The Very Honourable Student

That night James arrived at the Professor’s house wearing his best suit, Armani tie, polished shoes, and a clean-cut shave. It was 7:00pm. Not a minute early - he didn’t want to be rude, and heaven forbid, not a minute late. He knocked on the brass handle, but not too hard, “dock dock”. Maybe he knocked too softly. Maybe they couldn’t hear. Maybe he should knock again?
“You must be James,” said a woman with a rather gruff voice, opening the door.
She was plump with bushy eyebrows and a very large crooked nose which was even more obvious from profile. She wore a white apron over an undersized black and white checkered dress that made her flesh bulge in all the wrong places.
“Yes I’m James.”The maid took a few moments to size him up and down from head to toe. “Come with me,” she said.
James followed the maid down a long corridor. He noticed the jade green Oriental rug beneath him with its intricate patterns of ancient coins. At the end of the corridor, they arrived at a seating room.
“Wait here,” she said, pointing her fat finger at the floor. “The Professor and Mrs. Wood will be down shortly. In the meantime, what do you drink? Wine? Whisky? Brandy?”
“Brandy please.”
The maid left the room and James felt a sudden sense of relief. There was something about her that made him feel very uncomfortable.
James sat on a large, dark brown leather couch and took note of his surrounds. There were paintings of Oriental women with flowers, bronze statues of figures wrapped in contorted positions, and various decorative vases of expensive aesthetic. The marvelous stained glass windows at the back reflected brilliant colours and brought to James’s attention framed maps, kaleidoscopes perched on side tables, stacks of Christie’s catalogues next to art and architecture books, Chinese antique furniture, the Professor’s book titled “Ethics for Adversaries” which had been the best selling ethics book in the world for four consecutive years, and a glass bowl with two gold fish.


As James walked around the room, he came across a wall hanging all the awards the Professor had won. There were at least 15 framed including the Miravax Ethics award, the Wainright Ethics Award and the Ruben Award. James was very impressed. He knew the Professor was well accomplished but never knew exactly to what extent. He began to bite his nails furiously. This was a very prestigious dinner. The Professor had hosted this event annually for his top performing ethics student at Princeton University ever since he had began teaching at Princeton ten years ago. It was a very “honorable dinner,” the Professor would say, “for a very honorable student”.
Beneath the Professors awards hung framed photos of his family. There were photos of Mrs. Wood, the Professor himself, and their two children Lucy and Joshua. Joshua was twenty-seven and was now married and living with his wife in Boston where he worked for a consulting firm. And Lucy was also at Princeton but was still living at home with her parents. As James observed the photos he paid particular attention to Lucy, intrigued by her as a baby, a child and a teenager. He found himself touching the glass of her most recent photos, sliding his index finger gently over her face.
For the last two years James had observed Lucy from afar and had developed a heavy attraction to her. Every Tuesday and Thursday, Lucy would wait in the hallway outside the lecture room for her father and they would walk home together.
As time went on, James could not help but develop a rather intense infatuation. He would slip out the back door of the lecture theatre a few minutes before the end of class and then sneak into the hallway as quietly as possible. He would stand at the end of the hallway pretending to read the announcements posted on the corkboard but he would position himself so that he could observe Lucy from the corner of his eye.
James saw that Lucy wore basic clothes that hid her feminine curves, glasses that seemed to cover her face, and her hair in a loosely tied bun that sat just above her shoulders. She always waited alone, never conversing with other students. She played with her hair, spinning the loose strands around her index figure, while engrossed in a textbook.


As James stood fixated with the photos of Lucy hanging in front of him, his heart rate began to beat faster. Despite Lucy’s reserved appearance, it was no question that she was a stunning woman. Underneath her glasses, her textbooks and her baggy clothing, was a soft heart-shaped face with rosy cheeks that rested on high cheekbones, hazel colored almond shaped eyes, long chestnut colored hair, and a slender figure with womanly curves. She was a hidden beauty, oblivious to the powerful effects she had on James.
And so when James received a phone call from the Professor three weeks prior asking him to join his family for dinner, James was over the moon for two reasons rather than one.


