I've spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself, so much so that I've neglected to mention that I am at least quite pleased with Bangor.
Firstly, it is a nice environment, with the city centre pleasantly situated in a narrow valley surrounded by steep, attractively wooded hills. And from an elevated position you can see mountains and sea. I've heard it described as a 'shit hole', but from a student POV I wouldn't concur with that.
I haven't run into hoards of disturbing people, as it's quite easy to do in many towns. Besides that, I'm told students outnumber locals and it does feel like they have the run of the place. The city manages to be quiet, yet vibrant. In the day the traffic is noticeably quieter than I'm used to in English towns and even scarcer in the evening. However, pubs stay open into the small hours and it manages to pack alot into its small footprint. It has a Lidl, an Aldi, a Tesco, a Morrisons, an Iceland, a Kwik Save and an Asda. At least, that I've noticed so far. The Tesco, Morrisons and Asda all have cafes. It has a shopping centre with a Debenhams and an M&S. It has a cathedral.
Some of the residential roads close to the university are very nice. Quiet, with large gardens bursting with mature trees and shrubs and solid Victorian houses. There is poorer housing in certain areas, but it doesn't impose itself.
Main Arts, the main university building stands prominently on a hill and it's built in the collegiate style of an ancient Oxbridge college. It was built in 1910 but obviously harks back to medieval times and the effect works. It's a beautiful building with stained glass windows, a quadrangle, arched cloisters. It looks like a cathedral, from a distance, though to walk inside it and ensconce oneself in its haunted library is to feel that one is in the fairy tale university and therefore that at least one aspect of one's life is a fairytale.
The 60s extension attached to the gothic Main Arts- like most sixties
buildings- is a pity, but actually fairly acceptable as pities go. It has some wood, slate and pebble dash in it and it's a success from a practical standpoint. There are also some nice subsidiary buildings dotted around nearby, some Edwardian built in the Arts and Crafts style.
Right next to Main Arts on the side of the hill is a very recent and substantial building call 'Pontio'. It contains a surprisingly upscale bar and restaurant, plus cinema, lecture halls, student union office and places students can hang out and meet but I only ever use Pontio to get to Main Arts. The lift is in an inconvenient place and always full, so I climb lots of stairs that are tiered, because the building is going up a hill.
Yesterday on the way back down I did stop and stuff my face with some free FairTrade chocolate that was being handed out. There's always free stuff going on at uni, most of which I miss out on. I've got a poster in my room that has an event on it everyday. Sunday roasts, chip butty and chats, bingo, bookswaps, ice cream parties, board games and biscuits, hot chocolate morning, quiz and cake. Something every day, which I miss. But hey, I got some chocolate. And it wasn't even on my poster.
Next to Pontio is a First World War memorial/gate house that one walks through to get to Pontio and kind of matches Main Arts in style and splendour. And then just around Bangor generally you have various buildings from different periods that belong to the uni.
My student village is on the hill opposite to Main Arts, across the town and as I mentioned, steep. Absurdly so. The buildings are Victorian, Edwardian and very recent. I would prefer to be in the very recent, because then I would have fine views over the town. I also suspect that the newer rooms may be superior. However, my old is building is newly fitted- so maybe it's pretty much the same- and it is the closest to the entrance of the village, thus saving me a minute's walk.
Besides rooms and studio apartments the village is a little world in itself, with a supermarket, cafe, laundry, gym, mail room, concert room, nice social room with plush furnishings and other facilities. It is not like a shabby boarding school. It is done to a very high standard, these days. The social room could be in a nice pub in some up and coming area of London.
Besides all this, the air is fresh and vigorous, there is a content atmosphere, and you can hear people speaking Welsh and see it written everywhere.
I think I mentioned the trees but I should again for in my village they are lichen covered and plentiful and large and one of the small pleasures I've taken from the past few days is lying in bed at night watching the wind shake the trees opposite my window.
Saturday, 14 October 2017
Thursday, 5 October 2017
Mid-life crisis
I now know Miss German is actually Catherine Rullens. She has her own Wikipedia page and writes poetry reviews for The Guardian. But she still reminds me of Mr German, with his quiet, unassuming manner. Somebody that in no way wears their minor celebrity (Mr German went to Cambridge) on their sleeve but looked more like someone who had fallen asleep on a park bench and come in late to class.
In class today we read We real cool by a black poet I wasn't familiar with (no surprise, there) called Gwendolyn Brooks. We talked about this short piece in class. My partner was the (Canadian, it turns out) girl from last week who had a runny nose. It was still runny, I really should have brought tissues. She's a third year student from Nova Scotia doing her year abroad.
