The wind is gentle today. Opposed to the hurricane weather we have had this week. I’m outside the Hub with my notepad and observing everyone and everything, some people walked passed giving me weird looks. I don’t blame them, if a stranger was staring at me with a notepad I would have done the same. I’m sitting on a steel, I want to say bench but it’s more of an urban bench with an unusual design, as I sat down the coldness startled me, once I grew accustom to it I continued to observe.
The amount of students walking in and out of those glass doors is amazing, if I was to guess my estimate would be more than 400 students a day. Observing the Hub really gave me insight to how many different people are here. There are students in grey joggers, to tight skinny jeans, denim jeans, some shorts and a wide range of different attire. Like a herd of cattle an ensemble of different coloured hoodies, jumpers and t-shirts walk in and as like a substitute even more students come out continuing the cycle of different colours.
As I go to put pen to paper I jump out my skin, little thanks to the pneumatic drill opposite me. The man with the luminous jacket seemed to be enjoying himself as he repeatedly struck the earth with the drill. Student’s walked past on their mobiles annoyed from the on-going noise. I see a girl, no younger than 21 I would say; possibly a first year. She has a green Edge Hill hoodie and grey jogging pants with white trainers, what caught my attention was the way she started to sing Adele’s Set Fire To The Rain, I hate to be mean but I thought thank god for the pneumatic drill, I’m pretty sure the girl to my left with metal in her face or snake-bits whatever they’re called was pretty thankful too.
As it’s close to lunch my stomach sounds like an angry dog growling demanding to be fed. But observing has really took control over me; students walk out with hot dogs And plus the welcoming scent from the canteen is torture to me.
One final observation now, as I look to my left and then my right and straight forward to the Hub I’m pretty pleased I picked this place. Because in three years, that’s a whole lot of mass observation.
Dale Curran
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
Thoughts on Mass Observation 2011
This year we have had a good response to the request for views of the University, recorded simultaneously. The last entry here comments: 'To my right, three students are standing with notepads in hands most likely jotting down the same things I’m scratching into this sheet of paper'. What is fascinating is that, although the students are looking at the same thing (the University itself), each individual sees something completely different. The effect of reading them all is of looking at a multi-faceted diamond. I hope you enjoy the view(s), and stretch further into the archive to see what was seen last year and the year before that!
Robert Sheppard
Professor of Poetry and Poetics
Edge Hill University
Ormskirk
Lancaster
L39 4QP
Learn more about the University here
and about the Creative Writing programme here
Robert Sheppard
Professor of Poetry and Poetics
Edge Hill University
Ormskirk
Lancaster
L39 4QP
Learn more about the University here
and about the Creative Writing programme here
The Last Mass Observation this year
My Observation of Edge Hill UniversityOne, two, three agents surround the entrance to the university. The Edge Hill University faculty team. To my right, three students are standing with notepads in hands most likely jotting down the same things I’m scratching into this sheet of paper, further down next to them another student sits down carving into her notebook and at her left two senior citizens (most likely staff) are crouched over their laptops. In front of me a young man attired in the most casual shirt and jeans stands with a look of bemusement hanging on his face; probably wandering why him and the creative writing party have been given such a hopeless task. His expression and his thoughts are quickly shared by the rest of his fellow peers. Now the vicinity of the main entrance resembles a group of guards preventing the access to a restricted zone flooded with harmful chemicals, and a hoard of scientists recording every detail and possible revelation the event may bring.
Flowing into the body of this institution is the best life has to offer, but looking out of it makes me wonder if where being selfish. It seems like the rest of the world is missing out on the marvellous attractions this place has on show, attractions which are no doubt exaggerated by the poor unlucky folk who are unaware of life within this educational fortress. Its green fields are perfectly complemented by the classic designs of the buildings adjacent to it, bastions of knowledge ready to fly the flags of progression and learning by any means necessary.
The university itself is a beatific smile to those outside it, an artificial expression created by those who so badly want to utilise and better the talents and abilities of the young. This seems like a harmless goal at first thought, but when I stare at the beauty of Edge Hill University an unexpected uncomfortable feeling is brought to me, this institution is an almost perfect lie that stresses and promises that everything is and will be OK, when all know that it never quite is.
Akeem Balogun
Flowing into the body of this institution is the best life has to offer, but looking out of it makes me wonder if where being selfish. It seems like the rest of the world is missing out on the marvellous attractions this place has on show, attractions which are no doubt exaggerated by the poor unlucky folk who are unaware of life within this educational fortress. Its green fields are perfectly complemented by the classic designs of the buildings adjacent to it, bastions of knowledge ready to fly the flags of progression and learning by any means necessary.
The university itself is a beatific smile to those outside it, an artificial expression created by those who so badly want to utilise and better the talents and abilities of the young. This seems like a harmless goal at first thought, but when I stare at the beauty of Edge Hill University an unexpected uncomfortable feeling is brought to me, this institution is an almost perfect lie that stresses and promises that everything is and will be OK, when all know that it never quite is.
Akeem Balogun
Monday, October 03, 2011
Mass Observation
Entry
I make my way toward the main entrance of the latest chapter in my life. Faces different to those I am used to roam the campus grounds; confusion cascading down their cheeks, much like my own. For once, people won’t be the subject of this task. Instead buildings speak their own truths in tongues I can somehow relate to. The trees sway in the autumn wind, as if to exhibit my own feelings of uncertainty; as pen finally touches paper and my journey begins. My eyes are poised on the brilliant white veranda, timeless as it stands in the centre of the historic building. Its wings are clipped, as it watches over the space of its kingdom. I am an intruder, unworthy to stand upon the ground it will never touch; the twisted humour of an architect.
I am drawn to the intangible beauty of the family beneath the tree to my right. They know nothing of the world outside. Instead, the mother embraces her children lovingly, even as they stand eternally in a skin of wood; so too does their perpetual ‘Eden’ with one another. I envy them. I feel a cold stare above me and notice the gargoyle heads atop the rotating doorway. They seem unsure of what to make of their latest inhabitant. They appear to grin as my focus shifts once again.
My thoughts suddenly evade me. Instantaneously, the uproar of industrial diggers sends reality surging in their place. Voices of others remind me of their presence, their purpose perhaps similar to my own. I look again at the gargoyle twins and feel my lips crease into a smile. They knew that would happen. I take this as affirmation of entry. I close my journal and salute the pair of mavericks, before revolving into a portal of the unknown.
Marko Vujnovic
I make my way toward the main entrance of the latest chapter in my life. Faces different to those I am used to roam the campus grounds; confusion cascading down their cheeks, much like my own. For once, people won’t be the subject of this task. Instead buildings speak their own truths in tongues I can somehow relate to. The trees sway in the autumn wind, as if to exhibit my own feelings of uncertainty; as pen finally touches paper and my journey begins. My eyes are poised on the brilliant white veranda, timeless as it stands in the centre of the historic building. Its wings are clipped, as it watches over the space of its kingdom. I am an intruder, unworthy to stand upon the ground it will never touch; the twisted humour of an architect.
I am drawn to the intangible beauty of the family beneath the tree to my right. They know nothing of the world outside. Instead, the mother embraces her children lovingly, even as they stand eternally in a skin of wood; so too does their perpetual ‘Eden’ with one another. I envy them. I feel a cold stare above me and notice the gargoyle heads atop the rotating doorway. They seem unsure of what to make of their latest inhabitant. They appear to grin as my focus shifts once again.
My thoughts suddenly evade me. Instantaneously, the uproar of industrial diggers sends reality surging in their place. Voices of others remind me of their presence, their purpose perhaps similar to my own. I look again at the gargoyle twins and feel my lips crease into a smile. They knew that would happen. I take this as affirmation of entry. I close my journal and salute the pair of mavericks, before revolving into a portal of the unknown.
Marko Vujnovic
Friday, September 30, 2011
A Brace of Observations
Untitled
On the edge of the roundabout parking attendance, two of them, are stood continually raising their arms as indicators for vehicles to turn left for parking. Students are writing, as I am, what they can see at the front entrance of the university. Some are walking around; others are sat on the walls turning to scan the surrounding areas. There is a girl walking around the entrance car park; with a red and black bag on her shoulder, handing out leaflet that are inside it.
Bees are buzzing around people’s heads. The majority of students are carrying bags that only go over one shoulder. There are men carrying large plastic sheets, one carrying his over his left shoulder, the other is wearing his like a large black poncho. On the right hand lawn there is a dark chocolate coloured statue. This somehow blends in with the colouring of autumn that is spreading over the leaves in the trees.
Parked at the bus stop is a dull coloured coach. The bright yellow Edgehill University bus is driving in and out, stopping at both bus stops, letting students on and off. People are walking in and out of the reception area through the revolving doors, it is not clear who is and is not a student due to the diversity of the various people. The air is fresh, which I find to be a welcome surprise, as opposed to the constant smell of exhaust fumes in Manchester. There are construction workers in brightly coloured coats; driving JCB’s and diggers. Flying in circles, in the distant parts of the field’s across from the campus, are white birds. Various vehicles, of different shapes and sizes, are speeding past on the main road.
Brinsley Winstanley
At the Lakeside
Reeds and rushes quiver quaintly, quietly flickering like the fading flame of a dying candle. Butterflies flutter by, whilst wicked wasps thrust and stab at innocent bystanders with rapier like precision inducing numerous responses of futile flight or foolhardy fight. Across the way, unsuspecting students run the gauntlet of the bird- shit slalom. They career this way and that twisting and turning attempting to avoid collecting something unsavoury on the soles of their shoes, thus becoming the unfortunate target of their peers leers and jeers. Discarded cigarette stumps smoulder like discharged shells under foot, clinging to their final acrid breath before fizzling away into nothingness.
The lakes undulating waters dance with dappled delight beneath the soft swollen yolk of the sun, as a flock of little beau peeps sky sheep wander nonchalantly across their blue savannah. A savannah mutilated by man- made machines. I momentarily marvel at the ingenuity of my forbears, before recalling the cautionary tale of Daedalus and his crestfallen son Icarus. Metallic mallards marshal diligent drakes deftly towards tables. From atop of such tables with their tarnished varnish, revered raconteurs as bold as brass regale colourful tales of fresher week conquests and calamities to a captivated audience. Summer surrenders slowly as autumn advances amicably.
The geese that patrol the perimeter mimic the motions of those around them. The males prance proudly, plump plumage pumped provocatively. The female of the species choose to preen persistently before shaking their tail feathers in the direction of would be male suitors in waiting. The air is perfumed with rich robust spices and fresh fragrant herbs. Ginger, paprika, cumin, thyme, rosemary and coriander combine in a colloquial collective to tempt free spending scholars.
Shrubs shrug, poets poise, artisans acclimatize, sparrows spar, flowers fawn, ripples resonate, jocks gesticulate, professors preach, cups clink, dragonflies dart, cutlery clatters, pigeons peck, bushes bristle academics abstain. Trees talk, nurses natter, doctors do little and all around, stoic sentinels with black bin bag hats sustain a silent vigil.
John Williams
On the edge of the roundabout parking attendance, two of them, are stood continually raising their arms as indicators for vehicles to turn left for parking. Students are writing, as I am, what they can see at the front entrance of the university. Some are walking around; others are sat on the walls turning to scan the surrounding areas. There is a girl walking around the entrance car park; with a red and black bag on her shoulder, handing out leaflet that are inside it.
Bees are buzzing around people’s heads. The majority of students are carrying bags that only go over one shoulder. There are men carrying large plastic sheets, one carrying his over his left shoulder, the other is wearing his like a large black poncho. On the right hand lawn there is a dark chocolate coloured statue. This somehow blends in with the colouring of autumn that is spreading over the leaves in the trees.
Parked at the bus stop is a dull coloured coach. The bright yellow Edgehill University bus is driving in and out, stopping at both bus stops, letting students on and off. People are walking in and out of the reception area through the revolving doors, it is not clear who is and is not a student due to the diversity of the various people. The air is fresh, which I find to be a welcome surprise, as opposed to the constant smell of exhaust fumes in Manchester. There are construction workers in brightly coloured coats; driving JCB’s and diggers. Flying in circles, in the distant parts of the field’s across from the campus, are white birds. Various vehicles, of different shapes and sizes, are speeding past on the main road.
Brinsley Winstanley
At the Lakeside
Reeds and rushes quiver quaintly, quietly flickering like the fading flame of a dying candle. Butterflies flutter by, whilst wicked wasps thrust and stab at innocent bystanders with rapier like precision inducing numerous responses of futile flight or foolhardy fight. Across the way, unsuspecting students run the gauntlet of the bird- shit slalom. They career this way and that twisting and turning attempting to avoid collecting something unsavoury on the soles of their shoes, thus becoming the unfortunate target of their peers leers and jeers. Discarded cigarette stumps smoulder like discharged shells under foot, clinging to their final acrid breath before fizzling away into nothingness.
The lakes undulating waters dance with dappled delight beneath the soft swollen yolk of the sun, as a flock of little beau peeps sky sheep wander nonchalantly across their blue savannah. A savannah mutilated by man- made machines. I momentarily marvel at the ingenuity of my forbears, before recalling the cautionary tale of Daedalus and his crestfallen son Icarus. Metallic mallards marshal diligent drakes deftly towards tables. From atop of such tables with their tarnished varnish, revered raconteurs as bold as brass regale colourful tales of fresher week conquests and calamities to a captivated audience. Summer surrenders slowly as autumn advances amicably.
The geese that patrol the perimeter mimic the motions of those around them. The males prance proudly, plump plumage pumped provocatively. The female of the species choose to preen persistently before shaking their tail feathers in the direction of would be male suitors in waiting. The air is perfumed with rich robust spices and fresh fragrant herbs. Ginger, paprika, cumin, thyme, rosemary and coriander combine in a colloquial collective to tempt free spending scholars.
Shrubs shrug, poets poise, artisans acclimatize, sparrows spar, flowers fawn, ripples resonate, jocks gesticulate, professors preach, cups clink, dragonflies dart, cutlery clatters, pigeons peck, bushes bristle academics abstain. Trees talk, nurses natter, doctors do little and all around, stoic sentinels with black bin bag hats sustain a silent vigil.
John Williams
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Mass Observations
Observations of the Rose Theatre with Brett
I am currently sat cross legged in front of the Rose Theatre of Edge Hill University, surrounded by five other writers like myself quietly penning down our observations.
Of course it’s not exactly quiet at the moment, as builders not too far from us are noisily making changes to some of the students not too far from the theatre; the Margaret Halls I think?
My surroundings currently consist of just me and the other the writers and, despite the noise, I feel calm. Possibly the calmest I’ve felt all week as I think fresher’s week may have turned me into an alcoholic, at least temporarily. With such a huge change to my life and the blur of all the events I’ve attended now with the new friends I’ve made, this is a welcome juxtaposition to the manic week I’ve had. I’m not entirely sure what has brought on this peaceful feeling, but I’ve got a hunch that it’s something to do with this quiet reflection I am having here as I sit and observe my surroundings.
Directly in front of me is a window of the Rose Theatre; it’s surrounded by shrubbery and has a sort of cuboid shape, it protrudes outward from the building,
–the builders seem to have stopped now, it’s a little more peaceful.
- the cuboid window stands quite tall in front of me, and one of the windows is a poster for the film Paul.
Oh cool, a helicopter just flew overhead, right over the rose theatre.
I’ve just seen a woman inside the building through the ‘cuboid’ thing, she was wearing a red turtleneck top and had blonde curly hair, she sort of reminded me of my aunty or one of my old secondary school teachers; weird… she definitely looked like she works here.
Still sat in the same position… some more constructions workers have driven past now, just flew by to my left and driven off towards the main building, driving their yellow diggers flashing their lights, only thing it’s missing is one of them sitting on the front shouting ‘nee naw nee naw nee naw’ – always have wondered why diggers need flashing lights, it’s not like you can miss a big yellow mud shovel on wheels.
It’s quiet again, still just us sitting here writing. Me and five other people observing the building and its surroundings, not much is happening here really. Only a few people walking past, most people are probably busy in lectures or something.
Just behind me are some bushes, the kind with vast multitudes of miniscule green leaves all over them, it’s a fairly small leg height sort of bush and it’s surrounded by woodchip, very interesting. Then, just to the right of that and almost diagonally behind is the Rose Theatre’s entrance, to give you an idea of where I’m sitting (if any).
More observations.. . some of the drama students are just walking by in front of us towards the theatre and – What is this?! A flying Godzilla like bat creature has just flown overhead and let out an ear piercing howl of death!! The other writers are panicking as am I, I’ll have to write on the move now, this is intense stuff. Its eyes are horrifying, huge diamonds that seem to pierce the soul. It’s spitting acid across the campus now, the humanity! Oh snap, Nicholas Cage has just ran out of the Rose Theatre, he seems to be here to take on the horrific creature – Damn, the acid got him. His face is melting away and he’s screaming like in that movie The Wicker Man about “The Bees” and “MY EYEESS!!” – I’m still writing in front of him, keeping a careful log of these events of course.
Well, this crisis seems to have rectified itself, a flying Robert Smith has destroyed it in what could have possibly been the most epic battle of the century, but I’ll have to tell that story another time. I could probably write about my interesting surroundings for at least a few more hours before I run out of steam, but I figure I should cut my interesting observational tale short here. The ‘creature’ has retreated and Nicholas Cage is fine, he was just over – acting as usual.
(All South Park references were completely unintentional, honest)
Well, a fun 30 minutes has been had, all is well again and now it’s off to more lectures…
Brett Hackett
Concilio Consilium
The words 'IN CONCILIO CONSILIUM' burn in the sandstone block that tops
the proud building, its edges smouldered by time and filigreed with moss.
The black shadows cast by the winter sun fill the bevelled letters like
liquid. Four grotesque gargoyle heads hold up the words, their mocking faces
sneering at the all-important phrase; 'In council is wisdom'. The entire
sandstone scene is crowned by a grand crest, not unlike the ones that top
regal tombs. The Latin inscription acting as the stone epitaph.
