The blame game

I wonder if it is actually possible for me to write an entertaining blog without finding fault or engaging in a bit of casual character assassination. Of course, nothing is ‘perfect’ – whatever that means– and it’s a mug’s game expecting it to be. As soon as one realises that, there’s not a lot more to say…

...unless one can somehow say it better, which I will try.

My problem, beneath all the literary subterfuge, can really be illustrated by a Google search, which currently returns:

No results found for "how to make sure you have sex on tap everyday"

and one or two others, involving cuddles, a social life, my sense of gaudy, guilty personal inadequacy. I admit it.

Okay, back in the saddle.

Monday

Enjoyed Laura’s child lit lecture and dropped a line to tell her so. She didn’t reply. She may have thought I was winding her up, but it touched on themes that interested me, like the child ‘falling out of love’ with the parent and the novel, Charlie and the chocolate factory. She also did a make up lecture on ‘Junk’ later on, which I think I’m supposed to have read. I was worried about my shopping thawing out, so I sat in the coldest part of the room I could find. Goodbye Monday, it was nice knowing you.

Tuesday

The most memorable thing about today was probably the writers meeting in the evening. It didn’t start auspiciously because the two writers who turned up last week were absent and this week there were three new ones. Oooo, change, I don’t like it. We were working on the murder mystery idea again and it was slightly too many cooksy but it doesn’t matter. It’ll be written by students for students and I expect the audience will be very indulgent with whatever’s served up.

So far the fundamental structure of our play is mostly based on my reportedly dark inspirations. The setting is a slowly sinking cruise ship and starts with a twenty year old girl who openly admits that she went to prison for murder and served four years as a juvenile. She then retires to her cabin with her rich eighty year old husband who wants to play a game of ‘stab me with the knife’. Unfortunately the game goes wrong and he is stabbed. Realising that the finger will be pointed at her she comes up with an alibi. However, somebody knows the alibi isn’t true and that person is murdered. Is it her? We don’t know. After that the self-appointed detective is pushed overboard and the murder suspect, returns disguised as him, wearing his clothes. I’m not sure how, I guess she got involved in some kind of sex game and they swapped.

Nathan included ideas from the others about the murdered all being entertainers and character ideas. A girl called Sian has this thing about there being lots of complete idiots.

I wanted the play to be set in various locations around the ship but I was out-voted. Sian wants it all set in one room and to me that doesn’t make a lot of sense. For instance, we now have to convey the cabin stabbing through audio and are missing out on the visual comedy, as we will be by not showing the deck scene visually. You obviously have certain creative possibilities by making it audio only and one room only but I don’t think we actually need them.

Am I right? I don’t know. Do I want to be? Not particularly, it’s all good. When I submit my own play I will have total control over that, if it's accepted and that is the one that I wouldn’t want to see compromised by ideas I don’t agree with. And when my play fails you can be sure I’ll find someone else to blame.

Today I discovered that Nicholas has been at Bangor seven years and is not even a student any more. It explains why he seemed so mature for eighteen or nineteen, he must actually be in his mid-twenties. I ended Tuesday wiser for that reason, if none other that will consciously stay with me.

Wednesday

Good ole Wednesday. I’ve mentioned before that the university has a left wing bias. I don’t really detail all the ways it manifests in my blog, I guess because I’ve got better things to do, but I’ll include an anecdote today.

It’s hard to summarise my own politics. I’ve always been a bit of both spectrums, certainly not inclined to accept the whole left wing package. And it’s not an emotive subject for me. No party promises me a girlfriend in its manifesto, so why should it be? So anyway, Matthew Durham has asked us before if we think women still get a raw deal in publishing and today he asked us if we considered ourselves feminists. I said, “No, but then I don’t consider myself a masculinist either.” (We were discussing The Magic Toyshop, which I happened to like, so much so that I’ve bought Carter’s first book). Matthew said that feminism just means equality for women and if that’s the case then yes, I’m a feminist. But honestly, who would say, ‘no I don’t believe in equality for women’? So really, the question must mean something more. Perhaps it means, ‘do you believe that consciousness is created by the brain?’ No, I believe it is facilitated by it and funnily enough, most career feminists probably don’t. (Discuss).

