Mass Observations first batch 2012

Mass Observation

 

I look up to observe the crisp leaves; at intervals some fall, swirling,

twirling to the ground signifying the ever present feel of autumn. The sky

is patched with blue – the first break in clouds I’ve seen in days, but

it’s cool. The previous day’s rain has cleared the muggy air; I inhale the

fresh smell of nature and feel relaxed, which is a contrast to my

surroundings.

A girl bustles past, exiting the library. Her hair fans behind her from

the combination of the gentle wind and her brisk walk; she bows her head

and clutches at the books in her arms. She also carries a bag, it is

comically oversized for her slight stature. Despite this she does not

struggle, she marches on, it is apparent she has somewhere to be that

by-passes her physical restraints. Many of the passers-by are in groups,

laughing and talking animatedly between themselves – revelling in the

excitement of university life. However, some lonely students seem

overwhelmed by the change. I see a tall, skinny boy; his cheeks flush and

blush as he notices my observation upon him. He averts his gaze, appearing

embarrassed by this exchange. He pulls up his hood creating a barrier

between him and the world. It is obvious he wants to stay un-noted. I on

the other hand do not stay un-noted. People stare at me observing as they

walk by, most faces display a quizzical expression, wondering what I'm

doing, but I sit and continue my process - observing.

Beth Shuttleworth

 

MO 

I’ve been asked to write what I see today. I’ve realised this will be slightly difficult to do as there isn’t much I can see. Not because nothing is happening around me. A bird’s just flown over head. The trees are speaking to each other. Not literally. And I’ve just bumped into a sporty lad; probably a footballer; or a rugby player; or he plays basketball. Maybe he’s not even sporty and just dresses like that for fun or attention or to pull. Maybe I should do that too. No. The reason I can’t see is because of my hazy eyes. It’s not helped by the fact I wear thick lenses that always seem to be dirty. And the two – no, three - bottles of wine last night probably didn’t help either. Because of my hazy eyes everything in this world has become one big blur. A big, blurry, slightly bright, world. Some people say we’re all at one with the world anyway. I can see what they mean. If they too were looking through misty glasses after two (three) bottles of wine.

I’ve not seen a duck fly yet. Me and my flatmates had this argument yesterday – do ducks fly? It was more of a discussion at first. Then I made it an argument. I won. Naturally. They do.

The Health and Social Care building seems comfy. I’ll sit and write in there.

 It’s nice to sit down for a bit. I still feel sick. And hungry. I should eat. But I can’t.

 

A young man has just come out of the bushes. I wonder what he was doing in them? It seems odd to walk through a bush when there is a path right next to it. He looked dead normal though. His clothes were fine – if not a bad clash of mix matched colours and patterns. His hair was fine too. I think he was cute. But I can’t quite remember. All I can remember is wondering why he was in there. I don’t think it was sex. Not this early in the day anyway.

There’s this God awful buzzing in this building. It’s constant. Always there. Just buzzing away. And it’s not an enjoyable buzz either. Like the wings of a humming bird. Or the buzz from the heater turning on. It’s a painful buzz. Blinded by blurriness and deafened by buzzing. Blur and Buzz. That could be the name of a new show about cops, or dancers, or spacemen, or bands, or students, or women, or gay men. It might not be a show though.

 

I know another argumentative discussion I can start. Are a group of ducks a gaggle? A gaggle of ducks. I mean, you get a gaggle of geese, so why not a gaggle of ducks? A flock of ducks sounds boring. The do not flock they gaggle. And waddle. I also think it would be fun to call a group of students a gaggle.

 

Now a light is flickering above me. It’s getting rather uncomfortable in here now.

 

10:46 – the man that was sat in the corner has just left. I ignored him when I arrived because he scared me. He was bald and when I did acknowledge him – and the time – I realised he looked a bit like Omid Djalili. Not much; but enough.

 

I can’t hear the buzzing anymore because of the tacky click-clack of this slightly plump woman walking through the room. The heels had a dull shine to them. I can still hear her despite losing sight of her five minutes ago. It probably wasn’t that long though.

 

It suddenly got really busy in here. Students probably leaving a lecture in the room I am facing. It got quiet again quickly. And now it’s silent again. Apart from the buzzing. I’m accustomed to it now. It’s part of the silence.

10:52 – “Tonight’s the night” for some blonde girl. I wonder what she’s up to tonight. Maybe she knows the bush boy.