One of the more confident students disagreed with me when I simply observed that I would guess it was written in the 50s because by modern standards it's not innovative, though it may have been for its time. And I only said that because Catherine had said something similar, like perhaps you can tell its age by the language.
I'd already noted that it sounds a bit like a rap (only sort of) and he said that rap is only 10 years old (ironically, perhaps) so how could I say it's not innovative? I said rap had actually been around since the 70s and Catherine took the discussion elsewhere. It's possible he thought I was saying it had never been innovative. Anyway, the unpleasantness was not him disagreeing with me, but the way he nodded his head to the side as if he was throwing a decisive blow and I was stupid idiot of the week, which is damning me with faint praise.
Later, I got a call from Laura Dryer. I'd asked if I could talk to her about getting back into the right component of the Children's Lit seminar (as opposed to the Child Lit lecture, which all child lit students attend). She does the creative side (writing) and Raisa does the analytical bit (writing about someone else's writing). I said I hoped I wasn't causing an upset if I switched back to her course, I wasn't even sure how I wound up doing the essay component. She said it was absolutely fine, it was quite normal for the first 2 weeks to be chaotic and it wasn't putting anybody out.
I told Laura I was still feeling a bit lost and also hadn't met anybody yet but I'm sure things would improve. Laura's suggestion that I get pally with the two or three random women in their fifties who are doing some of the same modules was intended to be helpful- and indeed her kindness and sympathy did cheer me up. Actually, her soothing conversation with me was the highlight of my day and I'm grateful to her.
Three cheers for Laura for cheering me up, (sounds like it could be a poem written by a 50s poet, still regarded as innovative today) though she underscored my problem as well by saying what she said. If someone is saying why not go for a drink with that other old person on the course- because, you know- you're both roughly of the same era- and she's a parent from a different background, with different tastes, hobbies, mores and mindset- but don't let that put you off: they're drawing a line around Nellie. Which is that I don't have the luxury the 18 year olds and most people do, of organising themselves into groups that have something in common.
You see I've begun to realise why I'm even on this course. Having been turned down by Kent, Nottingham and Liverpool and possibly also De Montfort, if I'd given them the chance, I was thrilled that Bangor said yes immediately. But why did they say yes? On merit? Because of my personal statement? Or because they want to make up mature student numbers? There are so very few of them, you see, and none of them belong to the category I do, whatever category that is. 'Oddball category' is the easiest label to give it but you could also say I'm somebody who sounds like they have already been to university.
The mature students I'm meeting so far are more obviously working class adults who left school as young as fifteen or sixteen and have children. Nothing wrong with that at all, but they are are probably going to be chalk to my cheese. Watch Netflix in the evening, not be lost in various personal intellectual and artistic quests. (Okay, alot of that IS just watching cat and dog videos on Facebook, but still). And I don't see any other obvious contendors for friendship. I glanced back in a lecture this afternoon to see a man with closely cropped red hair and a large tattoo on his neck. Now in the lecture we were shown that old Guardian advert where a skinhead runs towards a man with a briefcase. You are meant to assume he is about to mug him but he's really rescuing him from some bricks which the skinhead has somehow divined are about to fall on the unwitting suit's head. The lesson is, don't judge a book by its cover. (Or look where you're going). And don't assume that chap a few seats back is an ex-con (and even if he is, so what). But still, I feel there are very few viable social opportunities around me at present. Even if that is just an assumption, I can't help but lose some hope when I survey my environment.
So I had a dark night of the soul last night realising this and my predicament generally. I'm fully aware that it's of my own making but I don't really know how to get out of it. I've actually been in a rut all my life and I think I'm accepting that I will die struggling, rather than prevail and have a few years of relative happiness.
I had thought that university would be a turning point after years in the wilderness but finally I'm seeing that I though I have some rare talents, I have significant weaknesses too. Weaknesses I've never really addressed, rather I've been partially waiting for my luck to turn. Which it seldom does, unless you make your own luck.
I guess I've always thought that if I can just get into an environment that suits me- like a fussy houseplant- I can bloom. But once again I'm shriveling in the corner. This is not self-pity or exaggeration it is just a plain statement of fact. Some people lead sad, frustrated lives and it's probably more obvious to those around them that it will ever be thus then it is to the person, who clings on to the vain hope that there will be some kind of breakthrough moment. But there must surely come a time when they start to realise that this is it, This is your life, if you were famous you'd be on that awful TV show looking back at it by now, because the pith of it is over. I have reached that time. And if it is true that I have a soul and that I will one day have a life review before they hit the play button I'll already know the so many ways I let myself and others down.