Below the morbid headstone, green revolving doors turn perpetually, sweeping
in and swallowing unsuspecting students like an iron mouth. The doors spit
out a pretty blue haired girl whose bright hair makes the grey sky darken
enviously. Veins of charcoal grey line the swollen clouds like stretch
marks; threatening weak points that promise rain. Somewhere near someone
strikes a match on the sandstone wall and the smell of burning wood and
tobacco blooms and blends with the sickly sweet stench of rotting leaves and
winter.
A bird flies overhead, its black silhouette cuts the white sky, splitting
the belly of the clouds and the winter sun briefly summons enough power to
break through the clouds, drenching everything in a liquid warmth.
A tiny black fly defiantly struts across my white paper, determined to
distract. It traces my sentences, almost getting squashed under pen by this
very word. Unaware it carries on, spluttering the still wet print with its
wings as it pushes off and flies dazedly, drunk from the concentrated smell
of the sweet ink.
Laura Tickle
The Lake
The wind rustled through the slowly dying reeds. Autumn was starting to take hold slowly fading the once bright and youthful yellows and greens to a dull brown. The ducks wading in the shallow lake seemingly laughing to themselves as students, new, old, youthful and aged alike wander around in the hopes they can find where they are going. The clouds above mimic the atmosphere in some pathetic fallacy; the newer students are given away by their eyes screaming to all who pass by “help me I’m lost”. The bordering on harsh humour of watching girls trot past the geese in fear like some odd new dance I am oblivious to makes me smile, whilst at the same time I keep distance between them and myself and realise my sudden irony. The buildings though seem modern echo the experience of former students, whilst the sun hides from us behind clouds, a sudden break and I feel the warmth graze the nape of my neck; the more intense students take note of this and consider it a ray of hope, taking the tension away from their stress momentarily. Whilst I feel a weight lifted the sun shields itself once more and the leaves the lake draped in a grey threatening rain, whilst the light is gone, fortunately the feeling remains.
Josh Evans
I am currently sat cross legged in front of the Rose Theatre of Edge Hill University, surrounded by five other writers like myself quietly penning down our observations.
Of course it’s not exactly quiet at the moment, as builders not too far from us are noisily making changes to some of the students not too far from the theatre; the Margaret Halls I think?
My surroundings currently consist of just me and the other the writers and, despite the noise, I feel calm. Possibly the calmest I’ve felt all week as I think fresher’s week may have turned me into an alcoholic, at least temporarily. With such a huge change to my life and the blur of all the events I’ve attended now with the new friends I’ve made, this is a welcome juxtaposition to the manic week I’ve had. I’m not entirely sure what has brought on this peaceful feeling, but I’ve got a hunch that it’s something to do with this quiet reflection I am having here as I sit and observe my surroundings.
Directly in front of me is a window of the Rose Theatre; it’s surrounded by shrubbery and has a sort of cuboid shape, it protrudes outward from the building,
–the builders seem to have stopped now, it’s a little more peaceful.
- the cuboid window stands quite tall in front of me, and one of the windows is a poster for the film Paul.
Oh cool, a helicopter just flew overhead, right over the rose theatre.
I’ve just seen a woman inside the building through the ‘cuboid’ thing, she was wearing a red turtleneck top and had blonde curly hair, she sort of reminded me of my aunty or one of my old secondary school teachers; weird… she definitely looked like she works here.
Still sat in the same position… some more constructions workers have driven past now, just flew by to my left and driven off towards the main building, driving their yellow diggers flashing their lights, only thing it’s missing is one of them sitting on the front shouting ‘nee naw nee naw nee naw’ – always have wondered why diggers need flashing lights, it’s not like you can miss a big yellow mud shovel on wheels.
It’s quiet again, still just us sitting here writing. Me and five other people observing the building and its surroundings, not much is happening here really. Only a few people walking past, most people are probably busy in lectures or something.
Just behind me are some bushes, the kind with vast multitudes of miniscule green leaves all over them, it’s a fairly small leg height sort of bush and it’s surrounded by woodchip, very interesting. Then, just to the right of that and almost diagonally behind is the Rose Theatre’s entrance, to give you an idea of where I’m sitting (if any).
More observations.. . some of the drama students are just walking by in front of us towards the theatre and – What is this?! A flying Godzilla like bat creature has just flown overhead and let out an ear piercing howl of death!! The other writers are panicking as am I, I’ll have to write on the move now, this is intense stuff. Its eyes are horrifying, huge diamonds that seem to pierce the soul. It’s spitting acid across the campus now, the humanity! Oh snap, Nicholas Cage has just ran out of the Rose Theatre, he seems to be here to take on the horrific creature – Damn, the acid got him. His face is melting away and he’s screaming like in that movie The Wicker Man about “The Bees” and “MY EYEESS!!” – I’m still writing in front of him, keeping a careful log of these events of course.
Well, this crisis seems to have rectified itself, a flying Robert Smith has destroyed it in what could have possibly been the most epic battle of the century, but I’ll have to tell that story another time. I could probably write about my interesting surroundings for at least a few more hours before I run out of steam, but I figure I should cut my interesting observational tale short here. The ‘creature’ has retreated and Nicholas Cage is fine, he was just over – acting as usual.
(All South Park references were completely unintentional, honest)
Well, a fun 30 minutes has been had, all is well again and now it’s off to more lectures…
Brett Hackett
Concilio Consilium
The words 'IN CONCILIO CONSILIUM' burn in the sandstone block that tops
the proud building, its edges smouldered by time and filigreed with moss.
The black shadows cast by the winter sun fill the bevelled letters like
liquid. Four grotesque gargoyle heads hold up the words, their mocking faces
sneering at the all-important phrase; 'In council is wisdom'. The entire
sandstone scene is crowned by a grand crest, not unlike the ones that top
regal tombs. The Latin inscription acting as the stone epitaph.
Below the morbid headstone, green revolving doors turn perpetually, sweeping
in and swallowing unsuspecting students like an iron mouth. The doors spit
out a pretty blue haired girl whose bright hair makes the grey sky darken
enviously. Veins of charcoal grey line the swollen clouds like stretch
marks; threatening weak points that promise rain. Somewhere near someone
strikes a match on the sandstone wall and the smell of burning wood and
tobacco blooms and blends with the sickly sweet stench of rotting leaves and
winter.
A bird flies overhead, its black silhouette cuts the white sky, splitting
the belly of the clouds and the winter sun briefly summons enough power to
break through the clouds, drenching everything in a liquid warmth.
A tiny black fly defiantly struts across my white paper, determined to
distract. It traces my sentences, almost getting squashed under pen by this
very word. Unaware it carries on, spluttering the still wet print with its
wings as it pushes off and flies dazedly, drunk from the concentrated smell
of the sweet ink.
Laura Tickle
The Lake
The wind rustled through the slowly dying reeds. Autumn was starting to take hold slowly fading the once bright and youthful yellows and greens to a dull brown. The ducks wading in the shallow lake seemingly laughing to themselves as students, new, old, youthful and aged alike wander around in the hopes they can find where they are going. The clouds above mimic the atmosphere in some pathetic fallacy; the newer students are given away by their eyes screaming to all who pass by “help me I’m lost”. The bordering on harsh humour of watching girls trot past the geese in fear like some odd new dance I am oblivious to makes me smile, whilst at the same time I keep distance between them and myself and realise my sudden irony. The buildings though seem modern echo the experience of former students, whilst the sun hides from us behind clouds, a sudden break and I feel the warmth graze the nape of my neck; the more intense students take note of this and consider it a ray of hope, taking the tension away from their stress momentarily. Whilst I feel a weight lifted the sun shields itself once more and the leaves the lake draped in a grey threatening rain, whilst the light is gone, fortunately the feeling remains.
Josh Evans
Monday, September 26, 2011
Masses of Mass Observations!
TWO OBSERVATIONS
1 Immune
Barely any sun manages to slip through the thick curtain of the smoky
clouds, yet the world is still bright enough for some. I see them sitting,
watching as life goes on for them, laughing at the crowd of velvet headed
ducks that waddles by. I wish I could laugh with them. So inane a thing,
laughter, almost contagious, but today I am immune.
The lake before me is murky, deep and brown, reflecting the dark day,
everything grey and sepia in tone, the world washed out by the cold. Even
the grass, once vibrant and green in the sun is limp and waving in the
shadows of the day, battered by the harsh wind which pushes crisp fallen
leaves over the weak blades, tearing at the damaged earth. I shiver as it
too creeps over my skin, longing to hide, wondering after the people who sit
so contently in the chill, never feeling the cold while in humanity’s
embrace, but today I am immune.
Others, heads bent low, sit and watch as these smiling people pass them by,
scribbling furiously, paper escaping them in their hurry, stolen by the
sharp hands of the wind, writing what they see and feel, of the people in
the speeding world. On the outside and apart, myself included. But they
break from this visual and join with them again, as if awoken by some spell,
but today I am immune.
But soon the clouds break and I am joined by others who live like me, who
sit and giggle and talk, pulling me back to the world of life. Laughing at
the ducks that suddenly swamp us, dancing in their seats when an insect
flies too close, sitting with quiet grins and blazing cheeks as a passing
boy winks at them. I laugh along too, and the world regains it’s colour,
like the sun finally seeping down on us through the dark shroud, not immune
today anymore.
2 Lake
Murky water, brown and deep, pooling before me, just feet away. Soft ripples
echo across, disturbing the surface like musical waves. Alive with the
passing breeze, home to so many. A safe haven for the small.
Almost called by my thoughts of them, life of all colours wanders past my
wooden bench, a welcome break of joy and childlike wonder rushing with
them. Ducks with velvet heads, shimmering blues and greens, and speckled
backs waddle past. Shared elation repeated along the banks as exclamations
of delight at the passing precession continue down the shore, voiced by the
giggling of girls as they capture the moment with pictures they will look
back on in a year’s time, wondering why.
Small leaf, carried by the softest of hands of the wind, that too caresses
over my skin, cooling and healing my worries, and the worries of others,
crosses my vision. Twirling, guided by air, it is more graceful than any
person could ever be.
Heads bent down low, scraps of paper escaping them, joining loose leaves in
the dance orchestrated by the wind. People writing what they see and feel,
myself included, watching the world speeding by.
Lone visual, staring deeply into the lake, thoughts even deeper, and maybe
darker. Ignorant of people walking by, whose way he is in. I wonder silently
what he thinks, broken from my work, watching him stare.
Buildings surround the lake, towering over the nature and natural formation,
almost in threat. A sign of what has happened, of the enclosure of humanity
and development, standing over what once was, and may never be again. The
buildings themselves seem to sigh, wondering what was once where they were,
wondering what once stood at their feet.
New next to old, glass and stone, apart from the world they hold, nothing
more than houses of what is alive, what they can never be. They don’t
realise that people feel that way too. That the tear streaked face of the
girl who passed feels just like that. Not there. Completely alone.
Surrounded by people but not part of them. Just an outsider looking in.
Alexandra Cooper
Mass Observation
So I have just been given my first assignment to observe the main entrance of the University. Naturally a thousand questions entered my mind...which part of the main entrance? By security? By the bus stop? Reception? So I thought I will observe the garden.
It is Friday morning and there is a slight breeze in the air. The sky has covered in a blanket of cloud. There are some cracks of golden light where the sun is trying to break through. The music of the day usually filled by bird song is drowned out by the building work, traffic and students talking.
At the moment a man in a fluorescent yellow jacket is directing traffic, two blonde girls have just walked past me and given me a funny look as I watch and write about them. I know exactly what they are thinking. CREEP!
Moving on, a pigeon is sitting on the grass. It makes me wonder why the pigeon is sitting down at 10:30 in the morning. What adventures must he have had to make him exhausted already?
The Edge Hill bus has just pulled up; its pastel yellow shade of colour reminds me of the yellow school buses in America.
I am still sitting on the wall and a male student has walked past me on the phone talking about the NASA satellite and how it’s going to fall anywhere in the world in the next two days. After my luck this week it’s going to hit me.
A man has just made me jump by creeping up on me and putting a plant pot on the ground next to me. I have a feeling I may be asked to move.
Looking back to the lawn the pigeon from earlier has disappeared. I am somewhat disappointed I didn’t see it leave. Did it fly? Did another pigeon come down and bully it? Has it been bird napped? Leaves are scattered in the area the pigeon previously inhabited. Today is the first day of autumn. It makes me think ‘autumn already? Where was the summer?’ A man has just driven past me smoking. The pleasant smell of grass I had just been experiencing has now got a hint of smoke.
The wonderful moment of silence I have just had has been broken by cry of pain. The gardener has hit his head on a branch. I giggle hysterically, attracting odd looks.
Michaela Gratton
Pillow Torpedo
The ducks waddle around head sunk into their feathered bodies like short fat lady’s in fur coats desperately trying to avoid the odd, short, sharp blasts of wind.
Their brown, leather look, veiney feet slap on the ground like fallen wet autumn leaves.
I’m always a little intimidated by that freezing stare, that violent laugh and that fixed smile I see only when they glance up.
A heavy footed conversation-engrossed student unintentionally traces a ducks steps, it panics and dives for safety. It’s no wonder they live wary of us giants.
At least they have the safety of the lake, they are like feather pillow torpedo’s creasing the massive green mirror. I can see the sky’s sad reflection, is it disappointed with what it sees.
The Lake appears so lifeless to ones eye but it is deceiving, I know it is lively and thriving beneath the surface. My imagination could run away with me regarding its inhabitance. Are there as many creatures created as devoured? Who is top of the food chain within its community? Do they wonder what is beyond their wet world? Do they have any fun or do they simply just survive?
There is never silence outside, the lakeside is no exception. I enjoy the noise of wildlife, water and the odd student doesn’t upset.
The pleasant whispering peace is disturbed by a rude helicopter. This tractor of the sky busybodies around for a minute before disappearing into the patch work clouds.
The sky has lazy clouds today even though the wind is uncertain. The schizophrenic weather invites the sun to show its face, briefly relaxing me, the warmth on my body relieves me of my shivering tense stance.
I can see other students also burdened with my task, glancing sponge eyed for inspiration desperate to create a good first impression.
The buildings dominate my surroundings with their vast occupancy of the land. Not to be defeated, the trees stand together tall and proud. Dispersed amongst concrete and brick, they reach to one another, belonging and remain well rooted in this, their home.
Louise Grist
Outside the Sporting Edge: Think Tank
I saw another world through the sheets of glass. Schools swam past my vision in virtual monochrome-their colour blanched by the shadowed portal through which I viewed them-pierced only by intermittent flashes: a red coat, an aqua polo shirt. The reflective hematite shade of the windows seemed to provide a source of anonymity for those inside; although they were not completely opaque, it was hard to distinguish faces as they flitted and darted through the corridor. It seemed to me that it brought out their most instinctual needs to go unnoticed. To be invisible was to be safe.
Outside though, people were bold. They travelled in lesser groups. They were leisurely in their pace. Unlike the shoals and swarms inside, they appeared to move in patterns. A cluster walked by in staggered arrangement creating a seamless diagonal, and running parallel was another unit in perfect linear fashion. I noticed that though they moved alongside each other neither set acknowledged the other. Likewise they did not give any indication that they perceived me or any of my course-mates, in spite of the fact we were openly watching them, although several seemed to be glancing in their periphery. It was whilst I was thinking this that another faction came from the opposite direction, this time an entirely male grouping. As they passed they turned as one to meet my stare, almost defiant in their refusal to ignore me, and I dropped my gaze. When I looked up again they had reached the end of the path and I noted the way they had arranged their group. A shiver of sharks in flank formation.
Sophie Critchley
Rose Theatre
I can see builders building. JCBs cruising around like miners on Mars. The noise is deafeningly hellish. A pale ghost haired girl cuts across the confusion. My head feels pretty cloudy right now but the actual weather is not so bad. For England that is. I see little green snowmen bushes. A couple of girls walk past discussing their previous nights out. My peripheral vision indicates that I am missing details as I write; a white flash to my right that was either a van or truck. Perhaps a spaceship like Daniele suggested.
One of the construction workers actually has a smile on his face, driving a digger like a kid riding a go-kart. I think of how much fun it would be to race them around campus. Super Campus Kart. The driver just caught me staring; his smile disappeared like he was found enjoying some sort of childish guilty pleasure. Two guys in lemon yellow reflector jackets turn a corner laughing. For a moment all work ceases and I feel calmness and clarity.
I hear a call in the distance. “Right, let’s just get this last bit done.” Kid in red top with fiery hair looks at the builders as he goes past. Two women with suitcases follow. I hear a plane as I write but figure it is too cloudy to even bother craning my neck to witness it soar by. Curiosity takes over and I do turn to look. It is a helicopter and not a plane and I feel stupid for not being able to tell the difference by sound. It seems as though my ears do not make for good eyes.
A ton of students pour out of the theatre and distract this thought. I receive brief, frowned glances of oddity as they wonder what it is that I am scrawling; except for one male who listens intently to his phone as he walks on by. As he does, I hear him saying, “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” Either he is agreeing with the person on the other side of the call or he has an outrageously small vocabulary. I decide it is the former of the two.
James Harrison
The War with the Ducks
As I sat here on this cold, hard bench with my new found friend Alex, I
could hear the stream echo as the water fell into its plunge pool. In the
distance I could hear the faint mumbling of a train arriving in Ormskirk
Station, the train that probably made Rob and so many students late. Sat at
the waterside with my own thoughts and observations I started to stress, the
Lake looked peaceful and undisrupted, it was calming.
I looked up from my pad of thoughts that sat on my cold lap to observe, I
couldn’t help but notice the pretty little duck that approaching my feet. It
was a sandy beach shade of beige with brown speckles on its feathers. Its
beak was long and thin and matched its orange peel feet. I couldn’t help but
notice that on both sides of its plump body beneath its wing, it had a
glorious teal coloured feather. It was the type of feather that if I was a
duck, I’d certainly show it off.
I didn’t have time to observe the hectic lifestyles of the people rushing by
because by the time I’d next looked up there were more ducks heading
straight for me. More than I could count on my hands. There were fat ones,
thin ones, tall ones and short ones but they all had one thing in common.
They stood firm and strong marking their territory, waiting patiently and
patiently waiting. They looked at me as I looked at them, patiently waiting.