Anyway, Matthew said the English language is biased in favour of men. We walk into a room and say ‘hello guys’ and we could be saying hello to men exclusively, or to men and women. The word man exists independent of woman, but the word woman defines woman by her not being a man. That seems reasonable and I agree we need to look at the language we use. I’ve never liked the word ‘slut’. Why do we honour men for promiscuity but berate women for it? I say ‘we’ actually meaning other men, because I’ve never done that. But to me it was ironic that Matthew was arguing that words shouldn’t be biased and the very word- which is supposed to be about fairness- is about women. Fairness cannot just be about women and therefore I’d rather be called a fairest. Interestingly, on my weekendly browse of women’s dating profiles I came across one woman saying that she was ‘decidedly not a feminist’. Why is that, I wonder? (Discuss).

And of course, on Wednesday I went to spiritualist church looking for clues about getting my life on track. Preferably an electrified one. It was chucking it down and I figured I had a decent chance of a reading, due to low attendance. How right I was. I think there were about seven people, and they were all old. Two fell asleep. We had to sing hymns and without an organ so everyone sang their own tune. The medium described herself as ‘moderately awful’, and I agree and yet...and yet...was she? I got my reading and it’s hard to say if it was made up or what it was. She said that when I came to Bangor I had higher expectations and that is true. That is the one thing I can say which I in no way fed to her. No earth shattering revelations, just that I will start to put a small social life together at some point. Dots will connect.

On the way back I drove into a traffic island. It was the weather and my steamed up windows. Could hardly see where I was going.

Thursday

Catherine presented a poem of mine in class, I think because she thought it rather good and assumed the others would think so, but I don’t think they did particularly. It was a reply to Philip Larkin’s Auerbach. I would paste here but when I submit my portfolio Turnit In will find anything on the web and shout, “Plagiarism!” Of course, I can prove it’s mine, but for the sake of simplicity...

Friday

I met a discus thrower on online dating. Probably nothing will come of it but you never know.

Saturday

Depressed all day. Cheered up a bit in the evening. A bit, mind. I definitely know how to unsteam my windows, now. Fear not. They were as clear as the cold air on the way to Morrisons.

Sunday

And so to Sunday. Not an especially eventful week. I should say thanks to James and Lorane for keeping me cyber company, because otherwise it’s mostly me talking to myself.

A good week, I suppose

It’s been a good week. In some ways it’s a case of plus ca change. Did I roll up to another class of Diane Cloche's minus assignment? Affirmative. Did the insomnia return? At least for one night, yes. Maybe I need to up the dosage. Is the trickle of students who get drunk and then walk past my window shouting and singing throughout up to about 3 or 4 am just another hassle I could do without? Absolutely. I’m pleased they’re enjoying themselves and it’s a comforting reminder that this quiet enclave is also a vibrant city that never sleeps, but the intrusion annoys me. Perhaps because I resent their thoughtlessness or that their behaviour is unpredictable. If they were trains I’d know they were just passing through, but you never quite know how long the noise will last with teenage human beings or what it portends. Perhaps I secretly wish I was one of them. The students are clearly having a very large helping of joy…

And what about my audition? Did I get a part? As a tree, perchance? Nada. Perhaps there’s a missed call on my phone.

And there’s been that whole essay business.

On the other hand, day by day, I felt pretty comfortable about things. That might simply be because I’m on amitriptyline, ostensibly for my insomnia, but it’s also used to treat depression. These past few days I’ve found myself more in the present. I was sat on my bed reading The Magic Toyshop the other evening and I suddenly realised I was just content sat there reading and it reminded me of being a child. Normally I don’t have the patience for book reading, albeit that I surround myself with them, I’m lucky if I read two a year, but a little more positivity has crept into my mind. It must have, because I’ve started liking Radio 6 more and usually the DJs annoy me.

