We sat forever wondering beneath a platinum sky.

Loose leaves.
'And time's not poison but once you drink it all, you'll die...'

I'm really too tired to write a usual-sized entry, and not enough has happened in the past few days to warrant one of those anyway, but I just know this will be one regardless:

Early on Friday afternoon, I had to whiz back and forth from campus in order to get some bureaucracy out of the way before meeting the CWS in the Union Bar in preparation for our journey to St. Greg's for the evening. Soon enough, Jodie, David and some attendees of our latest feedback workshop spilled out; others arrived just before the group left for the bus stop. A few people, including Daniel and Jennifer, two of our more enthusiastic new members, were in fancy dress, ready for the occasion. For most of the night, we didn't dare to stand near the former out of fear that his syrup blood would find its way onto our clothes.

I cycled home to drop off my bike before walking into the city while Jodie led the expedition on the bus. Somehow, I still managed to arrive at Pottergate first after everyone else bizarrely decided that getting off early at Chapelfield was a quicker option than waiting until Castle Meadow. Eventually, the ragtag group reappeared and we sat drinking in the Birdcage for a while as Amy and the rest of her Soapbox friends set up. (Soapbox is the name of Amy's 'performance collective'.)

Upon entering the old church, we were greeted by an intriguing array of objects - on either side of the great hall, beneath two canopies, were collections of board games and books, with a small café positioned in the left hand corner. Straight ahead, past a fountain for sale, was the stage covered in red lights, with rows of chairs laid out in front and a projection screen showing Corpse Bride behind. Amy spent all night dressed in that very persona.

We kicked off the night with our own miniature open mic before most other entertainers turned up. David had been a little off and had headed for home before we left the Union Bar; having left me with his work, Jeni manically read his rather sharp gothic piece about a man slowly being choked to death by an enormous clock. The zombified Dan gave us a chapter of a H.P. Lovecraft story in a similarly eerie vein. In between each performer, I introduced the next (strangely at ease in front of the microphone), and read my two new bird poems with Maudlin sandwiched in between.

Following our set first was a comedy musician who interspersed his act with so-bad-they-were-good jokes while he remembered the next song, then a hilariously disgusting yet incredibly intelligent performance poet who lamented that all his work relied on the taboo. A satirist quietened proceedings down slightly before an acoustic band, complete with xylophonist, concluded the night. When everybody scattered, those of us that remained in the group walked down to the Cinema City bar for a chat. Dan, a brilliant dramatician, graced us all with more awful jokes. I wandered back to Gloucester Street with Tom Walker and Will to eat pizza and watch Air Force One (always an enjoyable film) before returning home to sleep.

I've had a good feeling about Daniel and Jennifer since their contribution to our first workshop of the year six weeks ago. They've been with us regularly since and I was excited at finally being able to speak with them outside of that more formal setting, with them being perhaps the most dynamic of our fresher members this year. I already have hope that they'll keep the society ticking come next autumn, but it's still very early.

I struggled to write poetry for most of the weekend (not helped by my laptop crashing for the third time on Saturday evening; I had Tom Shanks get it working again this afternoon) before finally teasing a sonnet out early this morning before another meeting with George. It was initially like shovelling through mud before I thankfully hit the gold at the volta; with some shrewd edition, it should be a diamond of an end to Orientation. I've been fluctuating wildly between confidence and a complete lack of it several times in the space of a day recently. Over the next fortnight I plan on working on a sestina, a form I've never fully approached before. It should be an interesting challenge.

On Saturday night, my mum was upset about my mindbogglingly poor decision to inform her, nonchalantly by text message when she and Dad were driving back from a wedding, that I will be facing a day in hospital for an operation. She is, as ever, concerned about my work. I assured her that I'm keeping up. Her sciatica has been much better in recent months with the help of physiotherapy, as an aside.

This afternoon, I met Jodie in the city to organise our workshop structure for the next few weeks, along with starting to plan some of the workshops themselves. My last poetry workshop was an introduction, approaching prose poetry before leaning towards smaller forms like the haiku, cinquain and the tanka. (I thought it would be helpful for the prose-writing majority of our members to contemplate what poetry actually is before I expected them to write it.) I think the next one will be on meter, rhythm and rhyme. If only I could make a living purely on teaching poetry. That said, I'd hardly say that I'm an expert yet.

I haven't started working on my Dark Times essay yet. That will take up the next few days before Charlotte arrives. ...I should also stop listening to pre-Cassadaga Bright Eyes for the time being. It makes college seem relatively simple, which I'm sure it wasn't. (2.04am)

Current Mood: Guess?
Current Music: Muse - The Resistance (album).