One by one more and more ducks surrounded me. I felt the urge to draw up my
knees to remove my feet from a potential pecking situation but I stood
strong and firm just like the ducks. As the sun tried it’s best to warm me
up through the thick fluffy clouds, I realised what they wanted from me.
They wanted my nutritional resources. I had nothing but a notepad and a pen.
They stared at me with their piercing beady eyes until I cracked in the
autumn’s cold winds. I packed up my belongings and left.
Round one to the war with the ducks.
Samantha Pearson
Untitled
The soft hum of the coffee machines and the occasional outburst of quiet chatter from a nearby table are the only sounds that penetrate the heavy silence of the library. I am surrounded by light faux wood columns, dark blue walls and a strange patterned carpet. I cannot see any windows from my seat and already, I crave natural light.
In my direct eye line I can see a cluster of tables and chairs and a sofa on which sits a boy. He could be in his late teens, early twenties (a safe bet for the vast majority of characters you encounter walking around a university campus). He is sitting, simply sitting. There is nothing more to say, he is staring at a sofa opposite him, maybe he’s waiting for someone? Hungover perhaps, can’t bring himself to move for fear of throwing up? (if so, then I feel his pain) maybe he just has a strange sort of sofa fetish…
Two women walk past, nursing cardboard coffee cups, gossiping and laughing between themselves. They disappear through a non-descript wooden door and a silence settles once more.
Behind the sofa boy is a girl in a white top, slim blonde, drinking coffee, a bold move this early in the morning in a white top … sure enough, the cup slips and the top is no longer just white, but instead has a rather fetching pattern of beige splodges covering it. She’s attempting to rub them out, it won’t work, it will only make them worse, unfortunately I don’t think she’d take to kindly to my advice were I to point it out.
Sofa boy has left and in his place are two girls in tracksuits. The room is slowly filling up now and there is no longer silence, instead, a quiet lull of background chatter and general noise is building up. I like it here, it’s warm, it’s cosy and it feels safe.
Saffron Palmer
1 Immune
Barely any sun manages to slip through the thick curtain of the smoky
clouds, yet the world is still bright enough for some. I see them sitting,
watching as life goes on for them, laughing at the crowd of velvet headed
ducks that waddles by. I wish I could laugh with them. So inane a thing,
laughter, almost contagious, but today I am immune.
The lake before me is murky, deep and brown, reflecting the dark day,
everything grey and sepia in tone, the world washed out by the cold. Even
the grass, once vibrant and green in the sun is limp and waving in the
shadows of the day, battered by the harsh wind which pushes crisp fallen
leaves over the weak blades, tearing at the damaged earth. I shiver as it
too creeps over my skin, longing to hide, wondering after the people who sit
so contently in the chill, never feeling the cold while in humanity’s
embrace, but today I am immune.
Others, heads bent low, sit and watch as these smiling people pass them by,
scribbling furiously, paper escaping them in their hurry, stolen by the
sharp hands of the wind, writing what they see and feel, of the people in
the speeding world. On the outside and apart, myself included. But they
break from this visual and join with them again, as if awoken by some spell,
but today I am immune.
But soon the clouds break and I am joined by others who live like me, who
sit and giggle and talk, pulling me back to the world of life. Laughing at
the ducks that suddenly swamp us, dancing in their seats when an insect
flies too close, sitting with quiet grins and blazing cheeks as a passing
boy winks at them. I laugh along too, and the world regains it’s colour,
like the sun finally seeping down on us through the dark shroud, not immune
today anymore.
2 Lake
Murky water, brown and deep, pooling before me, just feet away. Soft ripples
echo across, disturbing the surface like musical waves. Alive with the
passing breeze, home to so many. A safe haven for the small.
Almost called by my thoughts of them, life of all colours wanders past my
wooden bench, a welcome break of joy and childlike wonder rushing with
them. Ducks with velvet heads, shimmering blues and greens, and speckled
backs waddle past. Shared elation repeated along the banks as exclamations
of delight at the passing precession continue down the shore, voiced by the
giggling of girls as they capture the moment with pictures they will look
back on in a year’s time, wondering why.
Small leaf, carried by the softest of hands of the wind, that too caresses
over my skin, cooling and healing my worries, and the worries of others,
crosses my vision. Twirling, guided by air, it is more graceful than any
person could ever be.
Heads bent down low, scraps of paper escaping them, joining loose leaves in
the dance orchestrated by the wind. People writing what they see and feel,
myself included, watching the world speeding by.
Lone visual, staring deeply into the lake, thoughts even deeper, and maybe
darker. Ignorant of people walking by, whose way he is in. I wonder silently
what he thinks, broken from my work, watching him stare.
Buildings surround the lake, towering over the nature and natural formation,
almost in threat. A sign of what has happened, of the enclosure of humanity
and development, standing over what once was, and may never be again. The
buildings themselves seem to sigh, wondering what was once where they were,
wondering what once stood at their feet.
New next to old, glass and stone, apart from the world they hold, nothing
more than houses of what is alive, what they can never be. They don’t
realise that people feel that way too. That the tear streaked face of the
girl who passed feels just like that. Not there. Completely alone.
Surrounded by people but not part of them. Just an outsider looking in.
Alexandra Cooper
Mass Observation
So I have just been given my first assignment to observe the main entrance of the University. Naturally a thousand questions entered my mind...which part of the main entrance? By security? By the bus stop? Reception? So I thought I will observe the garden.
It is Friday morning and there is a slight breeze in the air. The sky has covered in a blanket of cloud. There are some cracks of golden light where the sun is trying to break through. The music of the day usually filled by bird song is drowned out by the building work, traffic and students talking.
At the moment a man in a fluorescent yellow jacket is directing traffic, two blonde girls have just walked past me and given me a funny look as I watch and write about them. I know exactly what they are thinking. CREEP!
Moving on, a pigeon is sitting on the grass. It makes me wonder why the pigeon is sitting down at 10:30 in the morning. What adventures must he have had to make him exhausted already?
The Edge Hill bus has just pulled up; its pastel yellow shade of colour reminds me of the yellow school buses in America.
I am still sitting on the wall and a male student has walked past me on the phone talking about the NASA satellite and how it’s going to fall anywhere in the world in the next two days. After my luck this week it’s going to hit me.
A man has just made me jump by creeping up on me and putting a plant pot on the ground next to me. I have a feeling I may be asked to move.
Looking back to the lawn the pigeon from earlier has disappeared. I am somewhat disappointed I didn’t see it leave. Did it fly? Did another pigeon come down and bully it? Has it been bird napped? Leaves are scattered in the area the pigeon previously inhabited. Today is the first day of autumn. It makes me think ‘autumn already? Where was the summer?’ A man has just driven past me smoking. The pleasant smell of grass I had just been experiencing has now got a hint of smoke.
The wonderful moment of silence I have just had has been broken by cry of pain. The gardener has hit his head on a branch. I giggle hysterically, attracting odd looks.
Michaela Gratton
Pillow Torpedo
The ducks waddle around head sunk into their feathered bodies like short fat lady’s in fur coats desperately trying to avoid the odd, short, sharp blasts of wind.
Their brown, leather look, veiney feet slap on the ground like fallen wet autumn leaves.
I’m always a little intimidated by that freezing stare, that violent laugh and that fixed smile I see only when they glance up.
A heavy footed conversation-engrossed student unintentionally traces a ducks steps, it panics and dives for safety. It’s no wonder they live wary of us giants.
At least they have the safety of the lake, they are like feather pillow torpedo’s creasing the massive green mirror. I can see the sky’s sad reflection, is it disappointed with what it sees.
The Lake appears so lifeless to ones eye but it is deceiving, I know it is lively and thriving beneath the surface. My imagination could run away with me regarding its inhabitance. Are there as many creatures created as devoured? Who is top of the food chain within its community? Do they wonder what is beyond their wet world? Do they have any fun or do they simply just survive?
There is never silence outside, the lakeside is no exception. I enjoy the noise of wildlife, water and the odd student doesn’t upset.
The pleasant whispering peace is disturbed by a rude helicopter. This tractor of the sky busybodies around for a minute before disappearing into the patch work clouds.
The sky has lazy clouds today even though the wind is uncertain. The schizophrenic weather invites the sun to show its face, briefly relaxing me, the warmth on my body relieves me of my shivering tense stance.
I can see other students also burdened with my task, glancing sponge eyed for inspiration desperate to create a good first impression.
The buildings dominate my surroundings with their vast occupancy of the land. Not to be defeated, the trees stand together tall and proud. Dispersed amongst concrete and brick, they reach to one another, belonging and remain well rooted in this, their home.
Louise Grist
Outside the Sporting Edge: Think Tank
I saw another world through the sheets of glass. Schools swam past my vision in virtual monochrome-their colour blanched by the shadowed portal through which I viewed them-pierced only by intermittent flashes: a red coat, an aqua polo shirt. The reflective hematite shade of the windows seemed to provide a source of anonymity for those inside; although they were not completely opaque, it was hard to distinguish faces as they flitted and darted through the corridor. It seemed to me that it brought out their most instinctual needs to go unnoticed. To be invisible was to be safe.
Outside though, people were bold. They travelled in lesser groups. They were leisurely in their pace. Unlike the shoals and swarms inside, they appeared to move in patterns. A cluster walked by in staggered arrangement creating a seamless diagonal, and running parallel was another unit in perfect linear fashion. I noticed that though they moved alongside each other neither set acknowledged the other. Likewise they did not give any indication that they perceived me or any of my course-mates, in spite of the fact we were openly watching them, although several seemed to be glancing in their periphery. It was whilst I was thinking this that another faction came from the opposite direction, this time an entirely male grouping. As they passed they turned as one to meet my stare, almost defiant in their refusal to ignore me, and I dropped my gaze. When I looked up again they had reached the end of the path and I noted the way they had arranged their group. A shiver of sharks in flank formation.
Sophie Critchley
Rose Theatre
I can see builders building. JCBs cruising around like miners on Mars. The noise is deafeningly hellish. A pale ghost haired girl cuts across the confusion. My head feels pretty cloudy right now but the actual weather is not so bad. For England that is. I see little green snowmen bushes. A couple of girls walk past discussing their previous nights out. My peripheral vision indicates that I am missing details as I write; a white flash to my right that was either a van or truck. Perhaps a spaceship like Daniele suggested.
One of the construction workers actually has a smile on his face, driving a digger like a kid riding a go-kart. I think of how much fun it would be to race them around campus. Super Campus Kart. The driver just caught me staring; his smile disappeared like he was found enjoying some sort of childish guilty pleasure. Two guys in lemon yellow reflector jackets turn a corner laughing. For a moment all work ceases and I feel calmness and clarity.
I hear a call in the distance. “Right, let’s just get this last bit done.” Kid in red top with fiery hair looks at the builders as he goes past. Two women with suitcases follow. I hear a plane as I write but figure it is too cloudy to even bother craning my neck to witness it soar by. Curiosity takes over and I do turn to look. It is a helicopter and not a plane and I feel stupid for not being able to tell the difference by sound. It seems as though my ears do not make for good eyes.
A ton of students pour out of the theatre and distract this thought. I receive brief, frowned glances of oddity as they wonder what it is that I am scrawling; except for one male who listens intently to his phone as he walks on by. As he does, I hear him saying, “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” Either he is agreeing with the person on the other side of the call or he has an outrageously small vocabulary. I decide it is the former of the two.
James Harrison
The War with the Ducks
As I sat here on this cold, hard bench with my new found friend Alex, I
could hear the stream echo as the water fell into its plunge pool. In the
distance I could hear the faint mumbling of a train arriving in Ormskirk
Station, the train that probably made Rob and so many students late. Sat at
the waterside with my own thoughts and observations I started to stress, the
Lake looked peaceful and undisrupted, it was calming.
I looked up from my pad of thoughts that sat on my cold lap to observe, I
couldn’t help but notice the pretty little duck that approaching my feet. It
was a sandy beach shade of beige with brown speckles on its feathers. Its
beak was long and thin and matched its orange peel feet. I couldn’t help but
notice that on both sides of its plump body beneath its wing, it had a
glorious teal coloured feather. It was the type of feather that if I was a
duck, I’d certainly show it off.
I didn’t have time to observe the hectic lifestyles of the people rushing by
because by the time I’d next looked up there were more ducks heading
straight for me. More than I could count on my hands. There were fat ones,
thin ones, tall ones and short ones but they all had one thing in common.
They stood firm and strong marking their territory, waiting patiently and
patiently waiting. They looked at me as I looked at them, patiently waiting.
One by one more and more ducks surrounded me. I felt the urge to draw up my
knees to remove my feet from a potential pecking situation but I stood
strong and firm just like the ducks. As the sun tried it’s best to warm me
up through the thick fluffy clouds, I realised what they wanted from me.
They wanted my nutritional resources. I had nothing but a notepad and a pen.
They stared at me with their piercing beady eyes until I cracked in the
autumn’s cold winds. I packed up my belongings and left.
Round one to the war with the ducks.
Samantha Pearson
Untitled
The soft hum of the coffee machines and the occasional outburst of quiet chatter from a nearby table are the only sounds that penetrate the heavy silence of the library. I am surrounded by light faux wood columns, dark blue walls and a strange patterned carpet. I cannot see any windows from my seat and already, I crave natural light.
In my direct eye line I can see a cluster of tables and chairs and a sofa on which sits a boy. He could be in his late teens, early twenties (a safe bet for the vast majority of characters you encounter walking around a university campus). He is sitting, simply sitting. There is nothing more to say, he is staring at a sofa opposite him, maybe he’s waiting for someone? Hungover perhaps, can’t bring himself to move for fear of throwing up? (if so, then I feel his pain) maybe he just has a strange sort of sofa fetish…
Two women walk past, nursing cardboard coffee cups, gossiping and laughing between themselves. They disappear through a non-descript wooden door and a silence settles once more.
Behind the sofa boy is a girl in a white top, slim blonde, drinking coffee, a bold move this early in the morning in a white top … sure enough, the cup slips and the top is no longer just white, but instead has a rather fetching pattern of beige splodges covering it. She’s attempting to rub them out, it won’t work, it will only make them worse, unfortunately I don’t think she’d take to kindly to my advice were I to point it out.
Sofa boy has left and in his place are two girls in tracksuits. The room is slowly filling up now and there is no longer silence, instead, a quiet lull of background chatter and general noise is building up. I like it here, it’s warm, it’s cosy and it feels safe.
Saffron Palmer
More Mass Obs!
The Oasis of Edge Hill
Sudden panic erupts as soon as I sit down at the lake. A group of students throw some scraps of bread into the water. Seagulls swoop down almost instantly and swarm the area. Ducks speed as fast as they can to the water’s edge, clumsily tripping over their own feet.
Some of the ducks are uninterested in the thought of bread and remain asleep on the grassy bank. They sleep perfectly perched on one leg. They hold as much grace and stamina as a flamingo and don’t even falter when the harsh wind ruffles their speckled feathers.
A duck nearby catches my eye. He waddles over, occasionally wagging his curled black tail feathers. I notice that his face isn’t as emerald as the others, but he still holds an air of regality. His small beady eyes study me. He turns away; clearly disgruntled at the lack of bread I have to offer. He stretches out a couple of feet away and folds his matted emerald face behind his wing. He falls asleep instantly and seems oblivious to all around him.
I find it quite sad that he sleeps alone. All the ducks around him sleep in twos. Yet that solitary regal duck looked peaceful and contented with his own company.
I write a couple of poems, taking advantage of the silence of my surroundings and try to make myself comfortable on the cold bench I have taken as my workstation for an hour.
The silence is cut short by a group of nearby geese. Water clatters and splinters like glass as they flap their great Canadian wings and lift their huge bodies out of the lake and into the sky. Their takeoff is anything but graceful, and yet once in the air they glide softly. This of course is ruined by their noisy honks of excitement. Perhaps they are just so relieved they managed to all takeoff.
I then notice the soft trickling sound of water running into the lake. I hadn’t listened to it properly until now. The continuous sound is so calming and peaceful that it blends into the background of the lake. But the noise is definitely there. It can’t even be drowned out by the chatter of passing students, or the loud hysterical laughing of nearby ducks. It slowly carries on running in the background. The steady stream at the campus’ heart.
- Becky Hayes
Untitled
Beer, spirits are advertised but the smell of coffee is overwhelming as students try their hardest to wash away their hangovers and the stale alcohol from their mouths. Groups of students walk to and from various different places with new friends and equally new conversations on the go, all corresponding with the new buildings, trees and paving stones. There are people without belonging, a blur of fluorescent yellow and diggers, wires that trail along the floor threatening to trip the new students with their brand spanking new folders and books. Tattoo’s and dyed hair seems more at home here amongst the modern architecture of the Hub, rather than with the old fashioned styling of the main building, but valued so equally and respected in awe. So much contrast surrounds the new building, old and new, complex and simple and silence and noise.
So much noise, a rattling cage and a chainsaw, such a racket so out of place in what should be a peaceful learning experience. Disruption in a place of peace.
Jordann Chetwynd
Watching the Hub
The builders are preparing for another hard day’s graft, conveniently situated by the café. Freshers dart frantically, probably victims of the late trains this morning. Nearby, a group of Southerners discuss the events of the night before, shame has no bounds; although judging by their hungover state...
An older woman’s eyes meet mine as she scampers past clinging to her handbag for dear life, sometimes a smile can mean so much. It's funny how strangers can remind you of loved ones. A hard-nosed student glares as he waltzes in front of me, the thought of me also wearing sandals in this weather! Pah! A good old fashioned Northern accent draws my attention as a builder walks away in old wellies, battle scarred with a light brown mud, oh the contrast. One of the 'chief exec' builders barks instructions across the yard that are so Scouse, only those accustomed to the accent could interpret.
Looking around at the modern buildings, those being constructed and the new faces; I feel a sense of pride at being part of this, and I also feel at home. I know the builders are envious of this by the way they look at me with my messy, windswept hair bobbling as I scribble away in my pad. The hub certainly lives up to its name, it seems to be the busiest part of the campus. Inane chatter, a squeaky wheelbarrow and an eye-catching advert on the newsagent window would all draw your attention, not forgetting the aroma of those tasty hot dogs too.