If I had my own personal Alex Ferguson I know I could do great things but I have never been able to manage or motivate myself. My brain is foggy, I do everything slowly, I am constantly distracted. I probably could have done with a spell in the army.
Okay, I will admit and perhaps earlier mentioned that in the welcome week there was a mature student peer guide was friendly with me. He's deaf in one ear and permanently on Valium because he was horrifically attacked in 2002 and was in a coma for 4 days. What with him being deaf in his right ear and me having problems with my left it could make for an interesting conversation if we go anywhere with him walking on my left side.
I will also admit that a couple of times I've run into a Polish student who is a bit of an intellectual (I hate the word but for want of a better one)- has spotted that I am- and cornered me a couple of times when I was desperately trying to get away from him. One time I was in the New Arts building trying to sort my timetable out. He just started asking me questions and I answered one and then another and then another and he wouldn't let me go. Same thing happened another time. He is very intense and in need of someone to bounce off of or simply suck dry but I don't want to be that person. I didn't actually enjoy the exchanges.
I did actually text my fellow hearing-impaired mature student on my birthday to ask if he fancied a beer. He didn't reply but I got a text today to say he was sent home on Tuesday with a serious lung infection. If he survives I might have a drink with him sometime.
In class today we read We real cool by a black poet I wasn't familiar with (no surprise, there) called Gwendolyn Brooks. We talked about this short piece in class. My partner was the (Canadian, it turns out) girl from last week who had a runny nose. It was still runny, I really should have brought tissues. She's a third year student from Nova Scotia doing her year abroad.
One of the more confident students disagreed with me when I simply observed that I would guess it was written in the 50s because by modern standards it's not innovative, though it may have been for its time. And I only said that because Catherine had said something similar, like perhaps you can tell its age by the language.
I'd already noted that it sounds a bit like a rap (only sort of) and he said that rap is only 10 years old (ironically, perhaps) so how could I say it's not innovative? I said rap had actually been around since the 70s and Catherine took the discussion elsewhere. It's possible he thought I was saying it had never been innovative. Anyway, the unpleasantness was not him disagreeing with me, but the way he nodded his head to the side as if he was throwing a decisive blow and I was stupid idiot of the week, which is damning me with faint praise.
Later, I got a call from Laura Dryer. I'd asked if I could talk to her about getting back into the right component of the Children's Lit seminar (as opposed to the Child Lit lecture, which all child lit students attend). She does the creative side (writing) and Raisa does the analytical bit (writing about someone else's writing). I said I hoped I wasn't causing an upset if I switched back to her course, I wasn't even sure how I wound up doing the essay component. She said it was absolutely fine, it was quite normal for the first 2 weeks to be chaotic and it wasn't putting anybody out.
I told Laura I was still feeling a bit lost and also hadn't met anybody yet but I'm sure things would improve. Laura's suggestion that I get pally with the two or three random women in their fifties who are doing some of the same modules was intended to be helpful- and indeed her kindness and sympathy did cheer me up. Actually, her soothing conversation with me was the highlight of my day and I'm grateful to her.
Three cheers for Laura for cheering me up, (sounds like it could be a poem written by a 50s poet, still regarded as innovative today) though she underscored my problem as well by saying what she said. If someone is saying why not go for a drink with that other old person on the course- because, you know- you're both roughly of the same era- and she's a parent from a different background, with different tastes, hobbies, mores and mindset- but don't let that put you off: they're drawing a line around Nellie. Which is that I don't have the luxury the 18 year olds and most people do, of organising themselves into groups that have something in common.
You see I've begun to realise why I'm even on this course. Having been turned down by Kent, Nottingham and Liverpool and possibly also De Montfort, if I'd given them the chance, I was thrilled that Bangor said yes immediately. But why did they say yes? On merit? Because of my personal statement? Or because they want to make up mature student numbers? There are so very few of them, you see, and none of them belong to the category I do, whatever category that is. 'Oddball category' is the easiest label to give it but you could also say I'm somebody who sounds like they have already been to university.