Seven years of letters.
'It's the dance that we'll never share and alarms that you can't do without;
We're running scared; we're on a hiding to nowhere...'

With Geocities' deactivation scheduled to take place on Monday afternoon, the 'official' website of The Coma was due to disappear along with it. The Coma was the Muse cover band in which, along with Andy, Matt Watson and John Frost, a slightly more awkward version of me was a member back in the spring of 2004. I spent most of Monday morning saving most of the website's relics to my computer, including pictures of our fifteen/sixteen year old selves, excluding the few apparently trivial ones of Andy's high-hats, and the two 'news’ entries I wrote for the site during our rivalry with This Way Round. The news quickly degraded into childish propaganda with the modus operandi of mocking our rivals and repeatedly mentioning how awesome we were (especially me).

This Way Round were the other rock band at Swinton High including Sam, at the start of our friendship, Dave Franklin and Adam Brown, with which we contested a Battle of the Bands for the right to perform at the school’s Easter assembly. Although the contest turned out to be a draw, due to our internal arguments, This Way Round were the only band to play anyway, pulling off a killer version of The Darkness’ I Believe In A Thing Called Love that, in all likelihood, The Coma would have never been able to match. Dave and Adam had been members of the first Coma incarnation a few months earlier which had been in limbo when they suddenly decided to leave. (Dave and I had a volatile friendship for most of the latter half of high school. We were prone to falling out at any time or, more accurately, he was prone to falling out with me. Considering how arrogant I used to be at times, I honestly can’t say that I blame him.)

Later on in the evening, motivated by these flashbacks and the desire to procrastinate, I found myself browsing through my Myspace account. That account’s been unceremoniously abandoned since I arrived at UEA and Facebook started becoming the social networking website of choice. I still check it occasionally (serendipitously, in the case of the Eastern Blues) but, other than for bands, the place has become a graveyard. Old profile comments led me to give Sarah Thacker a call to see how she’s been doing, which is largely the same as me: fighting through university work, thinking about the future. I hope to see her again over Christmas. Vicki Lister sent me the story she’d written for her Gothic Module, asking for my comments.

Looking back at all of these fond memories, applying hindsight to our ambitious attitudes, our lack of experience, our petty disputes, gave me a sharp pang of nostalgia for the years before university. Almost everything we did felt so serious at the time; its frivolousness is laughable now that we’re concerned about completing degrees, stumbling through or into employment (the latter is long overdue in my case) or maintaining long-term relationships, even families in Sam and Danielle’s case. The past seems more like the past every time we turn back to find it a little foggier, a little further away, while the future is a forest, its darkness slowly creeping closer... I’ve been touching upon the qualities of time in my poetry recently.

There was another meeting with George on Tuesday. He had a decent amount of praise for my two latest poems, Magpies and Shrikes, although the consensus was that The Little Death needs some significant work before I should hand it in. I sat with CWS members Paolo and Becky in the bar for lunch, learning from the former about their relationship last year (the number of secrets I discover is increasing exponentially), then looking over Holderlin’s Mnemosyne before heading to my seminar on Remembrance – another interesting poem with a flicker of doubt at the end. I spent the night inside catching up with True Blood while my housemates, dressed as robots and clones, headed out to Fuchsia’s futuristic birthday party on Sandringham Road. No surprises who is the recluse of the house.

Yesterday, Will ran a horror workshop in semi-preparation for our Halloween social tomorrow night in St. Gregory’s Centre for the Arts, where a small number of us will be reading out. I don’t think my contribution will go beyond a few poems and possibly the short story idea I was given yesterday of the real life implications of battling Satan on Guitar Hero: trying to find readers to fill our hour long slot, in the midst of essay deadlines, has been considerably more frustrating.

After some considerable wavering upon returning home, I cycled out to watch the Twilight Sad play at the Arts Centre. (I’ve had an unusual awareness of my own hesitancy over the last few days; perhaps my mind is struggling with the excessive amount of negotiations that I’ve had to make since the start of the semester. I need to try to make decisions, and act upon them, more quickly.)

As with the Cursive concert, the local crowd were absolutely appalling. The support band, Airship, were solid if unexceptional but they didn’t deserve such a soulless atmosphere. Even their banter went down like the Hindenburg. Somehow, The Twilight Sad didn’t fare much better – as each song ended in a wave of feedback, there was at least a second of uncomfortable silence before the audience offered a paltry amount of applause. Everybody stood at least six feet from the stage, completely silent and still.

