MO 2013: Task is such an ominous word...

Outer limits

We all leave the room on a dispatch order, like lost and confused parcels, or sweet wrappers blowing off in the breeze. Some of us stick together; some of us branch off on our own. We are connected by our assignment and the pens and paper we clutch to. I might belong here, I’m not sure yet.

Sunlight glints off water covering the flagstones, as men in high visibility vests hose down the floor, potentially jealous of those before them that built the lake. The same sunlight is reflected from the bonnets and windows of rows upon rows of cars. Their colours cannot be seen from here, they are all as one beneath the sun.

Peacefully extended lawns, bridges and blocks of just-different-enough flats have sprung up at the edge of campus. Either a 50’s Americana style community is taking over without our knowledge, or we’ve wandered onto the creative edge accommodation and construction site.

We sit at benches and try to make sense of what we have seen. Cool, clear water splashes at the edge of a beach made entirely of soil. It feels like a harbour for ships that will never come. A half moon is dimly visible in the morning sky. The sky itself is scratched by vapour trails. In most other circumstances I would think of planes, but our walk through the surreal has put me in mind of comets.

I wish this area could stay as it is, but soon the beach will be covered with sand, the accommodation will be finished and everything will look as it should. At least I have this record of a moment in time when things were new and strange and unexpected.

Jack Bye

 

MASS OBSERVATION 2013

I am sitting in the shade, in a corner, in front of the main building. I am surrounded by a reddish brick wall with many windows, the sky unusually blue and cloudless, and around me there is a large area of green grass. There are some small white feathers and many crisp brown leaves. Really close to me, there is a big tree which branches keep swaying in the gentle breeze. Two sparrows jump, it seems they are looking for something. They look lost, as some of the students may be feeling this week.

A bit further away stand two big metal statues which have caught my attention. Due to the distance I can’t see them properly, but the boy seems to be leaning forward, and his mouth is open. He must be impressed by something. The girl is playing with a rope and looks happy.

I can also see the main entrance, around which there are some cars parked. Small groups of people are constantly coming in and out, either new students who may be trying to get information about their course, or other people who might just be interested in the university.

There isn’t much noise, despite the constant movement, the nerves and the excitement of the first couple of days. I can only hear the sound of the yellow lawn mower while it keeps cutting the grass. The atmosphere is peaceful, and the sun is out however there is a chill in the air and I am feeling a bit cold.

The time is up, so I start my way back to the class. I wonder how the same scene will look through my eyes in three years. Only time will tell.

 Annia Acosta-Babores

 

Mass Observation

 

The sculptures stand like strange shop displays. I become increasingly tempted to throw my jacket over them. The library is quieter on the outside today, something I have yet to get my head around. After observing over a dozen humans I notice that not one turns to avoid another. There is an underlying pattern here. People are more than happy to turn over some plants or arc like space craft around the flowing orange stairs of the hub. They don’t look up from their phones but somehow navigate the growing hordes of others as they orbit the various buildings. They do not curve to avoid collision. Their trajectory is precious, set into the gravity this family of bricks seems to hold. A chimney becomes a nose and the outcropping roof lower down becomes a moustache.  It’s only human to attach false life to things. Otherwise we would find it hard to justify the verbal abuse objects receive when they fail us. It is quarter to eleven and I am willing to bed half the people here are still slightly drunk. Someone leaves the library on a trajectory destined to meet my chair. He stops and smiles for a second before leaving. I wonder if he thought the same as me in that second. If he thought about why I was sat here.

 Probably not.

 Now I begin to think back to my task thought the word “task” is such an ominous word. I wonder if I should stop half way down this second side of A4. Still I continue, I might finally play dress-up with the art now. A single leaf jumps into my bag and I consider it. I wonder where it was before, which tree it was from and if it I far from home. She sits there, nestled beside my books, sheltered from the wind.