On Monday I skipped Raisa’s child lecture for the first time. I had the child fiction essay to do and I don’t find the lectures particularly useful. They’re good but it’s food for thought, or spoon feeding, depending on your viewpoint.

On Tuesday I went to the Reading, Writing and Thinking lecture (again not necessary to me personally, but I learnt that the word fabulous comes from the word ‘fable’) at 9.00, taken by Professor Helen Wilcox who had come jet lagged from South America. (She’s not yet replied to my email asking for Paul’s number). I skipped the child lit lecture at 11.00. (We have one usually given by Raisa on Monday, one usually given by Laura, Tuesday).

I went to Laura’s child lit seminar in the afternoon. At the end, Laura looked like she was steeling herself when I approached her and I don’t blame her. As my mother once observed, I’m a cross between Basil Fawlty and Frank Spencer. That’s reason enough, but it was ‘all good’ as we say in modern parlance. I only want to know what the essay title needed to be. She pointed at me with two hands like someone brandishing pistols and said, “Everything okay now?” (or I’ll shoot) or words to that effect. It was, but it wasn’t long before I was causing trouble again, which we’ll get to shortly.

Then I went to my second meeting at Bangor English Dramatic Society and I felt welcome and enjoyed the company. It was a writer’s meeting and though I might put myself forward as an actor at some point I’ve joined on that basis. The organiser, Nicholas, is one of those people I associate with the name ‘Merlin’. He is thin with long blonde hair and a wizardish goatee. There may be some tints in the hair, or I may be a confused 42 year old, tints are common amongst the students, let’s put it that way. He is mature beyond his years in the manner that some geeks are because they are interested in relatively thoughtful pursuits. Amber is a mixed race and matronly girl who radiates a sense of chill like a large, satisfied cat. I’m not sure what her role is but it’s probably quite significant. As for the writers, there were only three of us in attendance. There was a pretty, intelligent slim girl who I see in Diane’s seminar and a pleasant, shy, small toothed young man who, like lots of people, reminds me of someone else. They all do, it comes with age.

We were in an open plan area opposite a lift in Pontio and we just bounced around ideas for a murder mystery we’ll write together. I suggested it could be set on a cruise on a ship that is sinking very slowly, or in a newsroom, and the detective an android who blames the murder on the cat. Surprisingly Nathan readily accepted these suggestions and copied them down. What was also nice was how we working together well and integrating our thoughts without friction.

Besides that we will be pitching our own 20 minute plays, if we so desire, and if we want there are opportunities to pitch a (minimum) 90 minute play in December and sometime next year. I also suggested that they consider adapting The London Cuckholds. It’s out of print but there’s a copy of it in Bangor library.

Then I went to The Menai pub afterwards to do the Words Aloud open mic poetry event but I decided not to stay because it was very loud and I figured I would find it hard to converse with people. However, the organiser Aidan wrote to me later to ask if I was there and when I explained the situation he kindly said he would try and sort out a better venue at some point. As I walked back down the road after leaving The Menai I saw a silhouette appear that looked rather like Zoe, my tutor, who is a published poet. She stopped and asked after me but I didn’t tell her why I’d left.

Now, about the mess-ay. I’d had notification on Tuesday that my extension request had been granted and extended by 5 days but it didn’t indicate whether this was 5 days from the time of notification, request or deadline. So on Wednesday morning I duly emailed Michelle Harrison (admin) and Laura about this. Laura wrote back to say it was counted from the submission deadline and was due Thursday by 12pm. I didn’t see how it could be. The submission deadline had been Friday noon so counting 5 days it would be Wednesday noon. I immediately wrote back to Laura to ask, are you sure, isn’t it blah blah blah? She never got back but I figured I’d take her at her word.

Wednesday lessons were fine. Nobody had done the reading required for Matthew Durham’s class, as per usual and he was as restrained about it as ever. I wonder if he’s planning his escape to a higher grade university but at least he knows the deal, he’s Bangor alumni himself. Everything was okay in DeAnn’s class. I quickly wrote a dialogue whilst the other students read out theirs and it passed muster.