A young lad in a Newcastle United shirt walks by, hands fastened to his hips. I feel a sense of happiness and nostalgia at the memory of my team beating his 4-3 in an epic encounter many moons ago. His current stance would probably be the same in reaction to that defeat. A member of staff forces a 'meals on wheels' type tray up a path, this evokes my mental note of what to have for lunch today, how the mind of a hungover Scouser wanders.
As images of the ultimate fajitas run through my mind, I notice a lad about my age on a nearby bench also writing. His eccentric green hoodie ever present in the corner of my eye. I wonder if he'll be my first creative writing buddy. I wonder if he has also noticed the comings and goings which occur when sitting outside the Hub.
I soon see a group of girls. I reminisce to 2.20am the night before, and the sight of intoxicated revellers singing whilst leaving the student union, if only those mild mannered and cautious young women could see themselves a few hours previously. This cold bench has become too uncomfortable and I eye up the orange swivel chairs inside the Hub, they seem a more attractive and comfy prospect.
Peter Hughes
Mass Observation
I am sat to the left of the revolving doors of main reception, my first thought is to have a cigarette, having already observed three other smokers huddled in the corner. So here I am, in a good position, coffee from the hub and a cigarette, pure bliss. The sky is heavy and slate grey, but no rain as yet.
Several of my fellow students congregate at the main gate like survey takers, waiting to pounce, all scanning their vicinity for an observation of note.
The now familiar parking attendants are busy directing cars, trucks, visitors, and deliveries, only able to grab snippets of conversation between instructions. There is a girl in a white t-shirt with large red lettering and a number" 85852 "; apparently she can answer any Q". She looks lonely eager for victims and if I look too long she will get me.
The Grounds men arrive on an impressive bright orange digger hauling an array of plants to further enhance the already fabulous grounds, getting on their hands and knees giving us the age old view of "the builder’s bum”.
The main building reminds me of a stately home, aged and full of character, blighted only by the bright green revolving doors, the main gate opening to a circled drive
Like an image from a Jane Austin novel. A tree, magnificent stands to the right, majestic and beautiful swamps a bronze statue that disappears against the trees splendour.
Workmen are now sporadic having completed most of the vast renovations that have of late dominated the campus, one walks past, his drill in hand like a cowboy ready to shoot. Laptop man wanders about trying to capture something everyone else will miss; the coffee is good, time for another fag.
I wish I could sit crossed legged on the wall, a girl is writing and looks comfy, I imagine the pain that position would cause me. Bright blue hair and typical student attire she fits like a round peg in a round hole as opposed to me square. Another workman using a
Plastic mat as a batman cape flapping in the wind emphasising his perceived status as a super hero, his massive boots caked in mud. A sudden flurry of jcbs building trucks and skips
Trundle past, big, loud and cumbersome. I can hear talk of a massive satellite heading not for earth particularly but a girl in a bright red coat.
Laptop man lights up a cigarette; great, he has vices too, the sun is really trying to burn up the clouds with some success, the heat getting through warms my skin and all feels well.
Denise Walton
The road of a scholar
The campus is alive, it breaths, it sleeps and it consumes them in a wrapping of modernisation. It has been good to those who have ventured its path and relentless to those who dare mock its velocity. It is a fresh year and the campus is accompanied with fresh people. The nervous walk down the path of academic establishment is imprinted upon the faces of many, the subtle wind flows through each and every individual in a haunting manner; mocking them as they walk. The sun shines through a manic moving pattern of clouds, highlighting the dominating landscape of old and new. The ear piercing sounds of man-made machinery float forcefully through the grounds; it is an invasion of noise pollution attacking the silence with the force of a million Spartans. The coldness creeps into their bones and lingers like the smell of raw meat.
People pass by gradually with time and so does the looming darkness of the blocked out sun; it begins to shine upon the faces of many, allowing hope to penetrate the soul. It shall not rain. The surroundings become a welcoming sight of beauty, the structures glisten like supernovas dominating the sky. The scent of winter is dancing upon each and every breath; delicately exposing its magical gift of creation.
The mood changes upon the faces of those who pass by. Promising smiles of excitement manipulate the fear of the unknown, the illuminated buildings begin to re-tell the same story of the scholars who walked this path once before.
Aaron Robinette
Zone 3 – The Lake
The smell of fresh air, the taste of September, the sight of softly flowing water, the feel of a light breeze upon your face, the sound of a mixture of students and construction work in the distance, the feel of an Autumn morning – a treat for all the senses. The sky is a dirty shade of grey, which contrasts greatly with the striking greenery surrounding the reflective pool of water, ducks swimming on its surface. A voice comes loudly from behind, followed by the very loud and almost angry noise of a Goose; “If you have £2.10, goose, I’ll go and get you your own sausage balm, get out of my personal space!” That was followed by the laughter of everyone in ear shot of said voice. The only noises that could be heard were the ducks, geese and the occasional outburst of ‘Don’t bite my leg, goose!”.
People of all different ages, sexes, races and sizes walk by, each talking among their friends, only snippets of their conversations can be heard before they walk away. A total of 7 benches sit beside the water, each one telling a different story with each unique scratch and carved word. The picturesque landscape creates the image more of a botanical garden than a university campus, a privilege each student should count themselves lucky for. Looking to the right, a cafe filled with students on different courses with different dreams sharing coffee and conversations, new friends being made and old friends conversing about their day. The amount of people who have walked these grounds is a mystery, each step of each individual imprinted into the history of the concrete and soil. The laughs shared, the cries comforted, the coffees drank and the conversations united among students sitting by this lake, all represent thousands of degrees in the making.
Louise Strefford
Mass Observation: Friday 23rd September 2011
Edge Hill Library
Silence is apparently golden,
In this place of tranquillity.
But isn’t it unnerving,
How silence cannot be?
Because when you think it’s quiet,
And can hear a pin is dropped.
That young man in the corner,
Has thoughts which can’t be stopped.
Are they ideas for an essay?
Maybe a worry or a fear?
Or is he simply thinking,
Should I go and have a beer?
Or that girl who’s at the table,
Her mind is lost in space.
For the notebook she was reading,
Is now the book of Face.
For amongst the sea of pages,
Are the thoughts in us that grow.
And if they had a voice at all,
Our minds would simply blow!
So instead we all just sit there,
With pens and laptops in our hands.
They say silence is golden,
I truly think it’s grand.
Tasha Williams
Making an entrance
The symmetrical ‘art deco’ building is the hallmark of Edge Hill University. It is the first obvious symbol that greets newcomers as they arrive on foot, by car or on the vinyl emblazoned shuttle bus.
From my vantage point, I observe the comings and goings of the newcomers. Curiously, many pay little attention to this noble structure as they wander off, left and right to their assigned departments. This is a shame as this is the focal welcoming point.
Spread out like an apron in front of the building are carefully manicured flowers, bushes and lush green lawns – green being the house colour of the university. Statues of varying styles punctuate the gardens.
The main entrance is flanked by pairs of ‘Doric’ columns above which there is the institution’s carved crest, higher still, on the roof, a squat belfry tower. Lead grey clouds cast a sombre mood over what should be a day of celebration.
Entering the reception area there is a feeling of warmth and calm efficiency. I take my seat on one of the muted brown chairs and pause to collect my thoughts. In the corridor beyond, staff and students are coming and going, all with a sense of purpose. I gaze upwards and am fascinated by the embellished ceiling, wondering how many have passed this way before, never paying heed to the art of the long forgotten designer.
What lies beyond this lobby? A sense of vitality, new companions and most of all, a quality of education that is fresh, unstuffy, constantly on the move.
As I retrace my steps into the open, I am aware of many contrasts: orange construction vehicles and bright coloured hard hats still in evidence – the renovation is still incomplete. High visibility jackets of the car park marshals, then another bus arrives – yellow this time, disgorging even more eager but confused students.
Standing alone, a red pillar box is ready to receive letters to parents from homesick ‘freshers’. Despite the technical revolution, the art of letter writing is still with us.
I look towards the sky. The clouds are dispersing on a westerly breeze. Patches of blue emerge, Peggy’s Blue Skylight, perhaps?
Rodney Cotter
Mass Observation
An old majestic stone building engraved with traditional crests depicts the scene where thousands of eager, energetic yet nervous faces enter in awe of the huge sight in front of them. The country ambiance around the place is emphasised by the mass of large trees and vegetation around the building; yet the place is alive with the sound of autumn. Reddish brown leaves are scattered across the green grass and two large ancient trees stand impressively at the entrance of the university.
A lawn mower outside churns up the long grass as a pigeon bobs up and down foraging for worms. Mixed with the natural beauty of the area comes large building machines whirring and beeping. Loads of cars of many different colours and shapes roam backwards and forwards across the campus and the place swarms with activity and energy.
A tall construction worker roars to his mate whilst clouds of dust and dirt swirl into the autumn air. The new buildings are as modern as the old stone main building is impressive, overlooking the large field opposite under the cloudy grey sky. Students gossiping about subjects and nights out in Ormskirk; a typical day from the perspective of a student on the university campus.
Matt Palin
Creative Writing Year 1 warm-up exercise
As I took the time to stand and observe the surroundings of the university’s main entrance, I initially saw objects as mere objects. However, after a number of minutes of observing, I saw a deeper meaning behind all of these so called ‘things’. Each of these meanings oozes optimism.
There were many people walking in different directions, all with different goals and aspirations. I noticed numerous windows on the main building. These must surely represent ‘windows of opportunity’ that the university offers?
Many trees have been grown there, much like the many futures grown at this university. There was a great sense of new beginnings, aided by the peaceful, tranquil atmosphere in the air.
All of the several signs and symbols in the area were assisted by the yellow-jacketed wardens pointing students in the right direction. Although they were pointing to the right department physically, I feel that the staff here will point in the right direction on a deeper level in all areas of study and university life.
I found the ‘ten miles per hour’ sign quite ironic. Despite there being a limit on how fast a car can travel upon entering the campus, there is absolutely no limit on how much a student can learn whilst here.
My eyes were drawn to the large, temple-like beams by the reception doors. Is this a reminder to us students to ‘worship’ every minute spent at this organisation?
The scenery was very pleasant there, with much greenery. The colour ‘green’ being the operative word. Alike the traffic light system, the greenery was telling me to ‘go’ and don’t look back.
There was even a small ramp sloping upwards upon the main entrance door. I interpreted this to indicate that by entering university you are most definitely being elevated.
Admittedly, I could be labelled as mad for reading so deeply into such simple imagery.
Nevertheless, I could also be labelled as mad for classifying all of these metaphorical ideas as simply coincidences. I choose to follow the bolder, more encouraging notion as I am catapulted into such a daunting new experience. What is the worst that could happen?
Phil Richardson
Untitled
Sitting on a very cold copper coloured grid on this almost bright, yet cold Friday morning, I am trying to get my new short cardigan to become my new long cardigan, as I pull it underneath myself to separate me from the cold hard ground beneath. Always the confused student, I ask the girl huddled up in her long coat beside me for more details of the task, she very politely explains the assignment we have been given, it seems confusion is compulsory to all new students at university. I hear the din from the workforce just around the corner but it feels like it’s coming at me from all directions. I am wondering to myself if it is actually possible to even put pen to paper amidst the noise and the shuddering of the cold concrete ground beneath me.
I am surrounded by plants and shrubs of all different descriptions, all of which I have seen before in my life and yet still none I know by name. I glance briefly to my right trying to establish some comfort from the unfortunate position my bottom seems to have found itself in and I see, attached to one of the windows, a poster from a film I recently saw about an Alien named “Paul”. It makes me smile and as I look away a boy sitting close by looks up at me, does he now think I am one of those deep intellectual types, at one with nature type people, smiling at my surroundings?
There is some sort of brick monument with metal sheeting attached to it to my left, and I am trying very hard to think of a way to describe it creatively but nothing comes, and I worry once again what I am going to be able to write about for the next three years of this creative writing course. A workman walks by in the distance; he is wearing one of those high visibility jackets and I only catch the side of his face but he seems transfixed on something ahead of him, like he knows exactly where he has to be and what his next job is. Some student girls come out through the doors behind me chatting, one of them sounds like a Geordie but I am not sure and ask the girl (who is probably wishing by now she sat somewhere else) besides me, she agrees and I laugh quietly to myself, for whoever reads this can hardly correct me.
There is a beautiful tree at the side of me with hanging branches and slightly tinted brown leaves; it is blowing just enough to convey its beauty even more. I feel sad when I look at it but have no idea why and as I ponder over this and try to come up with some deep and meaningful reason, a bright yellow digger comes trudging past it and I realise how close to the truth of me this whole situation is. I am sometimes like that tree, just there, still and unknowing but most of the time I am like the digger just trudging along trying to get to my next destination.
Sarah Billington
Sudden panic erupts as soon as I sit down at the lake. A group of students throw some scraps of bread into the water. Seagulls swoop down almost instantly and swarm the area. Ducks speed as fast as they can to the water’s edge, clumsily tripping over their own feet.
Some of the ducks are uninterested in the thought of bread and remain asleep on the grassy bank. They sleep perfectly perched on one leg. They hold as much grace and stamina as a flamingo and don’t even falter when the harsh wind ruffles their speckled feathers.
A duck nearby catches my eye. He waddles over, occasionally wagging his curled black tail feathers. I notice that his face isn’t as emerald as the others, but he still holds an air of regality. His small beady eyes study me. He turns away; clearly disgruntled at the lack of bread I have to offer. He stretches out a couple of feet away and folds his matted emerald face behind his wing. He falls asleep instantly and seems oblivious to all around him.
I find it quite sad that he sleeps alone. All the ducks around him sleep in twos. Yet that solitary regal duck looked peaceful and contented with his own company.
I write a couple of poems, taking advantage of the silence of my surroundings and try to make myself comfortable on the cold bench I have taken as my workstation for an hour.
The silence is cut short by a group of nearby geese. Water clatters and splinters like glass as they flap their great Canadian wings and lift their huge bodies out of the lake and into the sky. Their takeoff is anything but graceful, and yet once in the air they glide softly. This of course is ruined by their noisy honks of excitement. Perhaps they are just so relieved they managed to all takeoff.
I then notice the soft trickling sound of water running into the lake. I hadn’t listened to it properly until now. The continuous sound is so calming and peaceful that it blends into the background of the lake. But the noise is definitely there. It can’t even be drowned out by the chatter of passing students, or the loud hysterical laughing of nearby ducks. It slowly carries on running in the background. The steady stream at the campus’ heart.
- Becky Hayes
Untitled
Beer, spirits are advertised but the smell of coffee is overwhelming as students try their hardest to wash away their hangovers and the stale alcohol from their mouths. Groups of students walk to and from various different places with new friends and equally new conversations on the go, all corresponding with the new buildings, trees and paving stones. There are people without belonging, a blur of fluorescent yellow and diggers, wires that trail along the floor threatening to trip the new students with their brand spanking new folders and books. Tattoo’s and dyed hair seems more at home here amongst the modern architecture of the Hub, rather than with the old fashioned styling of the main building, but valued so equally and respected in awe. So much contrast surrounds the new building, old and new, complex and simple and silence and noise.
So much noise, a rattling cage and a chainsaw, such a racket so out of place in what should be a peaceful learning experience. Disruption in a place of peace.
Jordann Chetwynd
Watching the Hub
The builders are preparing for another hard day’s graft, conveniently situated by the café. Freshers dart frantically, probably victims of the late trains this morning. Nearby, a group of Southerners discuss the events of the night before, shame has no bounds; although judging by their hungover state...
An older woman’s eyes meet mine as she scampers past clinging to her handbag for dear life, sometimes a smile can mean so much. It's funny how strangers can remind you of loved ones. A hard-nosed student glares as he waltzes in front of me, the thought of me also wearing sandals in this weather! Pah! A good old fashioned Northern accent draws my attention as a builder walks away in old wellies, battle scarred with a light brown mud, oh the contrast. One of the 'chief exec' builders barks instructions across the yard that are so Scouse, only those accustomed to the accent could interpret.
Looking around at the modern buildings, those being constructed and the new faces; I feel a sense of pride at being part of this, and I also feel at home. I know the builders are envious of this by the way they look at me with my messy, windswept hair bobbling as I scribble away in my pad. The hub certainly lives up to its name, it seems to be the busiest part of the campus. Inane chatter, a squeaky wheelbarrow and an eye-catching advert on the newsagent window would all draw your attention, not forgetting the aroma of those tasty hot dogs too.
A young lad in a Newcastle United shirt walks by, hands fastened to his hips. I feel a sense of happiness and nostalgia at the memory of my team beating his 4-3 in an epic encounter many moons ago. His current stance would probably be the same in reaction to that defeat. A member of staff forces a 'meals on wheels' type tray up a path, this evokes my mental note of what to have for lunch today, how the mind of a hungover Scouser wanders.
As images of the ultimate fajitas run through my mind, I notice a lad about my age on a nearby bench also writing. His eccentric green hoodie ever present in the corner of my eye. I wonder if he'll be my first creative writing buddy. I wonder if he has also noticed the comings and goings which occur when sitting outside the Hub.
I soon see a group of girls. I reminisce to 2.20am the night before, and the sight of intoxicated revellers singing whilst leaving the student union, if only those mild mannered and cautious young women could see themselves a few hours previously. This cold bench has become too uncomfortable and I eye up the orange swivel chairs inside the Hub, they seem a more attractive and comfy prospect.
Peter Hughes
Mass Observation
I am sat to the left of the revolving doors of main reception, my first thought is to have a cigarette, having already observed three other smokers huddled in the corner. So here I am, in a good position, coffee from the hub and a cigarette, pure bliss. The sky is heavy and slate grey, but no rain as yet.
Several of my fellow students congregate at the main gate like survey takers, waiting to pounce, all scanning their vicinity for an observation of note.
The now familiar parking attendants are busy directing cars, trucks, visitors, and deliveries, only able to grab snippets of conversation between instructions. There is a girl in a white t-shirt with large red lettering and a number" 85852 "; apparently she can answer any Q". She looks lonely eager for victims and if I look too long she will get me.