 I see something in my peripheral vision. James asks for the time in gestures. It is ten minutes to eleven. I think how me, him and Kate, in our triangle; have captured a pair of people in seemingly perpetual conversation. Maybe it is like the Bermuda triangle and they will vanish, immortalised in my lazy handwriting, I dream of circles to which we are the epicentre, ripples of thought echoing out and capturing a slow exposure image of campus. Letters are pixels to us. I pull a face to James as I think how our intersecting circles must look like a Venn diagram.

 I finally realise what enables people on set paths to carry on without collision. Speed. Speed is the key. People keep slowing down to let each other past. Now I feel my observation tipped on its head. A young looking being slides into view and walks past one bin to put his gum in another. He stares at me and it takes and uncomfortable time for his gaze to lift.

Some sport people (or people obsessed with the clothes) pass by with confidence and purpose. I pause and people seem to stop turning up.

 “The eyes only see what the mind is prepared to comprehend” – Henri Bergson. I wind up talking to Kate and “borrowing” some tissue. I must be allergic to people. I abandon my reservations and scrutinise everyone coming by. There are a lot of pushchairs around today.

 I lend one of the sculptures my jacket and the wind gets her undressed. She only has one shoulder anyway.. It took just under a minute for her to be nude again. Her ebony skin showing infinite marks. The rings indicate the wood she was carved from is older than myself.

She has a scar on her hip, a knot in the wood. I picked her because she was closest, a series of words I heard a lot back home…

It gets me thinking, something someone once told me was a dangerous profession. We gravitate to those closest to us. Humans, timid xenophobes.

 A wasp seems to have become friends with the jacket ebony so rudely discarded to the floor.

 If it was jeans that hit the rocks, they would somehow increase in value.

The sun silhouettes people and in my search for a better position I decide on a plan. I shall become the observed, and the observer shall be those unaware of my scheme. I sit on the ground by the bench, defying convention to a degree above or parallel with modern day “anarchists”.

 There is a cigarette box which looks like a donation box chained to the bench. Yeah as I lean or laugh the bench itself snaps its placenta of moss and chuckles with me.

 An ancient hair clip rusts beside me just outside the protective ribs of the bench. A single human hair trails from under a tiny rock. My interest in passing people has dwindled. So this shard of documentation is now steered away from people. It of course has a human bias, but is referencing them in the proxy of the artefacts they leave behind.

Campus archaeology. And now I feel an urge to join other writers on the beach near my halls and begin digging.

James approaches, time is almost up.

 

Philip Carroll

 

Beyond the Edge

 

The cries of instruction were muffled and muted by the hydraulics of the toiling digger.

Verbal diarrhoea, overflowing and gurgling like a witches brew, spewed incessantly out of the festively plump parent.

Married, divorced, gay, straight, bitter, resentful. Who they will all become is yet to be determined, for now the sporting paraphernalia disguises much of what will be.

Having been there for much of the morning, his knees had now left a residing imprint of his presence in the freshly dampened earth. The toes of his outdated and dilapidated sneakers pointed reluctantly downwards.  

The surviving half of the earthworm nudged and kneaded its way through the soil to safety. Its counterpart, whom hadn't been so lucky, bucked and hissed against the blade.

A managerial father bounced with encouragement. His clothing, a somewhat sombre affair, may be symbolic of a failed or fading hope. Either that, or its simply the most effective camouflage for the middle age spread. Take note!

Digging his nails into the corrugated plastic, the release of fluids chilled his gums, shook his oesophagus and breathed life once more into his lifeless organs.

Your days are over pal, I know it, you know it. Hell, even the waistband to your overly burdened and strained denim trousers knows it. As far as you may push your doomed to fail son, it will never be you.

The breeze caressed away the dust, tossing it up in some kind of liberated brake to return from whence it came.

Waddling slowly under the stress of working the earth, the two wandered in unison and in search of sustenance. Their silhouettes differed. A tousled head of hair, reminiscent of a by gone musical era, fought back against the wind, bucking energetically The portlier gentlemen, glistened in the straining sun's reach, putting on his socks would be the toughest challenge of the day.