The mature students I'm meeting so far are more obviously working class adults who left school as young as fifteen or sixteen and have children. Nothing wrong with that at all, but they are are probably going to be chalk to my cheese. Watch Netflix in the evening, not be lost in various personal intellectual and artistic quests. (Okay, alot of that IS just watching cat and dog videos on Facebook, but still). And I don't see any other obvious contendors for friendship. I glanced back in a lecture this afternoon to see a man with closely cropped red hair and a large tattoo on his neck. Now in the lecture we were shown that old Guardian advert where a skinhead runs towards a man with a briefcase. You are meant to assume he is about to mug him but he's really rescuing him from some bricks which the skinhead has somehow divined are about to fall on the unwitting suit's head. The lesson is, don't judge a book by its cover. (Or look where you're going). And don't assume that chap a few seats back is an ex-con (and even if he is, so what). But still, I feel there are very few viable social opportunities around me at present. Even if that is just an assumption, I can't help but lose some hope when I survey my environment.
So I had a dark night of the soul last night realising this and my predicament generally. I'm fully aware that it's of my own making but I don't really know how to get out of it. I've actually been in a rut all my life and I think I'm accepting that I will die struggling, rather than prevail and have a few years of relative happiness.
I had thought that university would be a turning point after years in the wilderness but finally I'm seeing that I though I have some rare talents, I have significant weaknesses too. Weaknesses I've never really addressed, rather I've been partially waiting for my luck to turn. Which it seldom does, unless you make your own luck.
I guess I've always thought that if I can just get into an environment that suits me- like a fussy houseplant- I can bloom. But once again I'm shriveling in the corner. This is not self-pity or exaggeration it is just a plain statement of fact. Some people lead sad, frustrated lives and it's probably more obvious to those around them that it will ever be thus then it is to the person, who clings on to the vain hope that there will be some kind of breakthrough moment. But there must surely come a time when they start to realise that this is it, This is your life, if you were famous you'd be on that awful TV show looking back at it by now, because the pith of it is over. I have reached that time. And if it is true that I have a soul and that I will one day have a life review before they hit the play button I'll already know the so many ways I let myself and others down.
If I had my own personal Alex Ferguson I know I could do great things but I have never been able to manage or motivate myself. My brain is foggy, I do everything slowly, I am constantly distracted. I probably could have done with a spell in the army.
Okay, I will admit and perhaps earlier mentioned that in the welcome week there was a mature student peer guide was friendly with me. He's deaf in one ear and permanently on Valium because he was horrifically attacked in 2002 and was in a coma for 4 days. What with him being deaf in his right ear and me having problems with my left it could make for an interesting conversation if we go anywhere with him walking on my left side.
I will also admit that a couple of times I've run into a Polish student who is a bit of an intellectual (I hate the word but for want of a better one)- has spotted that I am- and cornered me a couple of times when I was desperately trying to get away from him. One time I was in the New Arts building trying to sort my timetable out. He just started asking me questions and I answered one and then another and then another and he wouldn't let me go. Same thing happened another time. He is very intense and in need of someone to bounce off of or simply suck dry but I don't want to be that person. I didn't actually enjoy the exchanges.
I did actually text my fellow hearing-impaired mature student on my birthday to ask if he fancied a beer. He didn't reply but I got a text today to say he was sent home on Tuesday with a serious lung infection. If he survives I might have a drink with him sometime.
Wednesday, 4 October 2017
Still having a miserable time
What is wrong with me? I go to Dr. Dianne Cloche's class today and discover I should have read The Northwest Passage. Should I? Did she tell me this last week? I don't recall. So I sat in the class feeling like a complete lemon because we were talking about a story I hadn't read. I really need to get a handle on things. I mean, I'm very good at bluffing, it must be said, but this just will not do. I'm deadly serious when I say that I am concerned about the early onset of senile dementia.
In the class before with Matthew Durham, I had it relatively easy, because we read The Snow Child in class- only at the critical moment I was bursting for the loo and excused myself. That moment being when we actually read the story. The upside? The toilets in Main Arts, an Edwardian building, are really opulent.
I managed to catch up and I contributed a fair chunk of the classroom discussion towards it. I don't think that is a particularly sensible idea, especially if your observations are sometimes shrewd or left-field. You don't get any marks for classroom contribution and others simply borrow your better ideas for their essay, if they have any sense, thus devaluing their currency. Chinese students have the right idea. The teacher asks a question, everybody stays stony silent.
Overall, I'm still feeling worried about a hundred little things. The worst of it is simply being sat in a class where there is nobody I can connect with. At some point I'm sure things will click. I live in the hope that they do.
In the class before with Matthew Durham, I had it relatively easy, because we read The Snow Child in class- only at the critical moment I was bursting for the loo and excused myself. That moment being when we actually read the story. The upside? The toilets in Main Arts, an Edwardian building, are really opulent.