The Grounds men arrive on an impressive bright orange digger hauling an array of plants to further enhance the already fabulous grounds, getting on their hands and knees giving us the age old view of "the builder’s bum”.
The main building reminds me of a stately home, aged and full of character, blighted only by the bright green revolving doors, the main gate opening to a circled drive
Like an image from a Jane Austin novel. A tree, magnificent stands to the right, majestic and beautiful swamps a bronze statue that disappears against the trees splendour.
Workmen are now sporadic having completed most of the vast renovations that have of late dominated the campus, one walks past, his drill in hand like a cowboy ready to shoot. Laptop man wanders about trying to capture something everyone else will miss; the coffee is good, time for another fag.
I wish I could sit crossed legged on the wall, a girl is writing and looks comfy, I imagine the pain that position would cause me. Bright blue hair and typical student attire she fits like a round peg in a round hole as opposed to me square. Another workman using a
Plastic mat as a batman cape flapping in the wind emphasising his perceived status as a super hero, his massive boots caked in mud. A sudden flurry of jcbs building trucks and skips
Trundle past, big, loud and cumbersome. I can hear talk of a massive satellite heading not for earth particularly but a girl in a bright red coat.
Laptop man lights up a cigarette; great, he has vices too, the sun is really trying to burn up the clouds with some success, the heat getting through warms my skin and all feels well.
Denise Walton
The road of a scholar
The campus is alive, it breaths, it sleeps and it consumes them in a wrapping of modernisation. It has been good to those who have ventured its path and relentless to those who dare mock its velocity. It is a fresh year and the campus is accompanied with fresh people. The nervous walk down the path of academic establishment is imprinted upon the faces of many, the subtle wind flows through each and every individual in a haunting manner; mocking them as they walk. The sun shines through a manic moving pattern of clouds, highlighting the dominating landscape of old and new. The ear piercing sounds of man-made machinery float forcefully through the grounds; it is an invasion of noise pollution attacking the silence with the force of a million Spartans. The coldness creeps into their bones and lingers like the smell of raw meat.
People pass by gradually with time and so does the looming darkness of the blocked out sun; it begins to shine upon the faces of many, allowing hope to penetrate the soul. It shall not rain. The surroundings become a welcoming sight of beauty, the structures glisten like supernovas dominating the sky. The scent of winter is dancing upon each and every breath; delicately exposing its magical gift of creation.
The mood changes upon the faces of those who pass by. Promising smiles of excitement manipulate the fear of the unknown, the illuminated buildings begin to re-tell the same story of the scholars who walked this path once before.
Aaron Robinette
Zone 3 – The Lake
The smell of fresh air, the taste of September, the sight of softly flowing water, the feel of a light breeze upon your face, the sound of a mixture of students and construction work in the distance, the feel of an Autumn morning – a treat for all the senses. The sky is a dirty shade of grey, which contrasts greatly with the striking greenery surrounding the reflective pool of water, ducks swimming on its surface. A voice comes loudly from behind, followed by the very loud and almost angry noise of a Goose; “If you have £2.10, goose, I’ll go and get you your own sausage balm, get out of my personal space!” That was followed by the laughter of everyone in ear shot of said voice. The only noises that could be heard were the ducks, geese and the occasional outburst of ‘Don’t bite my leg, goose!”.
People of all different ages, sexes, races and sizes walk by, each talking among their friends, only snippets of their conversations can be heard before they walk away. A total of 7 benches sit beside the water, each one telling a different story with each unique scratch and carved word. The picturesque landscape creates the image more of a botanical garden than a university campus, a privilege each student should count themselves lucky for. Looking to the right, a cafe filled with students on different courses with different dreams sharing coffee and conversations, new friends being made and old friends conversing about their day. The amount of people who have walked these grounds is a mystery, each step of each individual imprinted into the history of the concrete and soil. The laughs shared, the cries comforted, the coffees drank and the conversations united among students sitting by this lake, all represent thousands of degrees in the making.
Louise Strefford
Mass Observation: Friday 23rd September 2011
Edge Hill Library
Silence is apparently golden,
In this place of tranquillity.
But isn’t it unnerving,
How silence cannot be?
Because when you think it’s quiet,
And can hear a pin is dropped.
That young man in the corner,
Has thoughts which can’t be stopped.
Are they ideas for an essay?
Maybe a worry or a fear?
Or is he simply thinking,
Should I go and have a beer?
Or that girl who’s at the table,
Her mind is lost in space.
For the notebook she was reading,
Is now the book of Face.
For amongst the sea of pages,
Are the thoughts in us that grow.
And if they had a voice at all,
Our minds would simply blow!
So instead we all just sit there,
With pens and laptops in our hands.
They say silence is golden,
I truly think it’s grand.
Tasha Williams
Making an entrance
The symmetrical ‘art deco’ building is the hallmark of Edge Hill University. It is the first obvious symbol that greets newcomers as they arrive on foot, by car or on the vinyl emblazoned shuttle bus.
From my vantage point, I observe the comings and goings of the newcomers. Curiously, many pay little attention to this noble structure as they wander off, left and right to their assigned departments. This is a shame as this is the focal welcoming point.
Spread out like an apron in front of the building are carefully manicured flowers, bushes and lush green lawns – green being the house colour of the university. Statues of varying styles punctuate the gardens.
The main entrance is flanked by pairs of ‘Doric’ columns above which there is the institution’s carved crest, higher still, on the roof, a squat belfry tower. Lead grey clouds cast a sombre mood over what should be a day of celebration.
Entering the reception area there is a feeling of warmth and calm efficiency. I take my seat on one of the muted brown chairs and pause to collect my thoughts. In the corridor beyond, staff and students are coming and going, all with a sense of purpose. I gaze upwards and am fascinated by the embellished ceiling, wondering how many have passed this way before, never paying heed to the art of the long forgotten designer.
What lies beyond this lobby? A sense of vitality, new companions and most of all, a quality of education that is fresh, unstuffy, constantly on the move.
As I retrace my steps into the open, I am aware of many contrasts: orange construction vehicles and bright coloured hard hats still in evidence – the renovation is still incomplete. High visibility jackets of the car park marshals, then another bus arrives – yellow this time, disgorging even more eager but confused students.
Standing alone, a red pillar box is ready to receive letters to parents from homesick ‘freshers’. Despite the technical revolution, the art of letter writing is still with us.
I look towards the sky. The clouds are dispersing on a westerly breeze. Patches of blue emerge, Peggy’s Blue Skylight, perhaps?
Rodney Cotter
Mass Observation
An old majestic stone building engraved with traditional crests depicts the scene where thousands of eager, energetic yet nervous faces enter in awe of the huge sight in front of them. The country ambiance around the place is emphasised by the mass of large trees and vegetation around the building; yet the place is alive with the sound of autumn. Reddish brown leaves are scattered across the green grass and two large ancient trees stand impressively at the entrance of the university.
A lawn mower outside churns up the long grass as a pigeon bobs up and down foraging for worms. Mixed with the natural beauty of the area comes large building machines whirring and beeping. Loads of cars of many different colours and shapes roam backwards and forwards across the campus and the place swarms with activity and energy.
A tall construction worker roars to his mate whilst clouds of dust and dirt swirl into the autumn air. The new buildings are as modern as the old stone main building is impressive, overlooking the large field opposite under the cloudy grey sky. Students gossiping about subjects and nights out in Ormskirk; a typical day from the perspective of a student on the university campus.
Matt Palin
Creative Writing Year 1 warm-up exercise
As I took the time to stand and observe the surroundings of the university’s main entrance, I initially saw objects as mere objects. However, after a number of minutes of observing, I saw a deeper meaning behind all of these so called ‘things’. Each of these meanings oozes optimism.
There were many people walking in different directions, all with different goals and aspirations. I noticed numerous windows on the main building. These must surely represent ‘windows of opportunity’ that the university offers?
Many trees have been grown there, much like the many futures grown at this university. There was a great sense of new beginnings, aided by the peaceful, tranquil atmosphere in the air.
All of the several signs and symbols in the area were assisted by the yellow-jacketed wardens pointing students in the right direction. Although they were pointing to the right department physically, I feel that the staff here will point in the right direction on a deeper level in all areas of study and university life.
I found the ‘ten miles per hour’ sign quite ironic. Despite there being a limit on how fast a car can travel upon entering the campus, there is absolutely no limit on how much a student can learn whilst here.
My eyes were drawn to the large, temple-like beams by the reception doors. Is this a reminder to us students to ‘worship’ every minute spent at this organisation?
The scenery was very pleasant there, with much greenery. The colour ‘green’ being the operative word. Alike the traffic light system, the greenery was telling me to ‘go’ and don’t look back.
There was even a small ramp sloping upwards upon the main entrance door. I interpreted this to indicate that by entering university you are most definitely being elevated.
Admittedly, I could be labelled as mad for reading so deeply into such simple imagery.
Nevertheless, I could also be labelled as mad for classifying all of these metaphorical ideas as simply coincidences. I choose to follow the bolder, more encouraging notion as I am catapulted into such a daunting new experience. What is the worst that could happen?
Phil Richardson
Untitled
Sitting on a very cold copper coloured grid on this almost bright, yet cold Friday morning, I am trying to get my new short cardigan to become my new long cardigan, as I pull it underneath myself to separate me from the cold hard ground beneath. Always the confused student, I ask the girl huddled up in her long coat beside me for more details of the task, she very politely explains the assignment we have been given, it seems confusion is compulsory to all new students at university. I hear the din from the workforce just around the corner but it feels like it’s coming at me from all directions. I am wondering to myself if it is actually possible to even put pen to paper amidst the noise and the shuddering of the cold concrete ground beneath me.
I am surrounded by plants and shrubs of all different descriptions, all of which I have seen before in my life and yet still none I know by name. I glance briefly to my right trying to establish some comfort from the unfortunate position my bottom seems to have found itself in and I see, attached to one of the windows, a poster from a film I recently saw about an Alien named “Paul”. It makes me smile and as I look away a boy sitting close by looks up at me, does he now think I am one of those deep intellectual types, at one with nature type people, smiling at my surroundings?
There is some sort of brick monument with metal sheeting attached to it to my left, and I am trying very hard to think of a way to describe it creatively but nothing comes, and I worry once again what I am going to be able to write about for the next three years of this creative writing course. A workman walks by in the distance; he is wearing one of those high visibility jackets and I only catch the side of his face but he seems transfixed on something ahead of him, like he knows exactly where he has to be and what his next job is. Some student girls come out through the doors behind me chatting, one of them sounds like a Geordie but I am not sure and ask the girl (who is probably wishing by now she sat somewhere else) besides me, she agrees and I laugh quietly to myself, for whoever reads this can hardly correct me.
There is a beautiful tree at the side of me with hanging branches and slightly tinted brown leaves; it is blowing just enough to convey its beauty even more. I feel sad when I look at it but have no idea why and as I ponder over this and try to come up with some deep and meaningful reason, a bright yellow digger comes trudging past it and I realise how close to the truth of me this whole situation is. I am sometimes like that tree, just there, still and unknowing but most of the time I am like the digger just trudging along trying to get to my next destination.
Sarah Billington
Mass Observations more and more
Untitled
I always seem to find myself ridiculously challenged when trying not to judge people. It’s not that I'm some vindictive, Machiavellian witch with a secret mission to psychologically destroy mankind. It’s just human nature or more so, societies influence. Therefore, when several workmen drive past me on their JCB's and tractors staring in a very un-subtle way, I can’t help but immediately assume they're going to throw some crude remark my way. I'm supposed to be the type of person who hates stereotypes. I do hate stereotypes, but at times it seems impossible to control the thoughts that linger in my mind. I often think it’s a good job peoples inner thoughts aren't audible, the world would be an even more hateful place than it already is and that would be with no real intent from anybody.
I've continually seen people drive past in their cars and immediately questioned whether or not they're a student, a lecturer or a visitor. I boggled over when it was they passed their driving test, how many minors they received and furthermore, what for? I like to think of myself as somewhat intelligent but still fail to realise where all these pointless questions arise from that I constantly ask. Pointless questions and concerns that will never be answered or even considered because they all occur inside my head. I sometimes find myself wondering if people are thinking the same as me. Judging like I do, and therefore in essence, judging me. Its obscure how I sometimes try to alter my behaviour in such a way that I think I might trick peoples subconscious. I'd then proceed to sitting and asking if my thoughts and behaviour are normal and if I'm normal. More pointless questions. One thing is for certain, I'm an unintentional student of Philosophy. But I guess everyone with a functioning brain kind of is. I found myself thinking about the questions, the meaningless questions and debated if they were actually valid in any form. I had the Sylvia Plath perspective sitting on one half of my brain, the fact that we're all dying so what does it really matter. And then I considered those real enthusiasts, those people who are forever optimists. Those who convince themselves that every individual and their thoughts are unique, purposeful and somewhat beautiful. Do we all actually matter? The people walking around the university aimlessly, the builders on their JCBs and me. The girl sat on the concrete block, people watching. I felt more cynical than ever, reminiscing about quotes that I once found inspiring which now felt like nothing but poetic bullshit to me. I thought about how strange it was that the simplest task could lead to me reflecting on the bitter realm that has become my reality.
I didn't know what the outcome of what I was doing would really achieve. I don't think I could ever actually make it as a successful writer. Everything I wrote about always ended up being a personal, moral and philosophical debate. You could give me the simplest task of telling me to go somewhere and write what I see and I guarantee you I would go on a tangent, end up writing a load of whiny nonsense, completely irrelevant from the original plan. But there you have it, I guess I just write because I can.
Ursula Roberts-Twinn
The Wilson Building
A slight breeze disturbs the almost perfect exterior of this modern construction. Perfect save for the odd weed, argument, crisis and tumbled leaf. A high traffic area- but most of the faces are confused and perplexed. This is still new and they don’t know where they are.
The sounds of nature: birdsong, crickets and the dim rustle of crisp autumn leaves quivering in the wind are non-existent here. All that is to be heard is the grinding sound of construction and the din of conversation. Cocky men on mobile phones swaggering: carpet carrying. Thinking they are better than they indeed are. A woman curses, she cannot get her cigarette lighter working: clearly an NHS freebie.
But the most apparent feature that I notice whilst sat here at the side of the path is warmth, a warmth I cannot feel whilst sat outside. I guess I’ll have to settle for ‘warmth’. More of a feeling inside than out, brought about with a smile by the poor deer in the headlights who offered a bribe of a Fruit Pastille in return for a glance at a peers notes. No one dares be wrong so early on in the game.
The conversationalists are gone. But a helicopter is quick to chop up the offering of nature’s sounds that a woodpigeon makes. And no sooner are the talkers gone, than they are returned, 638 words per minute- narrowly exceeding the world record: “yeah, innit though, like”. The woodpigeon is now intent that he is my only focus as he puts on his display on the roof. First peering down at me: sizing up his audience. Then, the game commences: he walks out of sight behind the wall and then flies back in sight again, with a coo as if to say “peekaboo”. This goes on for some time, until he gets bored and flies away. The show is over.
My toes are now numb as the cold begins to really set in, and I think it is time to go and succumb to walking’s promise of blood circulation.
Katie Frazer
Area around the Rose
Theatre
It is
quiet, perhaps due to the early hour of the morning or at least what is
considered as being ‘early’ to a Fresher. The monotonous tones of construction
equipment act as a fitting soundtrack to an overcast day. Inside is a different
story. Across from the theatre, a class of students sit around a rectangular
table, their heads all facing in entirely opposite directions as they focus on
their tutor.
A
breeze sweeps past and I hope that rain does not follow. My fellow writers take
individual turns to stop, pause and think from where we sit, reflecting on the absence
of people. I wonder if they can also see the irritable wasp next to me, dancing
around the nearby flowers in an almost rhythmic pattern, oblivious to all else.
Ignorance is, after all, bliss.
Life at
last! Not unlike hibernating animals emerging from a long winter’s sleep, groups
of first years emerge from the performing arts centre, passing the unique
monument without even a second glance. The same cannot be said for us who, writing
outside on a cold day, have been subject to more curious looks. Perhaps in time
when writers are constantly seen in this manner around campus, we, like the
monument, will also fade into regular background detail.
The distinguishable
accent of a Geordie greets me long before the sight of its owner, granting a
welcome reprieve from the drone of a construction drill. But then it stops. The
labour falls silent and distantly, I hear cars whistling along the road,
harmonised by the occasional baritone voice of a male student.
Silence
is not eternal, of course. The deep groan of a helicopter as it passes overhead
signals the end of the day’s respite. I watch as it carves a path across the
sky; an insurmountable black ship in an ocean of overlapping grey. The sun
makes a bid to break through the oppressive army of clouds and although it is unsuccessful,
the gesture is appreciated.
The work
continues and more students wander past clutching coffee cups, in desperate
need of a caffeine boost. I find myself staring at a poster for ‘Paul’ and smile
at the irony. After all, in such a strange new place and a changing time of
life as a first year, we must all feel as if we have stumbled onto an entirely
different planet.
Amy Webster
Untitled
I'm here in the right place outside the library, sitting in the wind holding on to a hot chocolate for warmth as much as anything else. There are streams of people going by in all directions loners, pairs, big groups and small groups, everyone on a mission. None of them aware of me observing them on my own secret mission. They are oblivious to what happens around them, I can see that now, people move as if in their own little bubble. The workmen in their bright yellow jackets digging holes while the ginger man wears the yellow but is permanently attached to his mobile phone. A flash of red among the yellow, grey haired man inspecting holes with rubber gloves on - interesting.
Lots of casual wear, jeans, leggings, hooded tops with obligatory huge bags slung over shoulders. Some are in groups laughing and smiling, you can see the excitement on their faces finally away from home, out there and all grown up. Then the odd loner almost scuttling along determined to look like they know what they are doing and have somewhere to go. Just seen a ' visitor ' I know this as he is swinging his name badge around obviously too cool to put it around his neck like a race goer. Now you see the smart ladies, they look like office workers and carry food to go, on a break from admin, screeching with laughter and shouting to each other. The odd person walks by quietly, wearing a navy polo shirt with a logo I’ve seen several of them around, employed here so not in awe of the place.