“James!” said the Professor, walking into the room with Mrs. Wood. “Mighty wonderful to have you.”James rose to shake the Professor’s hand.“James, this is my lovely wife, Sue.”“Hi Mrs. Wood, very nice to meet you.”
“You too James.”
“Ah, I see you are drinking brandy,” said the Professor. “A very strong drink for a very strong man,” he chuckled.
The Professor was a remarkable individual. Everyone who knew him admired him. He was a magnificent lecturer who spoke with strong enthusiasm and vitality and his ideas resonated and inspired. He never used notes but spoke from memory and wisdom. Even people who didn’t know who the Professor was felt his importance and respected him. For the Professor’s wisdom penetrated from his very physicality. His posture was always upright and his gait steady and considered. His hair was a whitish yellow, like stained snow, and he had a round jovial face with a bulbous nose that seemed the perfect shape to hold his thin silver rimmed spectacles. He wore tweed jackets with leather elbow patches and even ties patterned with varieties of Princeton emblems. Tonight was no exception.



“You must be hungry James,” said Mrs. Wood. “How about we head to the dining room for some dinner?” “Yes, that sounds fantastic Mrs. Wood.”
The moment they entered the dining room, James could see that the table was laid for a feast. The yellow tulips, the tall candles, the shining silver, the lace placemats, and above all, the strong smell of roasting meat from the kitchen which brought an angry growl to James’s stomach. Yet, James noticed that the table was only set for three. “Professor is your daughter not joining us tonight?” he asked. “Not for dinner I’m afraid,” said the Professor. “Lucy is at the library collecting some books, but she should be back in time for desert.”
James gave a quick nod, trying to hide his disappointment.
The meal began with a plate of proscuitto and cantaloupe, and a fresh mango salad. This was followed by the mains: roast chicken, grilled ocean trout, succulent double roasted duck, and a variety of steam vegetables. The Professor had really spoiled him. As they feasted on the sumptuous meal, the Professor insisted that James tell his wife about his focus of study.
A bit shy to talk about his work, James hesitated and then began. “Well I absolutely love the virtue ethics of Plato and Aristotle,” James said.“ My writing focuses on motives and moral character. I look at the virtue of honesty in particular.” He said, pausing often between his words.
“What is it about honesty that interests you?” Mrs. Wood responded, leaning in to listen.
“Well, an honest person must not be identified as merely someone who, for example, practices honest actions and does not cheat.” James said. “If actions are done because the person thinks that honesty is the best policy, or because they fear being caught out, rather than feeling that to do otherwise would be dishonest, they do not portray the actions of an honest person. So to be an honest person really comes down to the intention.”
“Yes because most people instinctually obey fear,” said the Professor. “They avoid behaviour because of penalties, not shame. And because they live by their


feelings and emotions, they pursue pleasures and avoid pains and don’t have an idea of what is good and truly pleasant.”
“Yes, that is exactly right Professor,” said James. “But you see James, to argue such a point is to believe that a person has a final purpose,” said the Professor. “It is to believe that there is a purpose and meaning to life and hence there is a soul that can be perfected. Whilst for much of human history this assumption was easy to make because most people believed that God existed and that God created a purposeful life with deeper meaning, the twentieth century was predominately secular and human progress was less associated with the notion of God.” “Professor, you are right. But how depressing to have a non-teleological view of the world.” “I would have to agree with you James.” The Professor gave James a firm pat on the shoulder and then turned to Mrs.
Wood saying, “James’s writing on the subject is remarkably insightful. You really should read it Sue. James here is one brilliant young man.”
“Thank you Professor. You are too kind.”


When they had finished eating, Lucy had still not returned from the library. The maid came into the room to clear the dishes and noticed that James had finished his brandy. “Would you like some more brandy,” she asked.
“Yes please, thank you very much,” James said while the maid refilled his glass.
“Now how about we move outside to the courtyard and enjoy the evening autumn air,” said the Professor. “We can wait for Lucy to come home before we have desert.” “Yes indeed,” said James. “But do you mind if I use the toilet and make a quick phone call first? You two go ahead, I’ll meet you out there.” “Certainly. The bathroom is on this floor, straight through the corridor to your right,” said the Professor.


Shortly after James rejoined the Professor and his wife, they heard the sound of keys jingling in the door lock. It was Lucy. Lucy entered the room looking a bit messy and flustered. She was carrying a bag full of books on one shoulder, causing a slight slump in her posture.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said to her father while straightening her shirt and fixing her hair self-consciously, realising that there was company in the house. “I couldn’t find the book I was looking for and I searched the shelves for half an hour,” she continued in a voice that was almost inaudible.
“Lucy, I want you to meet James, my student of the year.”
“Hi James”, she said glancing up at him, but then quickly turning her head away. ”Hi Lucy” he said, wiping his sweaty palm against his trousers as inconspicuously as possible before shaking her hand.
“Lucy, you missed out on hearing about James’s brilliant writing on honesty and what it means to be an honest person,” said the Professor, making James blush. ”Oh no! You really didn’t,” James said. Disregarding his comment the professor went on. ”James is a very talented student, the most talented ethics student in the whole country,” he bragged.
As they sat down to eat a delicious strawberry cheesecake, James realised how quiet Lucy was. She barely spoke, but just sat politely, nodding and smiling from time to time. “So Lucy, your father tells me you are an art history student?” said James, trying to spark conversation.
“Yes”, she said.
“That’s great.” “Are you interested in art history at all?” ”Oh yes,” he said, nodding. “What a great subject to study. I am actually a huge fan of French art. Do you know much about it?”
Lucy’s eyes grew wider and her eyebrows rose to form high arches. “Oh yes, I love French art!” she replied. “It’s actually my focus of study.” “Is that so?! Well, perhaps you know a bit about the Rococo period then. It’s my favourite artistic period,” said James.


