Mass Observations 2014: A Collage of Empty Blue Jeans

 

A COLLAGE OF DISTANT, BARELY VISIBLE CLOUDS

The sky is overcast and grey. A collage of distant, barely visible clouds passes over at a glacial pace. Droplets of rain speckle my vison and pool on the lenses of my glasses. That type of rain. The light fine kind that soaks you through without much warning and clings to you like a second skin – flimsy, loose fitting and ill feeling. I perceive students desperately trying to escape the wet, shuffling along with awkward haste. Heads bowed forward, hands in pockets and pulling at their clothes, their legs tensed and barely bending at the knee - anxious to run but too unconfident to do so. However, a small group of Seagulls and Pigeons are standing their ground in the centre of the athletics field. Mocking. Unlike the students, they are unfazed and unflustered between the short gusts of wind that threat to become something much more than just the swift encouragement of momentum for the leaves that race on the thick red vein that circulates the field.
  I observe this autumnal race from the shelter – emphasis on ’shelter’- of a bench situated in the hollow of a wall. The roof inadequately serving its function as the pages of my note book bleed and my words respond to the tears of the sky. I shudder and shuffle inwards, almost featly and tug on the hood of my jumper. Directing my gaze to the brick tiled path and the saturated moss that intersects the length of it.  A pest that disallows the path to deceive age - natures weathered lines on skin. Raising my head I take in the circumference of the field, the dome like area of my vision notes the spotlights that sparsely create the perimeter. Eyes on stalks, they eternally spectate the fields purpose, yet right now they spectate nothing of value to many; just sporting events for leaves, gulls and litter.
  From my peripheries I watch a congregation of trees that are just beyond the corner of the field. They stand proud. Yet show evidence of bending to nature’s whim. Freckled with rust shaded bark that climbs their trunks like a diseased limb; their branches are run lame and they flex against the slow force of the wind, teasing that the curvature of their arms might curl to a break. They resist, but I don’t. I stretch out my goose bumped limbs to stimulate warmth as I progress away from the area. Frantically scribbling, with my head hunched to my chest my gaze catches the stray ends of cigarettes dirty dancing with the leaves along the pavement. An absentee blue clipper lighter watches from underneath a bench and piles of leaves huddle in tight to every nook of the area. I listen to the echoing sounds of wet, slapping footsteps to avoid colliding whilst my stare is fixated on the path.

Jessica Tillings 

 

EMPTY

 

The racetrack is empty. One or two people loiter around the edges but no one is making their rounds today, at least not for now. I hear the voices of strangers with unfamiliar voices who's accents I am yet to adjust to. They come and go in waves of excitement soon followed by silence. Except it is never fully silent here. The cool air whirling around me, drags the sound of a distant motorbike through the air, it's engine roaring as it makes it way down a far off road. The birds too add to the noise of the campus. Only I don't hear then quite as much as I did back home. Their chirping tunes make me homesick. As the clouds shift and the sun glows brighter, highlighting the vast space of perfectly cut green before me. I've yet to see a gardener, however the bushes by my accommodation are always perfectly pruned. I don't like those bushes. The flowers douse the door way with a sent like must. I think they smell like old people. My neighbors agree. I do, however, like the trees. Rows upon rows of trees that line the racetracks like dormant spectators. The trees have begun purging their leaves already and a thick carpet of orange and brown already litters the grass. I cannot look at the leaves without hearing the crunch they would make if I were to jump upon their mounds. The bed of flame coloured leaves makes me happy. They remind me that, despite the blazing sun, it will be winter soon and wait to see my family doesn't seem quiet as long.. 

Lucy Cooke

 

 

BLUE JEANS: BLUE TROUSERS

 

A young man in blue jeans, runs up the stairs, talking on the phone, his feet seemingly able to find their way without the need to be consciously directed. An older man, grey hair, dressed in darker blue scales the steps. His movements are somewhat more slow and methodical as he bears two mugs, precisely balanced on a tray.

 

Over the balcony, individuals of all description blend into the flow of traffic between the pillars, which serve for most part a singular structural purpose only, albeit an important one. The pillar nearest boldly breaks this trend however, by daring to promote the student services.

 

Elsewhere, block capitals encourage people to "Laugh more, worry less". These words of wisdom appear among the assortment of giant posters for sale on the first floor. A girl wearing a green chequered shirt is struggling to manoeuvre the display cases. One of them topples to the floor and is hurriedly retrieved, before being delicately positioned on the halfway landing of the stairs.

 

The population of the stairs carry on their way indifferent, as before. Two boys climb the steps, their movements matched in perfect synchronisation. They simultaneously stop and peer over the railing, with heads joined by an invisible bar, before proceeding to the summit. Another man makes it to the top of the stairs, but thinks better of it and heads straight back down again. A boy in green trousers skips frantically down to the attend to the display. Apparently, it is a few inches out of place, which must urgently be corrected. Finally green trousers and green chequered shirt meet on the landing, and after a brief exchange it seems they are now satisfied.

 

Kyle Theobold