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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
2 magpies out the window. Joy I think. I didn’t salute –
today will be a bad day now!
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.
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
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..
Elio Lomas
No comments:
Post a Comment