“Well isn’t that a wonderful coincidence,” said Mrs. Wood. “That’s Lucy’s favourite period too!”
The Professor and Mrs. Wood had been listening to the two and turned to each other, exchanging a wink and a smile.
“So what is your favourite Rococo artist?” asked Lucy, much more interested now. James paused for a minute to think about this one. He moved his lips from side to side, nodded his head slightly back and forth and looked to the left side of the ceiling. “I would have to say Francios Boucher.”
Lucy didn’t say a word but let James continue. She was completely swept away. She found him witty, charming and so pleasantly surprising. She noticed his beautiful blue eyes, his curly brown hair that sat so perfectly around his face and his thin but wide smile. When she caught her behavior, she stopped and focused on what he was saying.
“I just love how idyllic and tranquil his paintings are,” James said while fiddling with his right pocket. He seemed to be trying to push something deep into his pocket. “And there is that sense of eroticism and passion.”
Lucy watched his lips as he spoke. She observed how they were so gentle, how the tip of his tongue tapped the roof of his mouth, how he licked his lips so slightly between pauses.
“And don’t you just love the symbolism and mythology in his paintings?”
“Yes,” replied Lucy, suddenly shaken back to reality. “You won’t believe this, but Boucher is actually my favourite artist,” Lucy squealed.
“Really?” James replied, his mouth opening wide to a gape.
“Yes yes!”
“Which painting of Boucher’s is your favourite?” James asked.
“I would to say Diana at her Bath. But I also love his painting of Luisa O’ Murphy,” she said. “What about you?” “Ah yes, the painting of Luisa is so beautiful. He makes her look so royal in all that velvet material. And her fleshy body is just so erotic, especially with the light which focuses your attention to her bottom!”


Lucy was nodding profusely with agreement. She was suddenly a different person, as if all this time there was this energetic and passionate person hiding underneath all those layers, waiting for the right moment to jump out.
“Lucy, you should take James to see your studio,” said the Professor, politely interrupting the conversation. “Yes, I would really like that,” said James.
Lucy smiled with rosy cheeks but didn’t say anything. “C’mon Lucy,” said Mrs. Wood. “Don’t be shy, your work is really good and James sounds like he can really appreciate a good piece of art.”
At that moment, the maid came to the dining table. She approached James and stood over him, tall, silent and imposing. There was something very peculiar about
her presence. Perhaps it was that twitch in her right eyelid, or that snarl in her nostril. “James, would you like your brandy?” she said, handing him over his glass still half full.
“Oh,” he said, tilting his head to one side. “You left your glass upstairs on the third floor.” “Oh? That must not be mine then.”
“Yes it is your glass.”
“No no, it is no mine,” James replied hastily, bright red in the face. “Yes it is yours. You were the only one drinking brandy.”
Lucy, the Professor, and Mrs. Wood all looked up from their plates. “I found it upstairs, in Lucy’s room, on the table underneath the poster of Boucher’s Luisa O’ Murphy. You must have left it there when you went upstairs by yourself to make the phone call after dinner.” Lucy’s happy face almost instantaneously transformed into a look of horror as she registered the situation.
The Professor and his wife stopped eating at once, their mouths opened wide, still full of cheesecake.
“Please excuse me,” James said, rising from his chair in a hurry.
But as he stood up to leave, a curious object fell from his right pocket. It was small, white, and some sort of fabric with a bit of lace.


“Ah!” gasped Lucy. Just then the Professor’s silver fork dropped from his hand, landing on his plate with a loud clang.

The Ethics of Emily

We acquire moral virtues by first exercising them. We become just by performing just actions, temperate by performing temperate actions, brave by performing brave actions.

It is the repeated performance of just and temperate actions that produces virtue.

Like activities produce like dispositions. It is our actions that determine our dispositions.

