PhD.

Crichton

Disappointing news - Michael Crichton died.

One of the first proper adult novels I ever read was Andromeda Strain - from then, I was hooked. I think I was in grade 6 or something. I probably didn't understand half of it, but I felt like I did. My love for reading and writing was sparked by that first encounter.

I remember scouring the public library for his novels, putting myself on waiting lists. I guess everyone has their author, the one whose writing seems less ink on paper than a direct conduit to your imagination. Crichton was that guy for me. I grew up reading him. In a way then, thinking about him is a way that I remember my late childhood and adolescence. Sitting up reading late into the hours of the night, experiencing his engaging prose... even though much of that time was spent alone in my room with a book in bed, I remember it with the fondest of memories - retrospective bias be damned!

I hope some other kid picks up a ratty old copy of one of his novels.