 Now here’s the thing. I should have finished off that damned essay. But I figured, well, Laura says I’ve got until midnight tomorrow so I’ll do the poem for Catherine instead and some Magic Toyshop. But the fact is, I had plenty of time, in fact I was unable to sleep until gone 4.00am. And all this time I was up in bed unable to sleep a little voice kept saying, “Do Laura’s essay, do Laura’s essay.” And I kept saying, “No, I’m tired and I don’t need to get it in until tomorrow midnight.”

Of course, Michelle Harrison rang me up Thursday morning and said it should have been in the day before. I said I thought as much but Laura told me otherwise. “Well, we’ll have to honour that but you need to get it in now.”

“But I was going to tidy it up this afternoon.”

“Too bad, you’ve had long enough.”

Long enough? I’d had three and a half days (counting from when I realised I had an essay), the students had sixteen. And why didn’t I know? Because the Bangor university website erroneously states the essay is due at the end of term. Because I was ill on the day Laura discussed it. Because there was no email to announce the essay. Because...okay, I’ll shut up. Fact is, I should have checked the somewhat labyrinthine online system to see if we had anything. That I cannot deny. So anyway, my essay was not an essay I would consider to be A grade. It was a rush job, and I talked too much about my chosen texts and not enough about their effect on my writing process (very little, actually) so I expect a B at best and quite conceivably a C. If I don’t get a lowish A for the Keats, though, I’ll be having dark thoughts.

By Thursday things are always pretty much plain sailing. Just Catherine’s super easy poetry class in the morning and Alex’s dull (as he himself admits) but cosy lecture series on how to write an essay. Actually, this is one I might actually come back to revise. I pretty much know innately how to structure an argument, it just comes naturally- what with my hyper critical tendencies- but I see no harm in learning the structure they suggest. I guess you could say there’s no harm in learning anything that’s suggested but a lot of it does seem to be quite obvious. Maybe it’s that little voice again. Where does it come from? I know not. It doesn’t speak actual words. It’s a feeling.

I usually work on my own when Alex asks us to discuss something with a partner but I showed my workings to Alli, one of the very few mature students on our course. She told me that she was at The Menai the other night and also thought it was too noisy. After the lecture I spoke to Alex and he was so sweet and understanding. He thanked me for pointing out that the website error and told me not to worry, first year marks don’t really count etc. I felt I’d just had a conversation with an angel. It was an ideal prelude to a shop at Morrisons afterwards. If he’s a father I imagine he’s a very good one. Alex for president, etc.

Okay, I’m rambling. Make up class with Catherine on Friday due to her being away. Spoke to a really chatty cashier last night in Tesco. Like my dentist, she fired all sorts of questions at me. Did I have a good day? What did I do? What was I studying at uni? What did I want to do after uni? But the fact that she was only 24 I might almost have thought she was chatting me up but some cashiers/human beings are like this and I appreciated the conversation. Today she’ll be celebrating her birthday with her twin brother and his fiancée.

Couple more things. We had two fire drills during the week, both after 1.00 am. Everyone seemed to enjoy them.

One thing I’ve not done is talk about the students. The truth is, I like them. They are probably the sort of category I would have slotted into when I was their age. When it comes down to it there is something wholesome and comforting about them, like a new Marks and Spencer wool rich jumper.

They all have nice teeth, nice skin, nice hair. One minute they seem as mature and intelligent as any adult but they have the vitality and certainty of the young and it’s nice to be around. I feel I’m learning from them. It’s probably the sleeping pills talking. I’ll be back to my grumpy self soon enough.