Virtue is concerned with pains and pleasures.

Pleasure has a way of making us do what is disgraceful; pain deters us from doing what is right and fine.

Moral goodness is a quality disposing us to act in the best way when we are dealing with pleasures and pains, while vice is one which leads us to act in the worst way when we deal with them.

It is the good man who is most likely to go right, and then bad man who tends to go wrong, and that most notably in the matter of pleasure.

Heraclitus says it is hard to fight against anger, but it is harder still to fight against the pleasure.

-Aristotle, from The Ethics of Aristotle

Big Day Out

About an hour later, I wake up in a daze on the most uncomfortable red plastic stadium chair. I look around, wipe sleep out of my eyes and take a few moments to reorient myself. Puzzled as to how I could have fallen asleep amongst 30,000 raging fans rocking out to Kings of Leon, I say to Ali, "Al, have i just been sleeping the whole time?"
I'm not one who can easily fall asleep, even in the most quietiest of places, let alone in rock concert! I must have been more drunk than I thought. I can already feel the hangover and we haven't even see End of Fashion, Franz Ferdinand, Iggy Pop, or the White Stripes yet. In fact, it think it's only like 4:00.
The best cure for a hangover is greasy food, so Al and I head over to the food stands, which are looking dirtier by the minute. Once semi-clean, the showground has become a jungle of sweaty people with bad body odor, smushed up fliers, squashy chips, cans and water bottles.
I order two big fat bratwursts from the Saurkraut Sisters because they are selling 2 dogs for $7.00, and when you are pissed, more is always better. God, i feel like a pig, but it's Big Day Out and I am drunk as a mother. (Wolfmother was great by the way).
On our way back to the Blue stage to see The Living End, we stumble into a few recognizable faces and exchange what has become the typical speech of the day: "Who are you guys going to see next" and "him and them were so good". We also say, "Well, i'm sure we will see you at Franz Ferdinand" - what has become the typical lie of the day which everyone still voices regardless of the fact that we all know chances of running into the same person again, especially at Franz Ferdinand, are close to nothing.
The next band up is End of Fashion, Ali's favorite. We make our way there after a detour to the toilet, which is gross, but not as bad as I had imagined. I should be used to bad toilets anyway because I did live in China for 10 years, where toilets are almost as rare as vegemite. In China, toilets are not toilets. They are 'holes in the ground.'
End of Fashion is so hot and we are standing in the middle of the mosh pit. Now I remember why it was a bad idea to wear thongs. My feet are getting stomped on my the masses of people squashed up against me. But after a while I am no longer bothered because my feet have gone numb and I am too busy jumping up and down with other sweaties.
Oh man, the guitarist in the red plaid shirt with his long shaggy hair and beard is so hot, and so is the lead singer and also the drummer. The band is hot full stop.
"O Yeah....say you wanna talk about it for a while"
"Sweet candy, just give me some sweet candy."

molecules that matter.

This evening I had a revelation.

It occured to me that I am the most self-absorbed person I know.

I am always so stuck in a moment- in many moments- that I fail to live in the current moment. I idealize and I dream, and while I value both, I am starting to believe that these behaviours are perhaps my greatest weaknesses.

Because my mind and my heart are always in another world - whether climing on the limestone rocks of Cochise Stronghold, mountaineering in the North Cascades, or surviving sickle-cell anemia (I have been creating crazy hypothetical situations and have been replaying in my mind) - I am so absorbed in my fantasies that I neglect what is real. I take for granted the people who matter to me most; the people who I depend on for my sanity.

My problems are always larger than anyone elses. My pain, my love, my joy, is always greater than yours.
My tears are always larger and my smile is always brighter.

Has writing become an avenue for me to elate my thoughts to something of monumental significance?

How can I dream of saving humanity from what is ugly if I cannot first see that I am not the center of existance?

The gentle giant and random ramblings of the weekend.

In a tight black tank top and clingy jean skirt, the outsized woman with the long mournful face occupies the whole dance floor of Cargo Bar. And why is she wearing heels? Beside her, a tiny Asian woman boogeys, her hips moving round and round, too fast for eyes to follow. Dwarfed by the unusual dancer, the Asian looks like Tinkerbell from Peter Pan.

My friends and I approach in giggles. We have never seen anything like it - an 8ft tall woman, bigger than any man I have seen, with the exception of the other giant I saw at MIT four summers ago.

I cannot help but stare because maturation has reversed. I am a curious five year old girl again. I feel so rude, but I rationalize my rudeness when I see others pulling out their cameras to take quick pictures. (Okay, I admit it. We also tried to take pictures with the giant in the background, but unfortunatley the lighting was too dark.)

