I like how…

I like how the Creative Writing Society events are essentially just a platform for me to live out my literary fantasies. A chance to create the atmosphere I’ve read about and longed to have – the Oxford dream perception I’ve long reconciled to being lost; Harry Potter style common rooms, high dark wooden bookcases and roaring fires and squishy chairs filled with people who care about words as much as I do.

Bloomsbury High Tea this week was, in my opinion, a total success. Virginie’s music made all the difference; 1930s recordings of Fred Astaire and Cole Porter and then more modern, higher quality re-recordings of the same. Beautiful jazz numbers and voices filled the air as we drank less tea than I expected people to get through, although granted I only had four cups myself. Normally I get through much more in two hours if left to my own devices outside of Nero’s. But I was drinking out of my Alice in Wonderland cheshire cat mug, with “drink me” written inside, so to be honest my day was made already, and then as people left the committee were showered in compliments so I can hardly object!

We got the food just right – only a small amount of leftover sandwiches and cake, which were duly donated to the homeless of waterloo and a student birthday party respectively. Scones were all eaten in suitably Bertie Wooster fashion; muffins were scoffed and tea was quaffed in perfect degrees of warm. We even had enough mugs! I brought three extra for the forgetful and the turnover was enough that nobody had to use the emergency plastic cups, although we did have to wash up two mugs to cover the deficiency.

What really made it for me was looking the part – my hair. Classics housemate did me up in gorgeous pin curls and waves, so I ended up feeling like Vivien Leigh and looking not far off. I was wearing my dress from the actual ’30s bought from a vintage shop in Shoreditch. It was extra special because this dress reminds me of Laura, who’s in Canada and I miss her, but it made me think of her and smile in a good way, not a mopey way.

Left: The real deal, Viv                                                         Below: Myself and housemate Hel in full updo.

I mean, you can’t argue with that. I included some images of 1930s things on the tables as talking points; typewriter adverts, paintings and photos of the Bloomsbury Set who we were supposedly emulating, a quote – which were largely ignored. People didn’t need them. We just left everyone to talk to each other and make friends, which is my job, and it just happened naturally, and there was laughter and at times you could barely hear the music we were chatting so much.

I’m so, so pleased. This kind of thing is so rewarding when it goes well! Can’t wait to get the rest of the photos off Hel …

That moment when you realise

That you have really predictable taste in jewellery. I basically like animals on chains.

Like owls

Or bees

Or, probably most predictably, cats.

 

Note how all three come from the same website, how I already own a tee shirt, pencil case and in fact a necklace with owl(s) on them, and how just a few days ago I got that bee necklace in gold for £2 from primark. And yet I still lust after a new one, in silver.

I’m actually a retard.

 

Should we have to pay for our rights?

Well no, of course not. You’d think that an LGBT is a necessity; a right for anyone who identifies as LGBT to have a safe space where they can speak about how they feel, to share their concerns and their joys, and connect with people who can offer support and if necessary, welfare advice.

Unless of course you work for the Student bleeding Union, at which point the LGBT is just another “club” and a full list of attendees is required – regardless of the absolute downright validity of confidentiality, crucial to the trust and friendship that an LGBT is based on.

The only justification for this is, in my opinion, health and safety. If you want to know the number of people in a room for fire evacuation purposes, that’s fine. But that is a number, which is infitely different to names and email addresses of people who are supposed to have complete confidentiality. It’s nonsense, it’s blind-sighted; it’s down right offensive.

Why should you have to *pay* to join an LGBT? The union doesn’t charge for careers advice, dyslexia help – for god’s sake, foreign students are offered English lessons free of charge from our language centre, think how costly that is. But you have to pay for LGBT welfare?? Where is the distinction here between the kinds of support?

Our LGBT is NOT a club, or a society, or an activity – the category the SU is threatening to classify it as. LGBT is more than an activity you chose.

I know this because my friend is heavily involved, and she voiced her concerns to me. I help run a society. I’m damn proud of my society. But it’s a society, not a welfare organisation, and if the union says members have to pay I’m fine about that. You want me to give you their emails? Can’t see why, but fine. I’ve not made promises to my members – they won’t be frightened away because they can’t trust me with something that personal and that frightening they’re afraid to tell their friends and family.