I managed to catch up and I contributed a fair chunk of the classroom discussion towards it. I don't think that is a particularly sensible idea, especially if your observations are sometimes shrewd or left-field. You don't get any marks for classroom contribution and others simply borrow your better ideas for their essay, if they have any sense, thus devaluing their currency. Chinese students have the right idea. The teacher asks a question, everybody stays stony silent.
Overall, I'm still feeling worried about a hundred little things. The worst of it is simply being sat in a class where there is nobody I can connect with. At some point I'm sure things will click. I live in the hope that they do.
Tuesday, 3 October 2017
Little did I know
I went to a lecture about Joyce today. Little did I know that the lecturer had emailed us on Monday to say we should read a Joyce short story called Araby. And little did I know that in this lecture there would actually be a fair amount of discussion about the story. I must concede that this is my fault. I hadn't set up my email account, in fact I had no intention of doing so, blissfully unaware that emails have been piling up in my inbox for weeks. You might ask yourself what kind of fool would attend university, be given an email account and then not set it up? I'm afraid that fool is writing this post.
In my defence, a lot of last week and the weekend I was distracted by typing a 51 minute interview conducted at breakneck speed with the two people involved speaking over each other alot. Months ago I volunteered to help Elisa Medhus type her interviews with Erik, her deceased son and I'm glad to have made a contribution. See Channeling Erik. However, little did I imagine she would contact me at such a critical time and then ask for a 7 day turnaround. And in the rest of my downtime I was trying to find a girlfriend online. What time was there left to attend to needful things? None.
Then, later I went to Raisa's child lit class and discovered for some reason I'm doing the essay component and not the creative one, as I was with Laura last week. Now why in the world would I want to write essays about fairy tales? It requires wide reading and research, organising one's thoughts, doing some thinking. Writing, that's easy. I could write ten fairy tales before lunch time. The creative students have it much easier, if you ask me. So that means I have to ask Michelle once again if I can switch one of my classes. People are going to start to think I'm a pain in the neck, if they don't already.
In the evening I didn't want to spend my birthday alone, so I went to a salsa class. It was held in an off duty 'nightclub' and was a capacious black and purple basement room with seedy looking sofas. There were three couples and me, so I danced alone. I'm sure I imagined greater things for myself as a child. A house, a job, a wife, children, a publishing contract. I didn't think that on my 42nd birthday I'd be in a tatty and almost empty room dancing to a beat on my own. I don't know if you've ever danced salsa, but it's not really intended for one person. But in some ways this drab little mise-en-scene fired my imagination. I was enjoying the poetry of it, the sheer writing-on-the-wall of it.
And, at least ten men didn't turn up. There were actual women on the premises and I must confess that when we switched from salsa to merengue I did get to dance with one. She was tall and slim, about 25 and works as a researcher at the uni. She was lovely to dance with and very nice to talk to. Little did she know that my dance and conversation with her was my birthday present.
In my defence, a lot of last week and the weekend I was distracted by typing a 51 minute interview conducted at breakneck speed with the two people involved speaking over each other alot. Months ago I volunteered to help Elisa Medhus type her interviews with Erik, her deceased son and I'm glad to have made a contribution. See Channeling Erik. However, little did I imagine she would contact me at such a critical time and then ask for a 7 day turnaround. And in the rest of my downtime I was trying to find a girlfriend online. What time was there left to attend to needful things? None.
Then, later I went to Raisa's child lit class and discovered for some reason I'm doing the essay component and not the creative one, as I was with Laura last week. Now why in the world would I want to write essays about fairy tales? It requires wide reading and research, organising one's thoughts, doing some thinking. Writing, that's easy. I could write ten fairy tales before lunch time. The creative students have it much easier, if you ask me. So that means I have to ask Michelle once again if I can switch one of my classes. People are going to start to think I'm a pain in the neck, if they don't already.
In the evening I didn't want to spend my birthday alone, so I went to a salsa class. It was held in an off duty 'nightclub' and was a capacious black and purple basement room with seedy looking sofas. There were three couples and me, so I danced alone. I'm sure I imagined greater things for myself as a child. A house, a job, a wife, children, a publishing contract. I didn't think that on my 42nd birthday I'd be in a tatty and almost empty room dancing to a beat on my own. I don't know if you've ever danced salsa, but it's not really intended for one person. But in some ways this drab little mise-en-scene fired my imagination. I was enjoying the poetry of it, the sheer writing-on-the-wall of it.
And, at least ten men didn't turn up. There were actual women on the premises and I must confess that when we switched from salsa to merengue I did get to dance with one. She was tall and slim, about 25 and works as a researcher at the uni. She was lovely to dance with and very nice to talk to. Little did she know that my dance and conversation with her was my birthday present.