Sun has just shone on the righteous, well me actually. I am lit up like a tableau ' woman on a bench ' Swarm of people appeared it could be a street in any city, Where are you from? Blackpool - relationships being formed. There’s lots of whooping, screaming and applause going on, no idea why but a group are sitting on a bench leaping up, clapping and shouting at people passing by. It’s like the x factor crowd when someone who can sing comes on stage. Posse of little children appeared, their mums with the pushchairs as the tots tentatively wander over the pavement. Girl in pink wings has appeared too much applause followed by chants. It almost sounds like a demo, man walking with a large yellow plastic barrier slung over his shoulder. More ladies who lunch and official looking women with clipboards. A beetle has just shot out from under my bench and has stopped in front of me - scrap that it’s made a dash for my feet; I am not staying here much longer if I am attracting the wildlife.
Lots of young men with turquoise polo shirts, what is it with the polo shirt phenomenon? lady with a red suitcase, increasing noise from the workmen- lunch is over and another bloody insect is crawling over my notepad, time to leave.
Christina Belkhiri
THE HUB REFLECTION
In its arms, the wind carries a never ending rush of sounds, and a coolness that caresses everything in its path, whilst the leaves dance around the feet of the people passing by with vacant expressions dusted on their faces. Others are laughing as they wander past, casting a reflection on the glass windows – a reflection of their reality.
Of their entire being.
The overcast morning sky looks down on the life it hovers above, and hiding in its wisdom are our indefinite futures. There’s no way to tell what’s in store for us; we can only glide with the wind and let it carry us to our destination. We have liberation in front of us; it’s written all over the wanderer’s faces as they smile and laugh with their companions; gravity holding each step and keeping them grounded.
Where are they going? Who knows. Will we ever know? Probably not.
Voices surround me in a bewildering muffle, riding the wind as it brushes my skin. I shiver and see the same reactions around me. Everyone can feel the whisper, not just me.
Some are lone-rangers trying to find refuge from the turmoil of confusion in their new surroundings. Their eyes are darting. Their lips are parted. Everything in the way they are moving is screaming with mystification. They’re looking, but they’re not seeing.
We are all different, but we are also very much the same.
I’m looking, and all I am seeing are parts of myself staring right back.
Jessica Champion
The Library
A middle aged woman, who wore a red coat, sat intensively in front of her brand new laptop. She viewed it with a puzzled expression, not sure that what she was doing was correct; however, she soldiered on wanting to prove to the younger students that she was as capable as them. The concentration she held was broken as she noticed a student aggressively searching for a plug socket. The frustration she had resulted in her almost spilling her coffee on a white circular table, as she moved from one to another.
The library was still; however, not very quiet as the sound of clicking keyboards and the constant flicking through books filled the room. A group of students sat at the far end of the room, chatting and laughing away the pressures of their newly set assignments. The discussions they shared became louder and disturbed the peace of the library further. One of the students appeared to be distracted by the librarians walking in and out of the ‘Staff Only’ room, carrying cups, plates and a teapot covered by a stripy tea cosy. The teapot looked out of place in the modern environment that was full of purple and green chairs. The delight that was expressed by the librarians made the student wonder about what fun activities might have been occurring behind the door.
Laptops covered surfaces of tables, hiding away the faces of their users. Answers were being searched for, through the old, tired books and the new, fast internet. A burst of laughter came from the stairs as bundles of students made their way into the room; disturbing the peace of study time.
By Evelina Balciunaite
Untitled
It feels almost lonesome. Being sat here, watching the comings and goings of the people walking past. I find it curious how within this university, everyone’s speeds seem so casual but then again, it is early days. I’m sat inside the hub, chair turned to face out what’s practically a glass wall but could be a television screen with it’s current purpose.
I can see that there are two men, builders, stood in the doorway, taking a break and smoking. They’re in no rush, happy to stand there enjoying their freedom to have a cigarette and just talk. One can’t seem to stay still, he’s antsy and the other laughs. I imagine their talking about a recent night. “Hey, at least you know she‘s a table dancer now,” the still one could be teasing. There is a white van a little way in front of them and a man is sat inside on his phone. He’s also a builder, possibly trying to escape the cold. I don’t envy them, being sat inside a warm building makes all the difference. The man in the white van is possibly a family man, on the phone to his wife maybe, he doesn’t look happy. They would probably be arguing, their son has been suspended from school for fighting and she wants him to discipline his son, she didn’t want him growing up like a barbarian. But that’s all idle guess work.
I turn my gaze back towards the doors and see two young girls, they’re standing with a small gap between them but one girl with glasses keeps leaning forwards to play with the other girl’s hair. The girl isn’t bothered, she’s focused on her phone and the entire scene feels like an odd amalgamation of intimacy and awkwardness.
I focus back in on the room around me, the sound of cutlery and the girls beside me chatting away about their weekend plans, their accents and explanations of why one couldn’t go out make me assume that they’re local. It’s all a strange mix but I suppose that’s what university is, a cesspit of issues and achievements and people of different backgrounds and jobs. And as I step back outside to wander around the hub I found myself lost within the mixture of people again, that’s what I’ve observed.
Rosina Brooker
Untitled
Me, being Leigh, I’m currently sitting on the steps outside an old looking building opposite the geography building. It’s freezing, I have a cold and I’m not amused by this weather.
Initials of JBC and N&P drive by. Groundwork is very much evident.
Here comes an aeroplane to add to the noise pollution the ground workers are creating.
The weather is cold; I have a cold. Oh! How ironic this pathetic fallacy is.
I girl in green has a fruit pot, melon mainly, I am speculating.
A fat man with a giant drill is walking by with a look of self-assessed importance. “I am important…”
A van with ‘Rydal’ on the side of it not only reminds me of ‘Grease’ but also seems to be unaware that they’re using the same font as the sportswear brand ‘Lonsdale’ – copyright infringement much?
Who wears flip-flops in this near winter cold? The girl who just flip-flopped by that’s who.
Hi-vis is in abundance.
The autumn equinox has introduced herself quite sufficiently with this weather today.
My friend has just left to find her tutor group; she is going to get lost.
A helicopter and a seagull fly by insignificantly tiny in the immense murky whiteness of the overcast sky.
A blue Nissan Cabstar has drove past as well as two Terex dumpsters.
A group of around twenty people have just exited the Rose theatre.
It is now 10:46am, I am still cold and it is still noisy.
The man driving the Cabstar is now smoking and driving, surely that should be illegal, don’t you agree?
Commando Lovell has just trooped past, khaki pants will never ever match the neon yellow of a high visibility jacket.
Eighteen people (Yes I really did count them) who got off the EL1 are walking past me. They’re looking at me as I write about them. Yes, you are correct, you aren’t being paranoid; I am actually writing about you.
On a soon to be relevant note, did you know that apparently the first two hundred chemicals in a cigarette can be found in fruit? I wonder if little Miss Lung Cancer knows this comforting fact?
The cold has really increased my desperation to go for a wee.
It is now 10:53am, and a wasp has just landed on me. Time to head back I think, but to where? My tutor is stuck on a train.
Leigh Bottomley
Notes from outside The Hub
I station myself on the walkway outside the Student Union Club. I’m out of the way and alone, apart from a few dozy wasps hovering by a waste bin. It seems a good observation post and relatively anonymous, or I would be if I wasn’t wearing a bright red coat. Directly in front of me a workman is taking a break and rolling a cigarette, having abandoned a wheelbarrow by the side of a tree.
Two vans are parked by the entrance of the Hub, obscuring my view of the main doors; the front one has the engine running and a bored-looking driver is making a phone call. People walk by in small groups; breaking up, re-grouping, and walking on. A blonde girl stands by the entrance, smoking and texting, her hair in a pony tail. Is she waiting for someone?
It’s difficult to see inside the Hub, highly reflective glass conceals its occupants. Only the people sitting close to the windows are visible, a group of girls are sitting together, apart, each one self-absorbed, texting, reading or eating. Daniele and Kim walk past, chatting amicably; the workman finishes his break and the circular saw springs into life with an angry growl before sputtering out. He proceeds to knock a large post into the ground with a mallet and the aid of a man with a spirit level. They glare dubiously in my direction.
I decide to move: a woman taking notes, carrying a briefcase could easily be mistaken for the dreaded ‘Time and Motion’ man - and that mallet looks quite heavy. Unexpectedly the sun breaks through the clouds, ribbons of blue appear overhead and I turn my face towards the warmth. We might get a good summer after all!
Karen Thompson
A morning by the lake...
The morning is fresh, there is an icy cold wind rippling through the lake. A lonely duck comes towards me, he expects too much. The ducks waddle, happily singing. Busy people are passing by, lost in their own thoughts. I hear the birds chirping high up in the trees, it’s so peaceful here. The leaves are slowly turning golden with the crisp winter air. I watch as nearby people interact with each other; Smiling, talking, laughing and joking. I hear footsteps getting closer, echoes of the distant voices. I listen intently, at the soft sound of a nearby waterfall. The wind rushes through my hair; I look at the sky and notice blue patches seeking through the clouds. The noise level increases as crowds of people emerge from the buildings. Suddenly, birds take flight and fill the sky with a beautiful formation.
Emma-Jane Barlow
Analogue O
Furry natural chestnuts protrude just beyond the galactic leaves folded like tongues trying to pronounce font spillage. I imagine the rain they spill directionally to the soft lush grass. All the shells opening on the floor cry to be taken into the soil and seed but not all will make it, perhaps very few will make it, in the shadows of the one true image of prodigious knotted and burgeoning tree. A brain like canopy encircled the meters of savage aching branch upon branch holding replete the load. People meet the visual estate, new and freshly born wings of arms and pedestrians move by the trailer load of triple tank engines for illumination and symmetry unfolds and folds. A man with knowing eyes wanders under the bough and canopy of seed. Gradually, superman emerges, bodies homogenise, and walkie talkies capture the sonic permit of air. Planting displaces the viewpoint. A hairy bare arse shows crack in the planter of wallflowers in the manicured trench of soil. The caste of.. oh wait a wasp, a helicopter, primacy, tribalism, I, word, from possession, from interest to disinterest in the simulacrum; “RECEPTION”; and one mean bright orange Kubota, taxed, “Edge Hill University”, “The carbon footprint Help Reduce our carbon emission”. A pensive woman with Arabic English has two thirds filled a ruled page, and my reflection in MacBook glass with its mullet canopy longs to a chestnut tree or at least cured from pain. Sauntering, tripling, doubling, and singular humans commonly major in connections. (Either displacement of fraud or going anywhere the sum of truth lies). It revives praise then is evaporated in the same way to prompt the sun. Revives a Blenheim, Terex diggers drown the circulation of noise battle of knowledge of birch, sun and preoccupation. Are the ghosts of a military past down there chambered and displaced or will the quick mass graves, a revolving door empty of people, resurrection of souls, defended and eternal speak through the hard simple truth of an undressed beacon of beckoning? It’s just exegesis in a secondary last look at disappearing darkness all broad and shored and ruinous and living and sucking. A red bag on a small string and a photograph that has no negative for it is a digital sans analogue.
John Smethurst
I always seem to find myself ridiculously challenged when trying not to judge people. It’s not that I'm some vindictive, Machiavellian witch with a secret mission to psychologically destroy mankind. It’s just human nature or more so, societies influence. Therefore, when several workmen drive past me on their JCB's and tractors staring in a very un-subtle way, I can’t help but immediately assume they're going to throw some crude remark my way. I'm supposed to be the type of person who hates stereotypes. I do hate stereotypes, but at times it seems impossible to control the thoughts that linger in my mind. I often think it’s a good job peoples inner thoughts aren't audible, the world would be an even more hateful place than it already is and that would be with no real intent from anybody.
I've continually seen people drive past in their cars and immediately questioned whether or not they're a student, a lecturer or a visitor. I boggled over when it was they passed their driving test, how many minors they received and furthermore, what for? I like to think of myself as somewhat intelligent but still fail to realise where all these pointless questions arise from that I constantly ask. Pointless questions and concerns that will never be answered or even considered because they all occur inside my head. I sometimes find myself wondering if people are thinking the same as me. Judging like I do, and therefore in essence, judging me. Its obscure how I sometimes try to alter my behaviour in such a way that I think I might trick peoples subconscious. I'd then proceed to sitting and asking if my thoughts and behaviour are normal and if I'm normal. More pointless questions. One thing is for certain, I'm an unintentional student of Philosophy. But I guess everyone with a functioning brain kind of is. I found myself thinking about the questions, the meaningless questions and debated if they were actually valid in any form. I had the Sylvia Plath perspective sitting on one half of my brain, the fact that we're all dying so what does it really matter. And then I considered those real enthusiasts, those people who are forever optimists. Those who convince themselves that every individual and their thoughts are unique, purposeful and somewhat beautiful. Do we all actually matter? The people walking around the university aimlessly, the builders on their JCBs and me. The girl sat on the concrete block, people watching. I felt more cynical than ever, reminiscing about quotes that I once found inspiring which now felt like nothing but poetic bullshit to me. I thought about how strange it was that the simplest task could lead to me reflecting on the bitter realm that has become my reality.
I didn't know what the outcome of what I was doing would really achieve. I don't think I could ever actually make it as a successful writer. Everything I wrote about always ended up being a personal, moral and philosophical debate. You could give me the simplest task of telling me to go somewhere and write what I see and I guarantee you I would go on a tangent, end up writing a load of whiny nonsense, completely irrelevant from the original plan. But there you have it, I guess I just write because I can.
Ursula Roberts-Twinn
The Wilson Building
A slight breeze disturbs the almost perfect exterior of this modern construction. Perfect save for the odd weed, argument, crisis and tumbled leaf. A high traffic area- but most of the faces are confused and perplexed. This is still new and they don’t know where they are.
The sounds of nature: birdsong, crickets and the dim rustle of crisp autumn leaves quivering in the wind are non-existent here. All that is to be heard is the grinding sound of construction and the din of conversation. Cocky men on mobile phones swaggering: carpet carrying. Thinking they are better than they indeed are. A woman curses, she cannot get her cigarette lighter working: clearly an NHS freebie.
But the most apparent feature that I notice whilst sat here at the side of the path is warmth, a warmth I cannot feel whilst sat outside. I guess I’ll have to settle for ‘warmth’. More of a feeling inside than out, brought about with a smile by the poor deer in the headlights who offered a bribe of a Fruit Pastille in return for a glance at a peers notes. No one dares be wrong so early on in the game.
The conversationalists are gone. But a helicopter is quick to chop up the offering of nature’s sounds that a woodpigeon makes. And no sooner are the talkers gone, than they are returned, 638 words per minute- narrowly exceeding the world record: “yeah, innit though, like”. The woodpigeon is now intent that he is my only focus as he puts on his display on the roof. First peering down at me: sizing up his audience. Then, the game commences: he walks out of sight behind the wall and then flies back in sight again, with a coo as if to say “peekaboo”. This goes on for some time, until he gets bored and flies away. The show is over.
My toes are now numb as the cold begins to really set in, and I think it is time to go and succumb to walking’s promise of blood circulation.
Katie Frazer
Area around the Rose
Theatre
It is
quiet, perhaps due to the early hour of the morning or at least what is
considered as being ‘early’ to a Fresher. The monotonous tones of construction
equipment act as a fitting soundtrack to an overcast day. Inside is a different
story. Across from the theatre, a class of students sit around a rectangular
table, their heads all facing in entirely opposite directions as they focus on
their tutor.
A
breeze sweeps past and I hope that rain does not follow. My fellow writers take
individual turns to stop, pause and think from where we sit, reflecting on the absence
of people. I wonder if they can also see the irritable wasp next to me, dancing
around the nearby flowers in an almost rhythmic pattern, oblivious to all else.
Ignorance is, after all, bliss.
Life at
last! Not unlike hibernating animals emerging from a long winter’s sleep, groups
of first years emerge from the performing arts centre, passing the unique
monument without even a second glance. The same cannot be said for us who, writing
outside on a cold day, have been subject to more curious looks. Perhaps in time
when writers are constantly seen in this manner around campus, we, like the
monument, will also fade into regular background detail.
The distinguishable
accent of a Geordie greets me long before the sight of its owner, granting a
welcome reprieve from the drone of a construction drill. But then it stops. The
labour falls silent and distantly, I hear cars whistling along the road,
harmonised by the occasional baritone voice of a male student.
Silence
is not eternal, of course. The deep groan of a helicopter as it passes overhead
signals the end of the day’s respite. I watch as it carves a path across the
sky; an insurmountable black ship in an ocean of overlapping grey. The sun
makes a bid to break through the oppressive army of clouds and although it is unsuccessful,
the gesture is appreciated.
The work
continues and more students wander past clutching coffee cups, in desperate
need of a caffeine boost. I find myself staring at a poster for ‘Paul’ and smile
at the irony. After all, in such a strange new place and a changing time of
life as a first year, we must all feel as if we have stumbled onto an entirely
different planet.
Amy Webster
Untitled
I'm here in the right place outside the library, sitting in the wind holding on to a hot chocolate for warmth as much as anything else. There are streams of people going by in all directions loners, pairs, big groups and small groups, everyone on a mission. None of them aware of me observing them on my own secret mission. They are oblivious to what happens around them, I can see that now, people move as if in their own little bubble. The workmen in their bright yellow jackets digging holes while the ginger man wears the yellow but is permanently attached to his mobile phone. A flash of red among the yellow, grey haired man inspecting holes with rubber gloves on - interesting.
Lots of casual wear, jeans, leggings, hooded tops with obligatory huge bags slung over shoulders. Some are in groups laughing and smiling, you can see the excitement on their faces finally away from home, out there and all grown up. Then the odd loner almost scuttling along determined to look like they know what they are doing and have somewhere to go. Just seen a ' visitor ' I know this as he is swinging his name badge around obviously too cool to put it around his neck like a race goer. Now you see the smart ladies, they look like office workers and carry food to go, on a break from admin, screeching with laughter and shouting to each other. The odd person walks by quietly, wearing a navy polo shirt with a logo I’ve seen several of them around, employed here so not in awe of the place.
