All entries for February 2005
February 26, 2005
All right. I was supposedly doing a fairly straight forward essay on the visionary aspects of Romantic poetry, and then suddenly, without me really knowing it, I was wandering the Philosophy section of the library and holding forth on aspects of the self and perception from within the self (or words to that effect).
So anyway, this led on to the very big deep meaningful question which is now forming the crux of my essay – do things exist if you yourself do not have them/see them? A bit like that whole cat in a box thing and trees falling in the woods a lot. Marvel at my grasp of pop philosophy.
And then, in an enthusiastic (and very very procrastinatery) manner, I applied this to my own life.
So here, in case you were wondering, is a list of the Things That Do and Do Not Exist At This Moment In Time.
Things That Exist
261 words of my essay
An empty chocolate wrapper
A big pile of papers covering my entire floor
Two very loud men and a big truck of gravel outside my window
Two spades being used to chuck around said gravel in a very raucous screechy annoying manner all. bloody. day.
Another empty chocolate wrapper
Things That Do Not Exist
3239 words of my essay
Pens that work
Hmm. Whose brilliant idea was it to ask for breadth in Lit essays anyway?
February 25, 2005
On our jolly way down from English today (fifth floor), the lift stopped on another floor, and the doors opened. Fair enough. This happens quite a bit. (We have long since had to come to terms with the fact that Literature is not the only thing that happens in Humanities, painful as it is)
But instead of looking out on to the green felt world of languages (fourth floor), or the haphazard scarfy world of theatre-studies-or-whatever-happens-on-the-third-floor, the open doors revealed a long dark corridor, stretching blankly off into the distance, with no sign of human habitation. This, apparently, is the first floor of Humanities, and it has since transpired that nobody I know has any idea of what goes on there, or even knows of anyone who has actually been there and survived the experience. Until today, I had no idea it actually existed.
So what does go on on the first floor? The lights are dimmed. There are no notice boards, no neon posters saying 'Look, here are People doing Things.' There is, in fact, both a distinct lack of people and things. I think it might be a bit like Narnia, only appearing when someone or something wants you to see it… only Narnia had snow and talking animals and lots of warm wholesome meals and milk before bedtime, none of which I think would happen on the first floor.
I get the feeling that once you set foot here, you might never be allowed to leave again. So be warned. If you're alone in the lift, and it suddenly slides open on a dark lonely corridor, don't be tempted to get out. You may never find your way back…
February 23, 2005
Today I wore my fluffy grey hat, pigtails, and my crazy blue wellies with lilies painted on them*, and felt at one with the insane sporadically snowy landscape, and not one bit ridiculous. Snow is the only type of weather when this is possible. It's kind of a Snow Zen, really.
*I feel I should point out I was also wearing many more items of normal clothing as well, otherwise I would have caught pnueumonia and/or been arrested.
It's official. As of 1pm today, there is not a single automatic door on campus that has not tried to trap, maim or otherwise impede my progress through it, mostly in an embarrassing fashion. If you saw a tall blonde girl walking into the supposedly automatic glass doors in Union South at lunchtime today in the afore mentioned embarrassing fashion, then congratulations. You were one of the privileged many who witnessed my last defeat at the hand of All Automatic Doors On Campus.
The doors in Humanities made their feeling pretty clear from the beginning. After the first couple of weeks I learnt to steer clear of their treacherous folding panels and use the manual doors instead. I thought the Arts Centre, being somewhat more neutral territory… neither Union or University, might be more respectful of my status as a person wishing to enter and exit, but after a few choice comedy moments this year, I have quickly learnt this is not the case. The Union doors were my last hope, but after today, our hitherto wary but amicable relationship has broken down.
To be honest, what's wrong with the good old fashioned pull and push? Will nobody hold doors open for those who have their arms full of books/other studenty paraphenalia any more? Give me a friendly door that swings under my weight rather than an maniacal automatic glass panel that flings itself open and closed at will and takes sadistic pleasure in embarrassing me any day.
So I am calling for a truce between me and the doors. I'm not asking for much, just a bit of mutual respect. I'll avoid trespassing on your time as much as I can, if you promise not to attempt assault when there's actually no other choice but to use you. How does that sound?
February 21, 2005
My pink grapefruit is yellow inside.
I think the world as I know it may be collapsing.
February 08, 2005
I don't know about anyone else, but I've always found going to the optician to be a little strange. In some ways, I prefer the dentist, as at least there it's a straight forward scenario. You know exactly what's expected, and can just open your mouth and then drift off to a place full of sunshine and chocolate and small fluffy kittens, whilst a man pokes what looks like that weird thing at the back of the cutlery drawer (which nobody can remember buying and nobody knows what it does) around your mouth. That I can handle.
However, the optician is slightly different. Coming out of the optician's kind of feels like the conclusion to some weird one night stand. You and this man you hardly know go together into a tiny dark room with a big leather chair and lots of random equipment and then within a matter of minutes their face is so close to yours that your cheeks have touched and they're staring deep into your eyes. (I'm not even going to talk about the fact that he then turned my upper eyelids inside out as even now this makes me feel really queasy, and I'm not sure quite how that would fit into my theory). After fifteen minutes murmuring 'a or b' into my ear, and then more cheek touching, it feels as if we've created some odd intimate relationship together. And the fact that you then pay him when you've finished just complicates the issue even more.
On the upside, I now have some new soft contact lenses! Hurrah for vanity, and all the weird things we are prepared to do in its name.
(Also, whilst we're on hurrahs, hurrah for reading week and the rediscovery of my blog! Now all my friends are miles away I have to result once again to virtual rambling…)