ONE STEP FORWARD, TWO STEPS BACK

Well, it seems two essays were due in on November 10. I knew about the literature essay and I duly completed a critique of To Autumn by John Keats and submitted (pleased with it, bar a typo). As for the child lit essay, no. I would probably have known about it if I’d been to Laura’s class in week 6 but as you may recall I went to the doctor. I wrote to Laura to explain the situation at the time and she wrote back and said Ok, thanks, enjoy reading week. But I went onto Blackboard last night and saw that Laura had put an essay assignment up. I don’t really have an excuse for not having gone up there earlier except for Laura’ s reply to my email, which was perfectly innocent, I’m sure, but I took to mean that all we have to do is read in our week off. It’s just unfortunate but I'm sure by no means out of spite that she didn’t say, Oh by the way in class I announced your essay, good luck with it. In the case of the English lit essay it was impossible NOT to know we had it. It was announced a month in advance and Alex emailed us about it and it was mentioned in seminars. Hand on heart, I never heard this child lit essay mentioned once in any of my seminars with Laura and we weren’t emailed about it. It must have just been mentioned once when I wasn’t there. Of course, strictly speaking, I should have known it was coming anyway because there is probably a module description somewhere that says we do an essay mid-term.

So anyway, I immediately emailed Laura asking for an extension and copied Alex (head of English department) and Zoe (my tutor, though I hardly see her) into the email. I then wrote to Zoe asking if I could meet her next week. If they don’t already think I am an idiot they will now. I’m going to explain that I was at the doctors for insomnia and that I think it’s been affecting my short term memory and general ability to keep track. And on top of that I’ll try argue that I was absent on the day the essay would have been discussed in class and all what I've just told you. If my request for an extension is turned down I assume marks will be capped at 40%.

Now... all this said, I’m at odds with the essay requirement because in my view it doesn’t reflect what we have been doing in the seminars. But rather than drag the module through the mud on the internet I think it’s best to let off steam in private, which I will do.

The insomnia, the amitryptiline and the maroon Allegro

I've undergone some kind of metamorphosis. It started at 5.38 am on Tuesday when I awoke, having had maybe not 4 hours sleep and returned to bed unable to sleep again.

I got up and managed to get through an eco-critcism lecture and a child lit lecture but I felt so wrecked after weeks of insomnia and I decided this was the final straw. I skipped Laura’s writing for children seminar and visited the local apothecary. He prescribed amitryptaline and after taking it I slept for about 12 hours but it wasn’t restorative. It was a very light slumber punctuated by students celebrating halloween raucously outside my window. In the morning I awoke feeling awful- despite the 12 hours- but not quite the same kind of awful. Whilst I'd been in that strange sleep but not sleep I felt like my brain was whirring like a laptop doing millions of calculations. I felt like I was doing some kind of necessary work on myself. And I could at least attend class.

Later in the afternoon I slept a few more hours but this time it was good sleep because the sleeping pill had worn off. Then I slept again in the night and again had no issues with not being able to get off back after I awoke for a toilet break. At around 10 I awoke from deep, quality shut eye. So in two days I slept maybe 24 hours or more instead of 16 and goodness did I feel human compared to what I felt before.

In Wednesday morning dream I dreamt about my maroon Austin Allegro, which I don't possess in real life but turns up every now and then in the dream world. It may be also be other colours. Then I awoke somehow knowing that I was going to stop sabotaging my time at Bangor. It was as if all that sleep had somehow reprogrammed me. The fear and anxiety were all strangely gone. So I went to an audition for the film society Thursday evening. Spent half an hour waiting in the wrong audition because the bloody drama society were auditioning in the same building but it didn’t matter. There was a girl outside the auditioning organising the audtionees and she was really nice. Like a flight attendant in first class nice. Like receptionist of the year.

A deep voiced mature student who I danced with the penultimate time I went to salsa came out the audition. I didn’t mention her but she’s from California- I’d say mid to late thirties- and in salsa she prefers to dance the lead. She stood flirting with the receptionist for about ten minutes. I guess everyone wants to hang with the really nice person. I think the flight attendant was straight but she enjoyed the attention and caressed her neck.