Sun has just shone on the righteous, well me actually. I am lit up like a tableau ' woman on a bench ' Swarm of people appeared it could be a street in any city, Where are you from? Blackpool - relationships being formed. There’s lots of whooping, screaming and applause going on, no idea why but a group are sitting on a bench leaping up, clapping and shouting at people passing by. It’s like the x factor crowd when someone who can sing comes on stage. Posse of little children appeared, their mums with the pushchairs as the tots tentatively wander over the pavement. Girl in pink wings has appeared too much applause followed by chants. It almost sounds like a demo, man walking with a large yellow plastic barrier slung over his shoulder. More ladies who lunch and official looking women with clipboards. A beetle has just shot out from under my bench and has stopped in front of me - scrap that it’s made a dash for my feet; I am not staying here much longer if I am attracting the wildlife.
Lots of young men with turquoise polo shirts, what is it with the polo shirt phenomenon? lady with a red suitcase, increasing noise from the workmen- lunch is over and another bloody insect is crawling over my notepad, time to leave.
Christina Belkhiri
THE HUB REFLECTION
In its arms, the wind carries a never ending rush of sounds, and a coolness that caresses everything in its path, whilst the leaves dance around the feet of the people passing by with vacant expressions dusted on their faces. Others are laughing as they wander past, casting a reflection on the glass windows – a reflection of their reality.
Of their entire being.
The overcast morning sky looks down on the life it hovers above, and hiding in its wisdom are our indefinite futures. There’s no way to tell what’s in store for us; we can only glide with the wind and let it carry us to our destination. We have liberation in front of us; it’s written all over the wanderer’s faces as they smile and laugh with their companions; gravity holding each step and keeping them grounded.
Where are they going? Who knows. Will we ever know? Probably not.
Voices surround me in a bewildering muffle, riding the wind as it brushes my skin. I shiver and see the same reactions around me. Everyone can feel the whisper, not just me.
Some are lone-rangers trying to find refuge from the turmoil of confusion in their new surroundings. Their eyes are darting. Their lips are parted. Everything in the way they are moving is screaming with mystification. They’re looking, but they’re not seeing.
We are all different, but we are also very much the same.
I’m looking, and all I am seeing are parts of myself staring right back.
Jessica Champion
The Library
A middle aged woman, who wore a red coat, sat intensively in front of her brand new laptop. She viewed it with a puzzled expression, not sure that what she was doing was correct; however, she soldiered on wanting to prove to the younger students that she was as capable as them. The concentration she held was broken as she noticed a student aggressively searching for a plug socket. The frustration she had resulted in her almost spilling her coffee on a white circular table, as she moved from one to another.
The library was still; however, not very quiet as the sound of clicking keyboards and the constant flicking through books filled the room. A group of students sat at the far end of the room, chatting and laughing away the pressures of their newly set assignments. The discussions they shared became louder and disturbed the peace of the library further. One of the students appeared to be distracted by the librarians walking in and out of the ‘Staff Only’ room, carrying cups, plates and a teapot covered by a stripy tea cosy. The teapot looked out of place in the modern environment that was full of purple and green chairs. The delight that was expressed by the librarians made the student wonder about what fun activities might have been occurring behind the door.
Laptops covered surfaces of tables, hiding away the faces of their users. Answers were being searched for, through the old, tired books and the new, fast internet. A burst of laughter came from the stairs as bundles of students made their way into the room; disturbing the peace of study time.
By Evelina Balciunaite
Untitled
It feels almost lonesome. Being sat here, watching the comings and goings of the people walking past. I find it curious how within this university, everyone’s speeds seem so casual but then again, it is early days. I’m sat inside the hub, chair turned to face out what’s practically a glass wall but could be a television screen with it’s current purpose.
I can see that there are two men, builders, stood in the doorway, taking a break and smoking. They’re in no rush, happy to stand there enjoying their freedom to have a cigarette and just talk. One can’t seem to stay still, he’s antsy and the other laughs. I imagine their talking about a recent night. “Hey, at least you know she‘s a table dancer now,” the still one could be teasing. There is a white van a little way in front of them and a man is sat inside on his phone. He’s also a builder, possibly trying to escape the cold. I don’t envy them, being sat inside a warm building makes all the difference. The man in the white van is possibly a family man, on the phone to his wife maybe, he doesn’t look happy. They would probably be arguing, their son has been suspended from school for fighting and she wants him to discipline his son, she didn’t want him growing up like a barbarian. But that’s all idle guess work.
I turn my gaze back towards the doors and see two young girls, they’re standing with a small gap between them but one girl with glasses keeps leaning forwards to play with the other girl’s hair. The girl isn’t bothered, she’s focused on her phone and the entire scene feels like an odd amalgamation of intimacy and awkwardness.
I focus back in on the room around me, the sound of cutlery and the girls beside me chatting away about their weekend plans, their accents and explanations of why one couldn’t go out make me assume that they’re local. It’s all a strange mix but I suppose that’s what university is, a cesspit of issues and achievements and people of different backgrounds and jobs. And as I step back outside to wander around the hub I found myself lost within the mixture of people again, that’s what I’ve observed.
Rosina Brooker
Untitled
Me, being Leigh, I’m currently sitting on the steps outside an old looking building opposite the geography building. It’s freezing, I have a cold and I’m not amused by this weather.
Initials of JBC and N&P drive by. Groundwork is very much evident.
Here comes an aeroplane to add to the noise pollution the ground workers are creating.
The weather is cold; I have a cold. Oh! How ironic this pathetic fallacy is.
I girl in green has a fruit pot, melon mainly, I am speculating.
A fat man with a giant drill is walking by with a look of self-assessed importance. “I am important…”
A van with ‘Rydal’ on the side of it not only reminds me of ‘Grease’ but also seems to be unaware that they’re using the same font as the sportswear brand ‘Lonsdale’ – copyright infringement much?
Who wears flip-flops in this near winter cold? The girl who just flip-flopped by that’s who.
Hi-vis is in abundance.
The autumn equinox has introduced herself quite sufficiently with this weather today.
My friend has just left to find her tutor group; she is going to get lost.
A helicopter and a seagull fly by insignificantly tiny in the immense murky whiteness of the overcast sky.
A blue Nissan Cabstar has drove past as well as two Terex dumpsters.
A group of around twenty people have just exited the Rose theatre.
It is now 10:46am, I am still cold and it is still noisy.
The man driving the Cabstar is now smoking and driving, surely that should be illegal, don’t you agree?
Commando Lovell has just trooped past, khaki pants will never ever match the neon yellow of a high visibility jacket.
Eighteen people (Yes I really did count them) who got off the EL1 are walking past me. They’re looking at me as I write about them. Yes, you are correct, you aren’t being paranoid; I am actually writing about you.
On a soon to be relevant note, did you know that apparently the first two hundred chemicals in a cigarette can be found in fruit? I wonder if little Miss Lung Cancer knows this comforting fact?
The cold has really increased my desperation to go for a wee.
It is now 10:53am, and a wasp has just landed on me. Time to head back I think, but to where? My tutor is stuck on a train.
Leigh Bottomley
Notes from outside The Hub
I station myself on the walkway outside the Student Union Club. I’m out of the way and alone, apart from a few dozy wasps hovering by a waste bin. It seems a good observation post and relatively anonymous, or I would be if I wasn’t wearing a bright red coat. Directly in front of me a workman is taking a break and rolling a cigarette, having abandoned a wheelbarrow by the side of a tree.
Two vans are parked by the entrance of the Hub, obscuring my view of the main doors; the front one has the engine running and a bored-looking driver is making a phone call. People walk by in small groups; breaking up, re-grouping, and walking on. A blonde girl stands by the entrance, smoking and texting, her hair in a pony tail. Is she waiting for someone?
It’s difficult to see inside the Hub, highly reflective glass conceals its occupants. Only the people sitting close to the windows are visible, a group of girls are sitting together, apart, each one self-absorbed, texting, reading or eating. Daniele and Kim walk past, chatting amicably; the workman finishes his break and the circular saw springs into life with an angry growl before sputtering out. He proceeds to knock a large post into the ground with a mallet and the aid of a man with a spirit level. They glare dubiously in my direction.
I decide to move: a woman taking notes, carrying a briefcase could easily be mistaken for the dreaded ‘Time and Motion’ man - and that mallet looks quite heavy. Unexpectedly the sun breaks through the clouds, ribbons of blue appear overhead and I turn my face towards the warmth. We might get a good summer after all!
Karen Thompson
A morning by the lake...
The morning is fresh, there is an icy cold wind rippling through the lake. A lonely duck comes towards me, he expects too much. The ducks waddle, happily singing. Busy people are passing by, lost in their own thoughts. I hear the birds chirping high up in the trees, it’s so peaceful here. The leaves are slowly turning golden with the crisp winter air. I watch as nearby people interact with each other; Smiling, talking, laughing and joking. I hear footsteps getting closer, echoes of the distant voices. I listen intently, at the soft sound of a nearby waterfall. The wind rushes through my hair; I look at the sky and notice blue patches seeking through the clouds. The noise level increases as crowds of people emerge from the buildings. Suddenly, birds take flight and fill the sky with a beautiful formation.
Emma-Jane Barlow
Analogue O
Furry natural chestnuts protrude just beyond the galactic leaves folded like tongues trying to pronounce font spillage. I imagine the rain they spill directionally to the soft lush grass. All the shells opening on the floor cry to be taken into the soil and seed but not all will make it, perhaps very few will make it, in the shadows of the one true image of prodigious knotted and burgeoning tree. A brain like canopy encircled the meters of savage aching branch upon branch holding replete the load. People meet the visual estate, new and freshly born wings of arms and pedestrians move by the trailer load of triple tank engines for illumination and symmetry unfolds and folds. A man with knowing eyes wanders under the bough and canopy of seed. Gradually, superman emerges, bodies homogenise, and walkie talkies capture the sonic permit of air. Planting displaces the viewpoint. A hairy bare arse shows crack in the planter of wallflowers in the manicured trench of soil. The caste of.. oh wait a wasp, a helicopter, primacy, tribalism, I, word, from possession, from interest to disinterest in the simulacrum; “RECEPTION”; and one mean bright orange Kubota, taxed, “Edge Hill University”, “The carbon footprint Help Reduce our carbon emission”. A pensive woman with Arabic English has two thirds filled a ruled page, and my reflection in MacBook glass with its mullet canopy longs to a chestnut tree or at least cured from pain. Sauntering, tripling, doubling, and singular humans commonly major in connections. (Either displacement of fraud or going anywhere the sum of truth lies). It revives praise then is evaporated in the same way to prompt the sun. Revives a Blenheim, Terex diggers drown the circulation of noise battle of knowledge of birch, sun and preoccupation. Are the ghosts of a military past down there chambered and displaced or will the quick mass graves, a revolving door empty of people, resurrection of souls, defended and eternal speak through the hard simple truth of an undressed beacon of beckoning? It’s just exegesis in a secondary last look at disappearing darkness all broad and shored and ruinous and living and sucking. A red bag on a small string and a photograph that has no negative for it is a digital sans analogue.
John Smethurst
Friday, September 23, 2011
Mass Observation 2011 - more
Area around Edge Hill library
After a brief discussion with fellow course-mates (and a flatmate, hello)
regarding the likelihood of us all being branded creepy stalkers for lurking
outside buildings – or just getting funny looks from people – I home in on
an unoccupied bench outside the doors of the library. The other is occupied
by a young man who, it turns out, is also on my course and will sit with me
when Dan and Kim wander past fifteen minutes later asking how things are
going, to write what we see. It feels like Catchphrase ('Say what you
see!'). Only… well, not quite.
It's a pretty grim day; ashen clouds dominate the sky, quietly threatening
us with the daunting prospect of rain, and a cold wind, not quite icy, blows
across campus setting off tinnitus in my ears. As I sit and observe, I
notice that the majority of students walking by are swathed in shades of
blue, grey and black (much like myself although they're all wrapped up
warmer than me. This is the last time I forget to bring a coat, I swear). It
comes to me that no one really stands out. Do all students really look the
same? Ironically, as the thought crosses my mind, a flash of colour steals
my attention. A bleach-blonde girl in a hot pink coat strides confidently
past the cacophonic noise of the workers in equally bright yellow safety
vests. A girl on a mission. It feels like a moment from the first Matrix
film (the one with the girl in the red dress, remember?). Perhaps this means
I'm the Chosen One.
I would have laughed quietly to myself at that thought but given that I have
company… probably not the best idea. Beneath me, the bench is uneven and
rocks back and forth at the slightest movement or jarring of a leg. The wind
breathes across the campus, raising goose bumps on my skin. Glancing at the
other students, it seems like they – sensibly – decided to wrap up warm
today.
A furniture truck backs up in front of my seat, the warning beeps loud and
almost as incessant as the workers drilling across the path. Observation
time appears to be over as it's blocking the view.
Carmen Edge
Untitled
Sitting on the cold, colourless, concrete pathway the morbid clouds determine the dampened atmosphere around the Rose Theatre; the vibrant green blades of grass the only colour starkly contrasting with the pale environment. A large group of students walk out from the performing arts centre to my right, all smiles, calm and cheerful. This somewhat breaths a breath of life into the dreary dull surroundings although the majority of non-performing arts students around don’t seem so chirpy!
Around me stand sizable steel structures peering over me like a tall headmaster due to my insignificant position on the concrete. Above them, I see the sun desperately trying to push its way through the miserable clouds, never quite managing to achieve its aim. I sense the nerves and tension collected in those around me through the cool calm air; new students in the same predicament as me, uptight, sat in similar insignificant positions on the concrete.
Luckily, the sound of jet engines hurtling behind the clouds over our heads hands me a talking point allowing the mould to break between me and my, now, new friend Dan sitting to my left. Ahead, in the distance towards the marvellous splendour of the main building, of which I do not yet know the name, a strange man walks across. This man appears to prefer fluorescent jackets, high top boots and a small pencil behind his left ear than a more moderate dress sense. He is carrying a large plank of wood, presumably for a new building of some sort which somewhat contradicts the largely steel surroundings I sit in.
After my conversation with Dan dries up, the screeching of the largely annoying diggers in the foreground take control of my ears drowning any conversation from passers-by. A mysterious dust ball then rises and falls almost instantaneously to the side of the theatre, half hidden by the brick wall like some sought of mini atom bomb exploding then imploding in on itself! I can only presume this was a direct result of those tedious diggers.
By Christopher Hatton.
Mass Observation Zone 3 - Halloween
The first bites of winters chill float along the air effortlessly, each breeze lapping on your skin like a gentle tide, sending gentle shivers through your body. There is just enough strength in the air to stir loose strands of hair framing the faces of new students and old, seducing them to secure the multi-shades of hair behind their ears. Newly purchased Edge Hill jumpers are worn like fancy dress above tights and skirts by those unprepared for the change in weather.
The sky is like a water painting in light pastel greys, waves of highlighted patches in the clouds like scares are lit up in pale whites by the suffocated sun. A crescendo of darkening clouds billow in the distance, threatening the music of crashing rain, strong, angry winds and darkness.
Leaves dried up and exhausted of all their summer green days lay scattered like litter at the feet of the trees, the skeleton shape of bare branches begin to take shape ready for the new season. The remaining leaves hanging to the branches seem to dance in the gentle breeze, shifting from 9ct gold, brown copper of 2ps, pumpkin orange, romantic reds and the final greens, a reminder of the summer just passed.
The sound of students walking passed, glimpses into conversations, the silence and absence of those alone connected like robot zombies to their mobile phones, not looking, not speaking a word on the outside, though texting an invisible platter of words for the chosen receiver. The drone of industrial tools of progress and change as the hub in created in the distance, competing with the constant echo of ducks as they create water features and fountains as the bath in the lake.
The feeling of the unknown haunts you, the developing geese reflect your stage in life, your insecurities and academic weaknesses in their deformed appearance, feathers hanging painfully from different directions, representing your journey and efforts to get here, their black eyes staring, like the wide eyed students, awaiting their future, begging for a scrap of bread like students awaiting their student finance. Moorhens watch curiously with their black, worm like toes, the murky water rippling with a question, will you swim or drown in the opportunities Edge Hill University offers you?
Laura Barton
I Feel a Chill
I feel a chill. The air, it makes my eyes sting. The grass shimmers with the first drops of dew; autumn’s has arrived. The gardeners are here, keeping the flowerbeds at the entrance to the university presentable, as they should be. The soil crunches ever so slightly as their trowels grind into the ground, and their hands pit pat against the bases of the newly planted.
I’m sitting on a wall. On one side it is peaceful, quiet. Huge trees loom over the grass, almost hiding the grand, main building of the university from sight. Students walk quietly, clutching folder’s to their chests in an attempt to keep the chill from attacking their necks. On the other side, buses and cars rumble, builder’s machine’s hum and beep noisily, echoing in the morning air; chaos.
It is still. A breeze filters its way through the trees, making their leaves flutter and their branches tremble. I’m surrounded by the university colours of green and white; a red postbox makes its mark, a pop of colour.
Again, beep..beep..beep..beep, the machines sound uncomfortable in the cold. Clip..clip..clip, a woman’s shoes click on the hard, stone ground.
I feel a chill.
Grace McEwen
Observations from the Rose Theatre
As I approached I spotted the unmistakable sight of Creative Writing students – they were poised in uncomfortable sitting positions and glanced up only momentarily to note my appearance.
Settled on the floor I could see scatterings of gum and cigarette butts that lay abandoned on the floor, their sight both ugly and pitiable.
There was a strange, still silence that surrounded the theatre, marred only by the constant death throes of the construction work. The sound of machines was animalistic as they screeched and purred across the site.
A green fly settled on me as I wrote, oblivious to my observation of it; all too soon did it nonchalantly bound from my arm to continue what purpose it had.
Positioned outside the Rose Theatre lies a circular edifice whose reason escapes me. It is encircled by small, strange topiaries that alternate from balls to eggs that have a single aerial protruding from their tops. They are almost alien in design, each of their forms differing slightly from the others.
It is cold here, there is little wind blowing, but the overcast clouds prevent the sun from permeating the chill that has settled.
A female student with a bright yellow bag passes us by, her Mp3 is connected and she has the earplugs only in one ear. She has a smile on her face as she passes us by, perhaps ponderous at our situation.