The men are loving her. The tallest man in the bar, about 2/3rds her size, is loving freaking with her. But he is loving her as a spectacle and a story to laugh about with his mates. Nothing more. And this is when i question...
Why is it that pretty girls will date ugly guys, but a normal guy will rarely consider dating an unusual looking chick? Maybe I am over-generalizing here. In fact, I know I am over-generalizing, but this is my observation.

Later on in the night, an asshole in a lime green shirt smashes a smirnoff on my sisters leg and doesn't apologize. Rach stumbles back to the table with blood running down her ankle and small pieces of glass puncturing her legs. We bandage her up, drown her legs with water to get rid of excess glass and move onto the Moulin Rouge at the Cross.

The music here is going off and the atmosphere really does live up to it's name. Hard relentless beats make for a night of non-stop dancing and very sore feet. This is where I make $50 dollars from taking a guy into the club. It's good to be a girl at times like these. Actually, it's fabulous. I feel cheap taking his money, but he insisted and I did stand waiting in line with him for at least 30 minutes in my 4 inch heels.

I use this money to go sea kayaking from the Mosman bay to the National Park reserve the next day. I love the water and cannot get enough of it. If I could spend the rest of my life kayaking to unknown lands I would easily take the opportunity.

That night, I go with my sister and Jason to the Sydney Festival Jazz concert at the Domain. Three jazz bands from the New Orleans play and the music fills my soul. I dance like I have never danced before. It is an amazing feeling being encased by thousands of other happy, life-loving dancers.

I finish the night walking through Hyde park listening to faces that speak to me out of the fountain while feeling the drizzle of rain hit my skin and collect on my hair. At the same time, I lick an overpriced freckle soft-serve that hits just the right spot.

Life is (always) Beautiful

Why is it that my most favourite smell in the world is the smell of concrete? I'm not talking about the concrete on king street, or even the concrete on Fitzroy street. No, definitely not the concrete on Fitzroy street, because it smells like cat's bum. This smell that I am talking about is ineffable. The reason why I am calling it "concrete" is because I don't know any other word in the English language to describe it. Besides I don't think I even know what real concrete smells like. Probably not too fantastic.

I'm trying to identify where this gutsy smell originates, in the same way I am trying to find the source of the rank sewage smell in my bedroom. I am almost convinced that an animal died in my vent, because the smell is growing worse everyday. Back to concrete, does anyone know what I am talking about? I feel like I am the only person out there who finds this smell uplifting, in fact, almost spiritually uplifting as strange as that sounds. This smell is so good that it seeps through my pores and hits my insides, making me think...

damn, life is (always) beautiful.

I don't come across this unidentifiable "concrete" smell very often. Max four times a year. So whenever I do cross paths with it I try to savour it as much as possible because I never know the next time I will smell it. The last time I encountered concrete was when disembarking from a train at Bondi Junction. I quickly turned to my sister and said, "Rach, can you smell that? It's so good. It's my most favorite smell in the world." Rach responded with, "Em, you are so weird."

4 levels underground was where it was living. But this isn't always the case. The time before that was in the carpark of the CBAA. Though, the next monday it was no longer there. I'm telling you, the smell is transitory.

Oh smell, oh concrete goodness. Where are you living?

summer days

A plane embarks to a land of adventure. Six minutes ago it ascended through the opaque grey clouds that hover over the city. And on this plane sits a boy who can sing me to a state of erratic ecstasy.

And here I sit at my office desk, pondering about the crazy and utterly life-loving past four weeks I have lived open-heartedly and vulnerably. There is a sweet electricity that runs from the heels of my black open-toe wedges up through my crossed left thigh, up my spine, through my arms, and into my fingers that tap away at this keyboard. My eyes are slowly awakening. They no longer feel blinded and bruised by the bright office lights caused by my lack of sleep -I have been folding boxer shorts and blowing bubbles till late last night.

Everything about today is enlivening- from the smell of marshmallows in the morning to sweet goodbye kisses, to the bacon and egg wrap I devoured this morning, to the absence of a single new email in my office inbox. The sky feels heavy but she does not want to cry. She enjoys wallowing in her present state of in-betweenness. The scorching heat of new years day has vanished, and the cool rain from last night is evaporating. She does not want to be temperamental any longer. She just wants to be.

The buildings that encase my modest office on the 23rd floor do not feel like they are encroaching on me like they usually do. They stand back, solemnly and quietly.

And this is when I remember that I am just a little girl with big thoughts in a big city.