Monday, 2 October 2017
The only mature student in the village
Last week I was guessing what some of my classes were. When my timetable came through later on I discovered that the nice pagan from Kentucky, Dr. Diane Cloche, was not my short story teacher, after all. So I went to my tutor, Zoe, this morning (first time I met her) and asked if I could still have Dr. Cloche and not Laura Dryer. (I think I've been switched to her, but it might also be a Nigerian novelist). Zoe said I needed to see Michelle Harrison and Michelle said it was fine. That works out better, anyway, because I'll be in the building the hour before I see her anyways, so I can have two lessons run concurrently, rather than killing an extra hour on a Monday between 3 and 4. Sweet. Laura has other classes with me anyway, so it's nice to have a bit of variety.
I feel a pang of regret at a road not taken with Laura. She is an older and more successful writer than Dr. Diane (for what it's worth). And at this point in time I really can't say who would prefer my writing style or better assist my craft; or who I would gel with better in class. But Diane is quirky, likes cats, believes in the paranormal and will read anything, she says. I will also admit that she is quite nicely proportioned, but she is a married woman and that is purely a casual observation.
It seems the creative writing class I had with Laura (where I drew a picture of her) has also disappeared, as I've been bumped to an earlier one. Whether with her or someone else remains to be seen. Anyway, that means I don't have to write a fairy tale with the understandably reluctant student, which is nice. To be honest I'd rather just knock one off quickly on my own.
And I won't be doing any more poetry with the young lad, Daniel. It will be with Matthew Durham in the class before Dr. Diane's.
So today I just had one lecture, which was with the Romanian professor, Raisa. The lecture goes at a fast clip and there are no questions, it's just her talking about Robinson Crusoe, and I would say that if you're a confident reader you don't really need to be there. However, it is a high quality lecture. She speaks quickly, efficiently, eloquently. She's far more organised than I ever was during my teaching mis-adventure. Laura attended it, but this week was purely a participant.
Incidentally, we're already supposed to have read Robinson Crusoe and I haven't yet but I have a read A journal of the plague, which is by the same author, if that helps. Like Radulca says, his style is not very elevated. A Stephen King of his time, perhaps.
The building we have the lecture in is white, Arts and Crafts style, 1910.
So tomorrow I'm 42 and do I have a plan? I do not. Putting it bluntly, I have no friends.
I feel a pang of regret at a road not taken with Laura. She is an older and more successful writer than Dr. Diane (for what it's worth). And at this point in time I really can't say who would prefer my writing style or better assist my craft; or who I would gel with better in class. But Diane is quirky, likes cats, believes in the paranormal and will read anything, she says. I will also admit that she is quite nicely proportioned, but she is a married woman and that is purely a casual observation.
It seems the creative writing class I had with Laura (where I drew a picture of her) has also disappeared, as I've been bumped to an earlier one. Whether with her or someone else remains to be seen. Anyway, that means I don't have to write a fairy tale with the understandably reluctant student, which is nice. To be honest I'd rather just knock one off quickly on my own.
And I won't be doing any more poetry with the young lad, Daniel. It will be with Matthew Durham in the class before Dr. Diane's.
So today I just had one lecture, which was with the Romanian professor, Raisa. The lecture goes at a fast clip and there are no questions, it's just her talking about Robinson Crusoe, and I would say that if you're a confident reader you don't really need to be there. However, it is a high quality lecture. She speaks quickly, efficiently, eloquently. She's far more organised than I ever was during my teaching mis-adventure. Laura attended it, but this week was purely a participant.
Incidentally, we're already supposed to have read Robinson Crusoe and I haven't yet but I have a read A journal of the plague, which is by the same author, if that helps. Like Radulca says, his style is not very elevated. A Stephen King of his time, perhaps.
The building we have the lecture in is white, Arts and Crafts style, 1910.
So tomorrow I'm 42 and do I have a plan? I do not. Putting it bluntly, I have no friends.
Thursday, 28 September 2017
Thursday
Today I had a poetry seminar in the morning and a Reading, Writing and Thinking lecture with Alex Weaver in the afternoon.
I don't know the name of the lady who took the poetry so I will call her Miss German, because she reminds me of my English master, Mr German. Mr German was cruelly called 'piss-bag' at school, because he had a catheter in his trousers, due to incontinence, and you'd sometimes see spots of urine on his trousers. But that's not the reason I've drawn a comparison. Miss German has something of his scholarly manner about her. She is small and fragile with a great shock of black and grey hair and quite advanced in years, at least in her late sixties, if not older, and peers over the table liked a wizened mole.