Walking along the road is a construction worker in a high visibility jacket; he is carrying something in his arms, but I cannot make it out. Soon he walks past again, returning to his work.
Deja vu as ‘hi-vis man’ walks by again, carrying a similar load of unidentified objects. I wonder if he is taking them somewhere they might be used, or if they are simply refuse to be removed, like so many other things in this world.
I spot a familiar face entering the Rose Theatre – Craig – a friend of Gemma who lives in number 30 down my hall. He glances over in my direction, but does not wave; I wonder if he saw me?
Hi-vis man walks by again, a yellow trolley transporting more items that cannot be identified.
The clouds part slightly; the sun pierces through and blinds me with its radiance.
A girl waves regally at her friends as they meet.
The yellow trolley is transported back to the construction site to begin its journey again.
Emma Johnson
Untitled
It’s a cold and breezy Friday morning and I’m sitting alone at a window seat in the Water’s Edge café. I can see several other students sitting at the tables outside, heads bent over their notebooks, writing sporadically. It feels too cold to be sitting outdoors, but they don’t seem to have noticed.
I drink my lukewarm tea and bend my head over my own notebook, in imitation of those on the other side of the glass. Every now and then, I look up and watch them for a few minutes, and then I continue writing. I notice that they look up occasionally and watch me for a few minutes, before they bend their heads again and continue their own writing. We don’t exchange smiles, or nods of recognition. We just look around, bend our heads and write. I look up as I drain the last of my tea and notice a student watching me, watching him, watching me. And then we both bend our heads again and continue writing.
Outside, one of the students finishes his sandwich and brushes the crumbs from his lap. He leans back and notices that his gesture has invited a group of ducks to investigate closer. A girl sitting next to him is smoking as she crosses out whatever she had just written down. She pushes her notebook away and concentrates instead on her cigarette.
It seems that every single person who walks past has a bag slung over their shoulder. I notice one woman who has two shoulder bags and a bunch of papers. I wonder if she’s a tutor. Or maybe she just likes to carry a lot of stuff around with her.
Three female students are huddled together nearby, smoking and chatting enthusiastically. They seem a little nervous to me, and I assume they’re all first year students.
I get up and throw my empty tea carton in the bin, wondering whether or not I’ve written enough for now.
Brian O’Reilly
After a brief discussion with fellow course-mates (and a flatmate, hello)
regarding the likelihood of us all being branded creepy stalkers for lurking
outside buildings – or just getting funny looks from people – I home in on
an unoccupied bench outside the doors of the library. The other is occupied
by a young man who, it turns out, is also on my course and will sit with me
when Dan and Kim wander past fifteen minutes later asking how things are
going, to write what we see. It feels like Catchphrase ('Say what you
see!'). Only… well, not quite.
It's a pretty grim day; ashen clouds dominate the sky, quietly threatening
us with the daunting prospect of rain, and a cold wind, not quite icy, blows
across campus setting off tinnitus in my ears. As I sit and observe, I
notice that the majority of students walking by are swathed in shades of
blue, grey and black (much like myself although they're all wrapped up
warmer than me. This is the last time I forget to bring a coat, I swear). It
comes to me that no one really stands out. Do all students really look the
same? Ironically, as the thought crosses my mind, a flash of colour steals
my attention. A bleach-blonde girl in a hot pink coat strides confidently
past the cacophonic noise of the workers in equally bright yellow safety
vests. A girl on a mission. It feels like a moment from the first Matrix
film (the one with the girl in the red dress, remember?). Perhaps this means
I'm the Chosen One.
I would have laughed quietly to myself at that thought but given that I have
company… probably not the best idea. Beneath me, the bench is uneven and
rocks back and forth at the slightest movement or jarring of a leg. The wind
breathes across the campus, raising goose bumps on my skin. Glancing at the
other students, it seems like they – sensibly – decided to wrap up warm
today.
A furniture truck backs up in front of my seat, the warning beeps loud and
almost as incessant as the workers drilling across the path. Observation
time appears to be over as it's blocking the view.
Carmen Edge
Untitled
Sitting on the cold, colourless, concrete pathway the morbid clouds determine the dampened atmosphere around the Rose Theatre; the vibrant green blades of grass the only colour starkly contrasting with the pale environment. A large group of students walk out from the performing arts centre to my right, all smiles, calm and cheerful. This somewhat breaths a breath of life into the dreary dull surroundings although the majority of non-performing arts students around don’t seem so chirpy!
Around me stand sizable steel structures peering over me like a tall headmaster due to my insignificant position on the concrete. Above them, I see the sun desperately trying to push its way through the miserable clouds, never quite managing to achieve its aim. I sense the nerves and tension collected in those around me through the cool calm air; new students in the same predicament as me, uptight, sat in similar insignificant positions on the concrete.
Luckily, the sound of jet engines hurtling behind the clouds over our heads hands me a talking point allowing the mould to break between me and my, now, new friend Dan sitting to my left. Ahead, in the distance towards the marvellous splendour of the main building, of which I do not yet know the name, a strange man walks across. This man appears to prefer fluorescent jackets, high top boots and a small pencil behind his left ear than a more moderate dress sense. He is carrying a large plank of wood, presumably for a new building of some sort which somewhat contradicts the largely steel surroundings I sit in.
After my conversation with Dan dries up, the screeching of the largely annoying diggers in the foreground take control of my ears drowning any conversation from passers-by. A mysterious dust ball then rises and falls almost instantaneously to the side of the theatre, half hidden by the brick wall like some sought of mini atom bomb exploding then imploding in on itself! I can only presume this was a direct result of those tedious diggers.
By Christopher Hatton.
Mass Observation Zone 3 - Halloween
The first bites of winters chill float along the air effortlessly, each breeze lapping on your skin like a gentle tide, sending gentle shivers through your body. There is just enough strength in the air to stir loose strands of hair framing the faces of new students and old, seducing them to secure the multi-shades of hair behind their ears. Newly purchased Edge Hill jumpers are worn like fancy dress above tights and skirts by those unprepared for the change in weather.
The sky is like a water painting in light pastel greys, waves of highlighted patches in the clouds like scares are lit up in pale whites by the suffocated sun. A crescendo of darkening clouds billow in the distance, threatening the music of crashing rain, strong, angry winds and darkness.
Leaves dried up and exhausted of all their summer green days lay scattered like litter at the feet of the trees, the skeleton shape of bare branches begin to take shape ready for the new season. The remaining leaves hanging to the branches seem to dance in the gentle breeze, shifting from 9ct gold, brown copper of 2ps, pumpkin orange, romantic reds and the final greens, a reminder of the summer just passed.
The sound of students walking passed, glimpses into conversations, the silence and absence of those alone connected like robot zombies to their mobile phones, not looking, not speaking a word on the outside, though texting an invisible platter of words for the chosen receiver. The drone of industrial tools of progress and change as the hub in created in the distance, competing with the constant echo of ducks as they create water features and fountains as the bath in the lake.
The feeling of the unknown haunts you, the developing geese reflect your stage in life, your insecurities and academic weaknesses in their deformed appearance, feathers hanging painfully from different directions, representing your journey and efforts to get here, their black eyes staring, like the wide eyed students, awaiting their future, begging for a scrap of bread like students awaiting their student finance. Moorhens watch curiously with their black, worm like toes, the murky water rippling with a question, will you swim or drown in the opportunities Edge Hill University offers you?
Laura Barton
I Feel a Chill
I feel a chill. The air, it makes my eyes sting. The grass shimmers with the first drops of dew; autumn’s has arrived. The gardeners are here, keeping the flowerbeds at the entrance to the university presentable, as they should be. The soil crunches ever so slightly as their trowels grind into the ground, and their hands pit pat against the bases of the newly planted.
I’m sitting on a wall. On one side it is peaceful, quiet. Huge trees loom over the grass, almost hiding the grand, main building of the university from sight. Students walk quietly, clutching folder’s to their chests in an attempt to keep the chill from attacking their necks. On the other side, buses and cars rumble, builder’s machine’s hum and beep noisily, echoing in the morning air; chaos.
It is still. A breeze filters its way through the trees, making their leaves flutter and their branches tremble. I’m surrounded by the university colours of green and white; a red postbox makes its mark, a pop of colour.
Again, beep..beep..beep..beep, the machines sound uncomfortable in the cold. Clip..clip..clip, a woman’s shoes click on the hard, stone ground.
I feel a chill.
Grace McEwen
Observations from the Rose Theatre
As I approached I spotted the unmistakable sight of Creative Writing students – they were poised in uncomfortable sitting positions and glanced up only momentarily to note my appearance.
Settled on the floor I could see scatterings of gum and cigarette butts that lay abandoned on the floor, their sight both ugly and pitiable.
There was a strange, still silence that surrounded the theatre, marred only by the constant death throes of the construction work. The sound of machines was animalistic as they screeched and purred across the site.
A green fly settled on me as I wrote, oblivious to my observation of it; all too soon did it nonchalantly bound from my arm to continue what purpose it had.
Positioned outside the Rose Theatre lies a circular edifice whose reason escapes me. It is encircled by small, strange topiaries that alternate from balls to eggs that have a single aerial protruding from their tops. They are almost alien in design, each of their forms differing slightly from the others.
It is cold here, there is little wind blowing, but the overcast clouds prevent the sun from permeating the chill that has settled.
A female student with a bright yellow bag passes us by, her Mp3 is connected and she has the earplugs only in one ear. She has a smile on her face as she passes us by, perhaps ponderous at our situation.
Walking along the road is a construction worker in a high visibility jacket; he is carrying something in his arms, but I cannot make it out. Soon he walks past again, returning to his work.
Deja vu as ‘hi-vis man’ walks by again, carrying a similar load of unidentified objects. I wonder if he is taking them somewhere they might be used, or if they are simply refuse to be removed, like so many other things in this world.
I spot a familiar face entering the Rose Theatre – Craig – a friend of Gemma who lives in number 30 down my hall. He glances over in my direction, but does not wave; I wonder if he saw me?
Hi-vis man walks by again, a yellow trolley transporting more items that cannot be identified.
The clouds part slightly; the sun pierces through and blinds me with its radiance.
A girl waves regally at her friends as they meet.
The yellow trolley is transported back to the construction site to begin its journey again.
Emma Johnson
Untitled
It’s a cold and breezy Friday morning and I’m sitting alone at a window seat in the Water’s Edge café. I can see several other students sitting at the tables outside, heads bent over their notebooks, writing sporadically. It feels too cold to be sitting outdoors, but they don’t seem to have noticed.
I drink my lukewarm tea and bend my head over my own notebook, in imitation of those on the other side of the glass. Every now and then, I look up and watch them for a few minutes, and then I continue writing. I notice that they look up occasionally and watch me for a few minutes, before they bend their heads again and continue their own writing. We don’t exchange smiles, or nods of recognition. We just look around, bend our heads and write. I look up as I drain the last of my tea and notice a student watching me, watching him, watching me. And then we both bend our heads again and continue writing.
Outside, one of the students finishes his sandwich and brushes the crumbs from his lap. He leans back and notices that his gesture has invited a group of ducks to investigate closer. A girl sitting next to him is smoking as she crosses out whatever she had just written down. She pushes her notebook away and concentrates instead on her cigarette.
It seems that every single person who walks past has a bag slung over their shoulder. I notice one woman who has two shoulder bags and a bunch of papers. I wonder if she’s a tutor. Or maybe she just likes to carry a lot of stuff around with her.
Three female students are huddled together nearby, smoking and chatting enthusiastically. They seem a little nervous to me, and I assume they’re all first year students.
I get up and throw my empty tea carton in the bin, wondering whether or not I’ve written enough for now.
Brian O’Reilly
Mass Observations 2011
This is an exciting time at Edge Hill. We are starting our single honours programme this year and we have a bumper collection of writers this year. Here are this year's Mass Observation exercises. Or rather: hewre are the first few. I will be adding others later.
Robert
Mass Observation 2011
It’s cold. My thin jacket was an unfortunate choice of clothing for an hour of sitting outside. A large tree shows the first signs of autumn as it stands obtrusively in front of the crowd of people my eyes had been following. The crowd in all its colours has disappeared, so I’m left with the muted leaves of the tree and the grey sky which make the high visibility jackets of the construction team draw my eye repeatedly. I want to stop looking at them, I want to observe the hairstyles of the passers-by, but every movement brings me back to them as they work laying bricks. Some are doing more, but idle machinery blocks my view and I know too little about building to guess what they’re up to.
A dropped pack of cigarettes makes me look ahead once more. The guy in the grey tracksuit either didn’t notice it fall or it’s empty; I won’t check which. Framed by two posts, a pair stand in conversation. It looks friendly enough, a few gestures imply that he’s directing her somewhere but they’ve been there for a long time. Obviously the directions have finished and small talk has begun. There seems to be no colour between them whatsoever. He is in a grey jumper and slightly darker grey jeans, and she’s in a beige cardigan and black leggings. They practically blend in to the concrete and the miserable sky. Rudely, I dismiss them as uninteresting and turn my attention elsewhere.
Between shivers, I notice a bird. I watch it flying over to a building to my left before my gaze is broken by a source of a repetitive beeping sound. A large furniture truck (or is it a van?) reverses and it comes to a stop directly in front of me. I’m talking a metre maximum, and I can now see nothing but its white and yellow design guaranteeing quality service. Maybe if I’d been more like my dad growing up I’d be able to describe it better. As it stands, my total lack of vehicle related vocabulary leaves me to say only that it’s big, it has wheels, it’s a bit dirty and it may be a truck or it may be a van. Picture from that what you will.
Stuart Price
Observation of Main Entrance
Beneath an electric sky a private Garden of Eden stands tall and resolutely outside the Main Entrance, caught in another time and another place from the rest of the world that encroaches on all sides. The life giver of the Garden’s tranquil splendour flexes its mighty branches, announcing to the world outside that it is here to stay. Gratitude is unspoken, yet is still expressed by the mother and father sheltering their young beneath the tree’s maternal embrace. Like Adam and Eve before them they were permitted to frolic once, utterly liberated from the conventions of the ever changing environment around them.
But now they stand guard and stoic, devoted to the protection of their children, liberated in soul but not in body. The little girl clings to her mother, though her attention is placed elsewhere despite her warm grasp of the child. Her expression reads of a woman resigned to being the next eternal mother of the Garden, like the tree above them. The little girl shall also know the same fate one day. The tree is not the only guardian. A lowly pigeon nestles within its shade, deceptive and biding its time, as the dragon bided it’s time for the damned souls hoping to pluck the forbidden fruit. Only one man succeeded and even he could not stand to this pigeon’s sedentary determination.
As a mere spectator I felt no right to invade this natural domain. A lone gardener had other ideas, stealthily crouching with his back to the tree, family and pigeon, exposing the intimidating carpet of hair mapping his back and even lower still. All it took was a simple gaze and the pigeon was gone, finding the open air a more favourable place where such sights are rare at best. The tree, the family and I were made of stronger stuff.
Jamie Ryder
Robert
Mass Observation 2011
It’s cold. My thin jacket was an unfortunate choice of clothing for an hour of sitting outside. A large tree shows the first signs of autumn as it stands obtrusively in front of the crowd of people my eyes had been following. The crowd in all its colours has disappeared, so I’m left with the muted leaves of the tree and the grey sky which make the high visibility jackets of the construction team draw my eye repeatedly. I want to stop looking at them, I want to observe the hairstyles of the passers-by, but every movement brings me back to them as they work laying bricks. Some are doing more, but idle machinery blocks my view and I know too little about building to guess what they’re up to.
A dropped pack of cigarettes makes me look ahead once more. The guy in the grey tracksuit either didn’t notice it fall or it’s empty; I won’t check which. Framed by two posts, a pair stand in conversation. It looks friendly enough, a few gestures imply that he’s directing her somewhere but they’ve been there for a long time. Obviously the directions have finished and small talk has begun. There seems to be no colour between them whatsoever. He is in a grey jumper and slightly darker grey jeans, and she’s in a beige cardigan and black leggings. They practically blend in to the concrete and the miserable sky. Rudely, I dismiss them as uninteresting and turn my attention elsewhere.
Between shivers, I notice a bird. I watch it flying over to a building to my left before my gaze is broken by a source of a repetitive beeping sound. A large furniture truck (or is it a van?) reverses and it comes to a stop directly in front of me. I’m talking a metre maximum, and I can now see nothing but its white and yellow design guaranteeing quality service. Maybe if I’d been more like my dad growing up I’d be able to describe it better. As it stands, my total lack of vehicle related vocabulary leaves me to say only that it’s big, it has wheels, it’s a bit dirty and it may be a truck or it may be a van. Picture from that what you will.
Stuart Price
Observation of Main Entrance
Beneath an electric sky a private Garden of Eden stands tall and resolutely outside the Main Entrance, caught in another time and another place from the rest of the world that encroaches on all sides. The life giver of the Garden’s tranquil splendour flexes its mighty branches, announcing to the world outside that it is here to stay. Gratitude is unspoken, yet is still expressed by the mother and father sheltering their young beneath the tree’s maternal embrace. Like Adam and Eve before them they were permitted to frolic once, utterly liberated from the conventions of the ever changing environment around them.
But now they stand guard and stoic, devoted to the protection of their children, liberated in soul but not in body. The little girl clings to her mother, though her attention is placed elsewhere despite her warm grasp of the child. Her expression reads of a woman resigned to being the next eternal mother of the Garden, like the tree above them. The little girl shall also know the same fate one day. The tree is not the only guardian. A lowly pigeon nestles within its shade, deceptive and biding its time, as the dragon bided it’s time for the damned souls hoping to pluck the forbidden fruit. Only one man succeeded and even he could not stand to this pigeon’s sedentary determination.
As a mere spectator I felt no right to invade this natural domain. A lone gardener had other ideas, stealthily crouching with his back to the tree, family and pigeon, exposing the intimidating carpet of hair mapping his back and even lower still. All it took was a simple gaze and the pigeon was gone, finding the open air a more favourable place where such sights are rare at best. The tree, the family and I were made of stronger stuff.
Jamie Ryder
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