I then did my bit. It was a bit of a joke because they gave me this script from Pulp Fiction- a boyfriend and girlfriend getting ready to rob a fast food joint- which was so badly printed I could barely read it. But I did quite well and I was so pleased with myself because I felt bullet proof. Where had my anxiety gone? Was it swallowed by an avalanche of sleep?

But to rewind, on Monday I was sat in Raisa's child lit lecture wondering why I was even there. Yes, it's a requirement but I've got wise to the fact that I won't be doing an exam on any of these books she's lecturing us about because I'm doing the creative writing component. All I have to do is write a children's story and show how it's 'influenced' by a children's book I've read chosen from a large list they’ve give us which isn’t even necessarily one of the books they lecture us on.

At the beginning of Raisa's lecture she said, "It's nice to know that you've made so many friends, that there is so much talking. So that's really encouraging." She didn't comment on how discouraging it was that I had made none.

In the eco crit lecture on tired Tuesday I killed the boredom by talking to Lorane on Whatsapp, a woman I dated for a few weeks last year. I was running unsuitable names for a new YouTube account by her. Lost in Bangor, Bang her in Bangor, What an absolute Bangor, etc. Zoe (the lecturer) was playing Dylan Thomas too loud for my tinnitus so I stood outside. It reminded me that I need to progress things on that front so I went to disability services to arrange an appointment about my ear, (which I forgot about later and did not attend). After that I bumped into a professor in the library who had given the mature students a talk during the welcome week. She asked me how things were going. I said studies fine, but no social opportunities for mature students. She said call Paul, he'd love to have a drink with me. I don't know who Paul is. Perhaps I'll email her and ask. Then it was a child lit lecture again given by Alex on Peter Pan. He said Barrie would be locked up today and, "Quite rightly so."

After Alex's Peter Pan lecture I asked him how it fitted into the scheme of things for me. He said he didn't know, ask Lisa. Lisa flumbled something about how I should now be seeing themes running from all these stories. Can’t say I am. I would have to say that sitting through introductions to children's novels has not been that creative juicy and increasingly I find myself daydreaming. What is the ruddy point in reading Uncle Tom's Cabin, Robinson Crusoe, Peter and Wendy, The Lion and the Witch, and Harry Potter, and Dark Materials and so on when at the end of it all we're not required to write a novel style narrative, but a 1500 word piece? Isn' it like spending weeks being lectured about all the workings of a plane and then designing an arm rest at the end of it? If we’re only writing 1000 or 1500 words why don’t we just focus on stories of that length? Why not write four or five stories in a semester, not one pathetic one at the end? Anyway, it’s a whole different style of writing. C.S Lewis would take up 1500 words just getting you into the wardrobe. It's bullshit, it's just to minimize the work the lecturers have to do. Which is fair enough. Okay, rant over.

So yes, after not being able to sleep in the afternoon I took drastic action. Wednesday morning I had thinking, writing and speaking with Matthew Durham. I feel so sorry for Matthew, we all turn up never having done the assignment he’s asked us to do properly and never being able to say a damn thing about it that shows we are not all a bunch of nitwits. Today he asked us about the eco-criticism lecture. Although my brain was utterly fogged from sleep-deprivation and I wasn’t even in the lecture at times or texting Lorane I gave the most constructive input but even what I said was garbage and cobbled from a handout I had speed read. I asked Matthew privately, why do we need to keep looking at essays through all these different filters? Why not just look at it holistically (y,know, use your common sense). He said something along the lines of these sixth formers need arm bands to help them swim with because they can only see surface meaning. I guess I see what he’s saying. I’m probably moaning about nothing. I’m not moaning. Goodbye.

No wait. Thursday. Guess what? Another class with Diane where I HADN'T DONE THE HOMEWORK ASSIGNMENT. I promise, I really do, that is the old October James. The November James would never allow such a thing to happen on his watch.

Friday and Saturday I wrote the 1st draft of my Keats essay, which is due Nov 10. Quite pleased with it for a first go but needs refinement. Having sleeping problems again. I can only seem to sleep four or five hours a night. Might need to dance with amitryptiline, dream of maroon Allegros.