Call it excessive paranoia if you will, but I'm convinced that my thesis is stalking me. Like a wily bloodhound. It sends me cryptic, menacing notes through the Melbourne media.
Last year I was reading up on Reagan's fantastic Strategic Defense Initiative, and suddenly it's all Star Wars this and missile shield that. Then I'm researching the history of US bases in Australia (we rather wistfully call them "joint facilities"), and up pops a US request for another one. I pore over David Lange's semi-autobiography of the ANZUS crisis, Nuclear Free, and immediately a man who has occupied the lonely wilds for years is being interviewed by Foreign Correspondent. I sit down to write the narrative, mentioning the problems associated with nuclear-fuelled warships, and my shadowy stalker employs Admiral Vladimir Kuroyedov to exaggeratedly punctuate my points.
In the last few days I've been reading a pretty good account of the short-lived Australian Nuclear Disarmament Party, whose star attraction in 1984 was a certain glabrescent local musician. Tonight I find this.
And that's an incomplete list. It's just creepy, is all. If I ever embark on anything as patently ridiculous as a Ph.D., I'll make sure to select an obscure topic where every major character is safely several hundred years dead.
Joseph | 4 Apr 2004