Fuck off, SU’s everywhere, don’t use funding cuts as an excuse to cut LGBT rights.

Strange Religious Practices of the Horned House

I have a home. Today was spent unpacking and cleaning and faffing. This evening involved cooking for (nearly) the whole house, laughter and smiles and pleasant times.

I love this atmosphere. The communal, sitting in the living room chatting. The friendly faces popping in and out, the fact that it’s busy and noisy and people are yelling jokes at each other, doors banging and Pseudonym Housemate softly plucking at the guitar in the corner in a wide brimmed hat.  Hel, who’s long been hailed as the only girl on my course I really connect with, sitting on the sofa positively gushing over her new boy/girlfriend, who I also really like.

It’s the evenings spent watching classic doctor who, the promise of chocolate samosas, the house theatre trips and the film making that I’m looking forward to. It’s a pain to get here, it’s on the wrong side of London to all the other people I really care for who’re all living down south – but once I’m here, it already feels like home.

Things to remember about the Pope

1. He is not the whole catholic religion. You can disapprove of his actions and his beliefs without condemning the entire religious body of catholicism, or christianity in general.
2. To hate him is not the same as being intolerant of other people’s beliefs. Objecting to his behaviour and policies is not the same as religious intolerance, even if he uses his warped view of religion to justify his appalling views. Most of the charities and organisations supporting the protest are humanist groups aiming for equal rights and justice.
3. He has broken laws. He is a criminal. He has perverted the course of justice in regards to child sex scandals. If you would attack another man for protecting a known paedophile, you are a hypocrite to believe it is ok because he is the Pope.
4. He has abused his position of power to influence people to disregard basic human rights. Being gay is not a crime. Trying to remove someone’s human rights because of their sexuality is.
5. His continuation of the no-condom policy has directly and indirectly caused rape, child abuse and the spread of HIV and AIDs in third world countries. In the UK we challenge poor sex education in schools, yet because it is not in the Western world we turn a blind eye to this for fear of being intolerant of religious belief. We must give equal concern to atrocities that occur in english speaking countries as those which happen in non-english speaking countries. This NIMBY attitude is not a bit shy of racism, in my opinion.
6. He is being honoured not as a religious leader but as a political ally. This is proof of his interference in politics and his arrogance to assume his opinion is inherently more important than other religious leaders and people in general. This is unacceptable. He should have no more or less say than any other citizen of the world. This is what democracy is supposed to be.
7. He’s just a man. A man who must take responsibility for his actions, which are offensive on all levels. They are not the actions of all catholics and they should not be tarred by the same brush. The fact I have to make this point suggests that they are. If you’re assuming my attack of the pope is an attack on religious individuals (and they are, by the way, individual, and take responsibility for their beliefs as such), all you’re doing is backing up this point.
8. On an economic note, why’re we wasting money flattering this man’s ego instead of investing in our schools and healthcare? My friend in hospital is unable to speak to a nurse after pressing the emergency call button for at least ten-fifteen minutes because of staffing issues. We’re spending 1.5million glorifying this man. You look me in the eye and tell me that money isn’t better spent saving my friend’s life from the terminal illness she’s suffering from.
9. Check out his itinerary. It seems he’s mainly visiting catholic schools, churches and other religious figures in the UK. Why does he need state funding to do this, pray tell? If he takes his responsibility seriously, he could do this without our government inviting him or funding it for him. We’re cutting funding for university students, but we’ll happily foot the bill for this. When the Vatican is one of the richest cities for it’s size, why can’t they pay their own way like we’re expecting 20 year olds to do??
10. It is infuriating and downright wrong to assume that to attack the pope will hurt the feelings of religious people. Using religious belief as a shield to deflect criticism – the classic and very very tired “You can’t attack my religion because it’s important to me” trash if what I’m referring to here – is nonsense. The man thinks he’s infallible and holy. He is just another human being with a lot of power, he is as open to praise, blame and citicism as you see fit as any other person under the sun. If he cannot defend his beliefs or actions that is his problem. Any mature and responsible christian, or indeed person, should be willing to engage in articulate discussion regarding their beliefs. Those who object to debate on emotional grounds do not get a say in the debate. It is not immature or childish to hold an opinion that is thought out and considered, even if it disagrees with someone else’s.

http://www.thepapalvisit.org.uk/

http://www.protest-the-pope.org.uk/

Tell me where I go from here. Please. Because today the books don’t read right, the words are blather and they resist articulation like pulling teeth and the music has no rhythm. The poetry is just an echo, not even strong enough to be called memory. Even the storm outside has stopped so not even the rain is pummelling down. The whirr of the laptop fan is louder than my breathing, and it’d be louder than my thoughts if I were having any.