 

I should be observing nature really, in these surroundings. But I’ve been really industrial. Or universal. I guess. It’s a word that sounds like it should fit. But all I keep trying to work out while looking out the window is which is wetter – the lake or the path?

 

Actually the buzzing is quite soothing. Relaxing. Calming. Protective almost.

 

Students are congregating now outside the building. So are the ducks.

 

10:57 – I still don’t know why I’ve added the time on some of these. Maybe it’s because I noticed it. She’s back though; Miss Clicky-de-Clack. Oh – wait – no. It’s not her.

 

I can see another writer on the bridge over the small lake – or large pond – through the windows. These need a clean to be honest. He’s probably asking himself the same thing as I am. Is the lake natural or man-made? He’s probably not thinking that though. That would be odd. But cool.

 

Phillipa Bar. I liked that name for obvious reasons.

 

11:00 – Another click clack woman passed by. Just so everyone knows.

 

Someone just sneezed. Probably a fellow writer. I didn’t look to see. In case I laughed. I am also supressing the need to say “Bless you”. He sniffled too.

 

Shit! My phone just went off. The room’s echoing with some of my rubbish songs from Glee. ‘Give up the Funk’ it’s called. I hate that word. Funk. And can I say shit? Because I did.

 

I should probably go outside. I think I’ll feel better. But I think that’s just an old wives tale. Maybe.

 

11:05 – My eye just twitched. It was weird. I reacted by knocking my glasses off my face. That was weirder.

 

I miss the buzz from the Health and Social Care building now. And it’s too warm for me out here. I’m always warm though. I call it a Thomas-ism. One of many I have. I use to always say I was hot, but I stopped when people told me that was exactly how they’d describe me. I don’t like always being warm.

The water feature? It’s hardly a feature. More like a block. Or a slab. Can water be in a block? It sounds too solid. I guess you could just freeze it.

 

11:11 – I’m being followed.

 

11:12 – He’s gone.

There’s a lot of water in this wood/garden place. I can’t tell if it’s a pond or a puddle. There is a fairly thickly girthed tree growing in the middle of it. This suggests it’s probably a puddle – a big one.

 I’m by the Performing Arts building – I shouldn’t be here. I will leave.

 

Shit! (I’ve said it again) It’s beginning to spit with rain. A bit. I should get inside. Rain is too wet and I don’t like rain. Or spit.

A bird is cooing? Hooting? Squeaking? Quacking? I’ll go with squeaking. It’s on the lake. But it’s not a duck. Or a student.

 

I’m now squelching as I walk. I stood in a large puddle and the water worked it’s way into my shoe. The large puddle wasn’t the lake.

 

I’m alone in my flat now to type. I hid from the cleaner. She’s lovely and everything but she seemed angry. It was probably because of all the bananas on the floor and walls. I blame Adam. I always blame Adam. It’s a rule.

 

I’m sat on my bed to write. I don’t like desks. They’re too mainstream. And writing on one is too professional. And I’m not that. Or mainstream. Or a duck.

 

2 magpies out the window. Joy I think. I didn’t salute – today will be a bad day now!

 

12:49 – I felt I should add this. I just quacked. Maybe I am a duck. A lone waddling duck lost from its gaggle. The last softened cookie in the unsealed packet. The single twinkling star in the night sky. The final dying breathe of a grandfather. Or I could just be being stupid.

 

 Thomas Brough

 

Doorway to Hub.

 

Black boots walk through the shallow puddle that the red shoes step around,

a man walks in coatless in the cold he holds a reusable cup, keys a heavy

bunch and a phone all in one hand.  Newly met lecturers walk in a group of

four, one notices me taps his nose and mimes keep writing through the

curvature of the glass where I sit on the lime green stool.

 

Who wears shorts on a day like this?  His more sensible friend is in

jogging bottoms black with three white stripes and a bobble hat, a little

extreme in his attempt to stay warm but more suited to the weather than

shorts.  Another pair of shorts crosses the broad footpath, his footsteps

are heavy in loose baseball boots, laces untied.

 

Three with phones in hand talking and walking.  Two young girls chat one

wears bright pink jeans the other is dressed simply in black but as she

walks away I notice her soles are a similar shade of pink to her companions

jeans. They smile at each other as they part company, a warm smile,

friendly not forced or fake.

 

Bright yellow joggers on a girl, ugg boots through the puddle as she talks

on her phone, folder and coat in hand she is oblivious to the wet path she

has taken.

 

 A slightly built boy who looks too young to be a student wears a red

shirt, his hair is blowing in the wind as he walks by with a satchel slung

over his shoulder.