She asked us all to tell her a bit about whether we've written poetry or not and what poets we like. I sat thinking I really shouldn't say that I have won two poetry competitions because that is just bragging about not a lot- for which I'll be hated- and people will find out in due course, anyway.
But I couldn't help myself. I said that naturally as a mature student it was no surprise I had a bit of writing experience. I'd written two short story collections (true, but still improving them), and a novella (true, also improving) and that I'm not much of a poet because I don't read it (very true, as John Fletcher would say) and my so-called poetry is actually quite prosey. BUT... I've submitted 4 poems to competitions since I took up writing seriously and won two prizes. Two won HOW's weekly price, one was a runner up and the other flopped. That said, if I entered a serious, serious competition I doubt I'd get anywhere.
I said the only poets I liked were Shakespeare and Philip Larkin, which did not impress Miss German. I explained I've read The Nation's Favourite Poetry and hate most of the stuff in it. But I like the pop lyrics of Jarvis Cocker. Surprisingly, Miss German agreed and said he'd written some fine lyrics. I also said Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys has written some very poetic lyrics and the very pretty American girl opposite me seemed impressed I'd mentioned him.
As it happens, that girl had a runny nose and I wished I'd brought some tissues to class, as I watched her discreet attempts to deal with the situation, which essentially amounted to periodic snivels and wiping her hand on her trousers under the table, after she'd used it to stop the evacuation from her nostrils. We've all been there.
Alex Weaver's lecture was on how to write the perfect essay. He brought along a real example from a 1st year student that had scored 'top marks' and looked at why it was so good. You won't be surprised if I say I didn't think much of it. It's an essay about a feminist book- The Magic Toyshop- that assumes that feminist theory is correct, rather than standing dispassionately outside that assumption. And the part that Andy highlighted as being particularly good contains false logic. Here is what was written:
Melanie and Margaret seem to unite in silent solidarity as 'an ancient, female look passed between them' and they both comprehend they are merely 'planets around a male sun'. While this 'female look' seems to acknowledge their subservience, it also opens up the possibility of the two women recognising each other's position, and working together to change it.
If we are to take the two quotes in concert and supporting each other we must own that planets are locked in their path and cannot change their course. Therefore, in that sense, the look would be restricted to being one of mutual empathy and acknowledgement of each other's position? Correct me if I'm wrong. I like being wrong.
During the lecture the two girls and boy in front of me sat chatting about stuff that was off topic. At one point one girl surmised that black men may not actually have larger penises, but just appear to. Because of the way they hang when flacid, I think she was intimating, but I didn't catch it all.
At the end I said to Alex it might be helpful to discuss what the essay is lacking (which we did not), and I asked him if the marks an essay gets depend on how much the viewpoint of the essayist flatters the prejudices and politics of the person marking it. "There is that danger," he conceded.
I don't know the name of the lady who took the poetry so I will call her Miss German, because she reminds me of my English master, Mr German. Mr German was cruelly called 'piss-bag' at school, because he had a catheter in his trousers, due to incontinence, and you'd sometimes see spots of urine on his trousers. But that's not the reason I've drawn a comparison. Miss German has something of his scholarly manner about her. She is small and fragile with a great shock of black and grey hair and quite advanced in years, at least in her late sixties, if not older, and peers over the table liked a wizened mole.
She asked us all to tell her a bit about whether we've written poetry or not and what poets we like. I sat thinking I really shouldn't say that I have won two poetry competitions because that is just bragging about not a lot- for which I'll be hated- and people will find out in due course, anyway.
But I couldn't help myself. I said that naturally as a mature student it was no surprise I had a bit of writing experience. I'd written two short story collections (true, but still improving them), and a novella (true, also improving) and that I'm not much of a poet because I don't read it (very true, as John Fletcher would say) and my so-called poetry is actually quite prosey. BUT... I've submitted 4 poems to competitions since I took up writing seriously and won two prizes. Two won HOW's weekly price, one was a runner up and the other flopped. That said, if I entered a serious, serious competition I doubt I'd get anywhere.
I said the only poets I liked were Shakespeare and Philip Larkin, which did not impress Miss German. I explained I've read The Nation's Favourite Poetry and hate most of the stuff in it. But I like the pop lyrics of Jarvis Cocker. Surprisingly, Miss German agreed and said he'd written some fine lyrics. I also said Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys has written some very poetic lyrics and the very pretty American girl opposite me seemed impressed I'd mentioned him.