There should be something in here. To feel, even to feel bad, is better than to feel nothing, sometimes. But to think nothing as well?

I blame the book I’ve been reading, Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. It’s not his best work. Detachment should never be the thing that comes to mind. I shouldn’t read a book about five depressed people and feel like the characters are 2D reflections in steamed up glass. The response I get from that book is from over-identification, not the power or beauty of the language. I shouldn’t see myself broken up in three of the four suicides. There’s a headfuck for you, when you thought – no I swear you were – feeling healthy enough. Only yesterday I felt radiant, glowing like people in novels do when they fall in love, dancing along with money to spare. It’s been two years since that happened. The feeling of knowing you can get rid of twenty pounds and not worry is worth sixty.

And yet the scale slides and square one is beginning to feel like home, feeling uncomfortable in my own clothes, unable to wear anything that isn’t soft leggings or baggy cardigans without feeling like a bleeding thumb on white cotton sheets. My poetry is a string of clichés broken up by line breaks, not an original breath in the mix. The same old tune harping along about empty and hollow and blank. Even talking about “the darkness”, for crying out loud. ((Somewhere the wind is sighing, and I doubt he’s thinking of me. I can’t even justify calling him a he, not truly. Because the tiniest slight and I curl up in a big ball of coward and pity and I loathe how much I loathe myself.)) Best part is I spent the day with a better person, trying to be there, to care; someone else with actual pain and real problems who doesn’t flinch away from bravery, and I yet I swamp myself in self pity as though I have any right to do so. Dammit.

My thoughts end on a comma because I don’t know where we’ll go from here, end up back at the start of the post, the very same words that don’t say the right thing for me the way the once did, a circle in a straight line.

I end on a comma because I don’t know where we’ll go from here ,,,

A little Yes goes a long way.

All the way to a place called Caterham. Caterham’s main appeal seems to be that it has transport links to places that are not Caterham. They have a second hand car dealership, and four charity shops.

Naturally I ended up there on a joke which became a Yes. If a geeky boy who looks mysteriously like the Home Alone kid assures you he’s “good with trains” – do not believe him. You’ll end up nearly on two wrong trains, instead of the correct one. One of these wrong trains terminated in Caterham, and we joked for a while about how we’d go to Caterham one day. Then I realised what had happened.

So we went to Caterham. On possibly one of the greyest days we’ve had of late. Even the pub was shut, that’s how bad it was. We ate bacon in the single open café. I was sat opposite what I swear to god is a taller but facially unchanged macaulay culkin and we ate bacon.

Not going to lie, Caterham can provide a good bacon sarnie. It also had highly entertaining bacon providing staff – a young Hispanic chap flirting outrageously with a tiny 80-odd year old woman, complaining how she’d stood him up when he wanted to buy her drinks. We left just before we’d outstayed our welcome, and wound up in a wide open space, full of green. Home Alone had brought a blanket and we sat and had a good long chat.

The best thing about this guy is when you get him on your own. In a group, he’ll play the fool and act up to his reputation as a useless clown, but if you sit with him and just talk, suddenly he’ll  hold his own with you on the subject of american literature. Where before you’d find memes repeated to death there’s now considered thinking about the power of the road journey motif and the collapse of the american dream. He will interpret Shakespearian characters with subtlety and insightful comments; he can talk about the individual and the everyman and a place in society. He’s no longer playing up for attention or putting on a face – his voice drops down, and suddenly he seems very mature and articulate. You just don’t get that when he’s part of the group, which is a real shame. But that’s what a day out in Caterham is good for, remembering just what it is about a friend that makes you think, yeah, in a few years when he’s calmed down and levelled himself and grown into his own skin properly, this boy is going to be a real stunner. Shame really, I don’t think the others always see it.