 The German marques shine and shout a measured level of social success. And on reflection, the decade old Vauxhall's have a lingering smell of disappointment. Like a fart in a spacesuit, the stench of unfulfillment is not so easy to ignore.

Philip John

 

A Farewell to Summer

It was one of those crisp autumn days as sat by the lake where the sun shines brightly and the sky is clear as a bell. Despite this the breeze had a slight icy chill that forced myself and those around me too pull our coats that much tighter. The lake opposite rippled gently as if speaking to the wind whilst the reeds nodded in appreciation. A waterfall nearby tumbled lightly in the background giving a soothing air of relaxation.

    In front of me a small, black bird with white-tipped wings and a scarlet beak pottered to and fro, occasionally looking around as though he was waiting for someone to arrive. A large group of people left the main building marking the end of a lecture, talking amongst themselves. Every now and then one or two would look across in curiosity at what I was doing; unaware of the fact I was writing about them.

    Another red-beaked bird joined the first one making me wonder if he had been waiting after all. A duck that was hidden from view, by the reeds, cried out in what can only be described as agitation as a student shouted in the courtyard. Meanwhile, behind me a silver car reversed into a parking space manoeuvring  multiple times until the driver felt satisfied he had mastered the perfect bay park.

    A girl strolled past me slowly over the grass wearing a grey jumper studded with sequins, as the sun hit the light reflected off them casting glorious rainbows in a way that drew your eyes straight to her. Behind me an older women marched forward, her heels clicking impatiently on the concrete, with a strong sense of purpose. Either that or she was running late…

    A gaggle of students shrieked from nowhere causing a group of ducks to fly off unexpectedly making me jump, there quacks echoing as the cried out in anger at being disturbed. An old lady in a blue coat and red shoes sat carefully on the edge of the bench next to me, standing out among the other teenage students. She seemed to be unsure of where she was going and rose from the bench after a minute or two, offering me a kind smile as she went that reminded me of my grandparents.

    Three ducks waddled up to where I was sat to investigate what was going on, the water from the lake beaded on the sleek feathers on their bellies. The male of the group lead the way clearly displaying his egotistical need to be in charge, before turning his gleaming emerald head away satisfied that I meant no harm and bored with my lack of movement.

    The sun grew to a high point in the sky as midday approached resulting in the shadow cast by the building to shrink and in turn allowing the sun to hit my back and warm me. The light also changed the brick colour from deep maroon to a blazing burnt orange colour. The glass from the revolving door reflecting in flashes as people came and went.

    Golden leaves sat on the grass drifting gently as the breeze ruffled them and hinted to everyone the unavoidable truth that the seasons were changing and that without a doubt, summer was over.  

 

Sophie Parkinson

 

 

Campus description

Writing away I become surrounded by ducks from every side, quacking towards me. Their eyes reflect hunger. The path next to lake is a walkway of conversation; group discussions, personal affairs can be heard faintly. The wind breezes past my left ear sending a brief chill down my spine. I find it difficult to concentrate, with the noise of the duck chorus. Two seagulls land abruptly on the lakes’ surface; ripples protrude in all directions disrupting the calm water. The buildings create a contrast against the lake, beauty of nature combines with man-made sculptures. Standing beside the lake I see a lone bystander, clutching a note pad and pen – clearly he is also documenting his observations of the area. For a second we catch each other’s eye another quack breaks our gaze. Now all I can focus on is the army ducks, even with all my ignorance they remain at my feet. One very brave duck nudges its beak against my leg. To my far right there is a little rabbit with a brown coat and a noticeably white tail, hobbling across the grass nibbling away at it. I feel time slipping away, the arms on the clock face tick towards 12 slowly I make my move, ushering the ducks to part. As I leave the lake I can still hear the squabbling of nature.

 Sophie Heng-Travis