 

Two more pairs of shorts, braver souls than me.  A tall girl with dark hair

and a bright smile walks in with two shorter girls, one plays

subconsciously with her hair as she chats.  Hands in pockets marches past.

 

 There are lots of satchels and lots of pumps, mostly black or grey but

occasional shots of colour break through the monotone backdrop of buildings

and sky, red bags and pink shoes a welcome distraction from the dullness.

 

 A girl sits alone writing, across from me maybe fifty yards away she has a

note pad and pen in her hand watching and writing and I wonder what she

sees.

 

Shellie Kelly

 

 

MO

The light-post being slightly too tall for me to perch on, I head towards the Rose. An apt name, for its lipstick-red shining walls scream bold, raw passion. The very building itself stands like a beacon amidst the subtle red brick and shining glassy structures surrounding it. A beacon that calls to the people I wish to be: the zany, the flamboyant and the bold.

 

Through the square of glass I sit by, I see the front desk where stands a man, swaying and bopping as he suavely speaks to the assistant. His voice is almost a song and as he walks away, his beat flows through how he walks. Vertically wriggling to music that no-one but he can hear. On a contrast to the styled flow of the room, a glance outside reveals another man. He is dressed in what was once a shining white lab-coat that has now been darkened and stained with his labour. It plays in my mind almost like a horror movie as he stumbles slowly towards me, block of concrete in hand and his face covered by what could easily be a gas mask. What mostly adds to his tired appearance are his eyes: they're dark and sunken in. The skin around them pale, drawn and speckled with both sweat and dirt. I presume he is a builder, but it seems more apt to think he has been dragged from one of the theatrical performances that the people here train for.

 

Sitting, surrounded by such people allows the suggestion of the idea that people are made for theatre. Every person who passes by is quirky in some way. One girl swoops by, her blonde hair streaked with a bright pink glow. Another stops on the steps across the way wearing a top that consists more of tassels and strips than whole fabric, who ties her fluorescent green laces on her bright pink shoes. A guy from the 50s strides passed the window, adjusting his trilby and checking the length of his tie. Girls with elegantly fake, painted faces and guys who every one of which look like they are part of a boy band. Purple 'cow-boy' boots, chequered shirts, leopard print bowler hats and striped umbrellas. Each person styled and each confident enough to show it. Each different, each unique.

                                                              

Rebecca Panks

 

 MO

Are trees passé? Has the crevice had its day?

 

These are just questions, small interrogatives to coax cognition. I am drawn to nature more than anything as I sit here and write; I am analysing three large trees situated opposite the library. These trees are made ever more admirable due to equidistant gaps between all three of the trees; I believe symmetry embellishes an already perfect picture. That is the greatness about trees; they have an ethereal aura about them almost like they are silent omniscient heroes complete with a moral code. I  imagine that if there was some sort of tree ethos it would go a bit like this ;grow up, grow tall and be the last bastion of all that is pure in this world’ (a sentiment Henry David Thoreau may well have shared).

 

There are no stigmas attached to trees there is only beauty, that same beauty that forces a person across land and fuels their wanderlust. Here I sit and merely brood on such endeavours... Though worry not, all is not lost, for I embark on a new path, a path where there are no erroneous answers and let it be known that this path does have a name and that name is thus- “Creative Writing BA (Hons) W800”. Hath thy bequeathed enough praise upon this particular literary endeavour? I will assume that if I was to be speaking aloud then all of my peers shall be telling me to leaf the archaic lexis and syntax out. I do realise that my comedic proclivities are a bit wooden...

 

Alas back to the trees that bestow greatness and shelter upon those around me, upon the campus and upon all the creatures that call it home. Their leaves like verdant minivers - this image surely embodies the truth; trees are the only legitimate dignitaries on this earth. Their roots symbolise their unity with the earth and their branches symbolic of a thirst for knowledge for  it is as if they are reaching for the celestial unknown.

 

The juxtaposition of the Hub and the trees is very interesting. The Hub and the tree have much in common. Each strives for structural excellence so that it may please others - not to say the hub is a sentient being but it has been built with a purpose much like the tree has a purpose and a duty to its fellow earthians (this neologism serves to collectivise all creatures and beings that inhabit the earth). A tree, with its many crevices, homes many creatures. The Hub is a neo-tree for it houses many beings.  As for the opening interrogatives that is up to you to decide for I now abscond to peruse my family tree..

 

BLANCMANGE!

 

Elio Lomas