As it happens, that girl had a runny nose and I wished I'd brought some tissues to class, as I watched her discreet attempts to deal with the situation, which essentially amounted to periodic snivels and wiping her hand on her trousers under the table, after she'd used it to stop the evacuation from her nostrils. We've all been there.
Alex Weaver's lecture was on how to write the perfect essay. He brought along a real example from a 1st year student that had scored 'top marks' and looked at why it was so good. You won't be surprised if I say I didn't think much of it. It's an essay about a feminist book- The Magic Toyshop- that assumes that feminist theory is correct, rather than standing dispassionately outside that assumption. And the part that Andy highlighted as being particularly good contains false logic. Here is what was written:
Melanie and Margaret seem to unite in silent solidarity as 'an ancient, female look passed between them' and they both comprehend they are merely 'planets around a male sun'. While this 'female look' seems to acknowledge their subservience, it also opens up the possibility of the two women recognising each other's position, and working together to change it.
If we are to take the two quotes in concert and supporting each other we must own that planets are locked in their path and cannot change their course. Therefore, in that sense, the look would be restricted to being one of mutual empathy and acknowledgement of each other's position? Correct me if I'm wrong. I like being wrong.
During the lecture the two girls and boy in front of me sat chatting about stuff that was off topic. At one point one girl surmised that black men may not actually have larger penises, but just appear to. Because of the way they hang when flacid, I think she was intimating, but I didn't catch it all.
At the end I said to Alex it might be helpful to discuss what the essay is lacking (which we did not), and I asked him if the marks an essay gets depend on how much the viewpoint of the essayist flatters the prejudices and politics of the person marking it. "There is that danger," he conceded.
Wednesday
Sigh.
I had another dream about so and so Wednesday morning. If I don’t
mention her name can I mention her? And it was a nice dream, because
I was getting her back. I remember two bits. One her son telling me
about their new ghost (she did move to a haunted house after we
split, allegedly) but it wasn’t actually her son but a boy who was
in the year below me at boarding school. I’m not sure why my
subconscious used him. I had no particular like or dislike for him,
whereas in the dream he was very sweet, like my ex's boy. Mind you,
this old school acquaintance did stab a boy called Elton with a
pencil though there is something to be said for that, because Elton
was the closest I’ve come to seeing evil incarnate in a person.
Another
bit was me going into the bathroom and massaging so and so's back.
That was when I knew she was open to letting me back in the
relationship. She started telling me that her current one wasn’t
working out. Her partner’s wife was back on the scene. Not likely,
but it felt good. To be back in the snuggly world of SO AND SO. It’s
a very reductive fantasy and one I couldn’t tap into when I was
with her.
Moving
on, later in the morning I accidentally went to a seminar that I
might not have needed to go to because I went to Daniel's and this
one was with another chap. That said, because I didn't yet have my
timetable I didn't know which seminar group I was in.
On
the way there I walked past a student wearing a mass produced t-shirt
saying 'Normal people scare me' in faux-painted typeface. Her hair
(blue) and black jeans and Conversey sneakers were similar to that of
many girls on campus.
As
it happened, in the seminar we didn't do Plath but did do the
Shakespeare sonnet and I saw all sorts of things in it that I hadn't
seen during our brief look the day before.
And
these classes are brief. They are just 50 minutes and the numbers are
large. Quite honestly, it's inadequate, because there is very little
time for any discussion. We were given two lines to look at in groups
and the tutor went round the class asking us what our groups thought
of these two lines. That was it. Class over. We got next to no time
to express our ideas (perhaps less than 60 seconds each), whereas I
had covered the poem in my thoughts and was eager to discuss it.
Mind
you, the girl next to me said she was Swiss and didn't understand the
poem, and the girl next to her said she didn't like poetry. What is
more, seminars used to be 2 hours but have been reduced in time by
student request. So I'm outvoted. Innit.
Later,
I had a class with a witch, who
will be teaching me short story writing. I liked her. She's quirky
and approachable, saying that we can arrange a meeting to talk with
her about anything, including how our weekend has gone. So I met her
later that afternoon and asked her if her cats were getting enough
sleep. At the end of the semester we have to submit a 1500 word
story. Most of mine are longer, but
I do have a 1500 word one that won Hour of Writes, so that is
something I can fall back on if the muse isn't kind to me. The whole
idea is the course is going to teach us how to write but I think the
truth is if you need a course to teach you you probably shouldn't be
writing. I hinted this to Dr DeAnne, who asked why was I doing
the course then. I said previously I was living alone in a garret whereas
now I can meet people.
The
meeting people thing is actually not working out so far. I know
nobody. I'm still in my little world.
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