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