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
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