Set list (The Twilight Sad, Norwich Arts Centre, 28th October 2009):
Reflection Of The Television
That Summer, At Home I Had Become The Invisible Boy
I Became A Prostitute
The Neighbours Can't Breathe
Talking With Fireworks/Here It Never Snowed
That Birthday Present
The Room
And She Would Darken The Memory
Cold Days From The Birdhouse
I'm Taking The Train Home

When the concert was over, I moved forward and waved to Martin, one of The Twilight Sad’s guitarists, asking him if he could hand me a set list whilst apologising for the incredibly poor reception: this was the band’s first time in Norwich, they were clearly grateful to be playing here and I didn’t want them to feel like they had played badly. With both of us having experienced a northern crowd, we are accustomed to much better. He was genuinely thankful, shaking my hand. I hope that I redeemed their night at least slightly. In my eyes, the local scene needs flogging into life.

I walked back out of the city with Jess Burman and a friend, having arranged to meet up with her earlier in the day, taking a slight diversion to the edge of Unthank Road in order to catch up longer. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her.

Today has been quiet. I had to cycle onto campus for a doctor’s appointment so I’ve been writing most of this in the Grad Bar. In a few minutes, I’ll head back in time for Andi’s birthday meal. Charlotte isn’t feeling too well today so I’ll probably check up on her when I get back.

My meeting with Hazy and Jo on Monday afternoon was, due to impracticality for two of us, postponed until the following Monday. Unfortunately it looks like I’ll have to skip it again – Jodie and I need to talk about the CWS’ workshops for the rest of the semester that day. Concrete also responded to me and offered a meeting at that time so alternative arrangements will have to be made.

Things have truly been hectic over the last few weeks. With all my effort towards CWS events, my aim of writing for Concrete and my regular football exploits, I wonder whether I’m burdening myself with too much. Although my poetry is just on target, my studies on the whole have definitely been neglected. If I somehow manage to juggle all this and get a First, it will be a miracle. At least no one can doubt my enthusiasm.

November 9th will be a crucial day: my first Dark Times essay is due that afternoon and our Oxfam open mic will take place that evening. Spending next weekend with Charlotte in Dublin should do me some good – I’ll make it a point to leave my troubles at home, ignoring the phone and Internet. For that plan to work, I need to churn out a few more poems and write that essay first. (6.28pm)

Current Mood: Determined.
Current Music: Crowd noise.

Here's the tender coming.
I think that, following this one, I’m going to start writing an entry daily for the foreseeable future. Detailing the events of a week or two at once is quite time-consuming (not to mention infuriating when Internet Explorer crashes and makes you lose half of what you just wrote, as it just did!) and updating nightly would make me more comfortable at a time when I feel every spare few hours could be spent on more ‘productive’ pursuits. Back to the headings for now then... Most of this up to the Unthanks review won’t feel quite as accurate or enjoyable to write as it was on the first try:

Tuesday 13th – Sunday 18th October
In the morning, I met George for our first meeting since I finally became able to write some poems for him (the ones that have appeared in an earlier entry). He seemed largely appreciative of my work but also had some inevitable criticism, some of which I disagreed with; considering George is a long published and award-winning poet, it would obviously be unwise of me not to at least take his views into consideration. Nevertheless, I appreciated the dilemma – whether I eventually take his advice in each situation, ignore it or attempt to reach a compromise, it will be interesting to explore that tension in my commentary and evaluate my decision.

Once we had finished, I went for some quick lunch in the new Café Direct on the Street looking over George’s comments and adding my own. Vicki Lister joined me for a short while, holding several brochures and guides about graduate employment following her visit to the campus Careers Centre. She believes she’ll be working with children once she leaves university and has already begun to look for placements.

Her preparation made me aware of my own circumstances again: how I should chase journalistic experience just in case I don’t find myself studying for a Creative Writing MA next autumn. I have the niggling idea that I should be writing an article in every moment I have spare: the society presidency, while certainly useful, may not be enough. The music magazine has been postponed until January, which is probably opportune considering how much time I should be devoting to my studies at present, but I should still be active. I may contact Concrete’s music section, considering the new editor is an acquaintance of mine – despite the playful jibes I’ve given the paper over the last two years, it will be ultimately less demanding in word count at this crucial time. I no longer underestimate its value.

My Poetry in Dark Times seminar that day used all three of its hours on examining Rilke’s On Holderlin. I find it to be a tense and fascinating poem, with Rilke’s apparent admiration for Holderlin’s dedication to his craft, his satisfaction to border upon the divine and yet never question it. Rilke’s search for understanding is palpable, and his concluding question is brilliantly impenetrable.

I then attended the first meeting of the new theory reading group set up by two likable postgrads, one of which is overseeing the creative dissertation writers. They had sent an email to all the third year LIT students, but only three including myself turned up. We made fun of Freud’s Creative Writers and Daydreaming before I returned home to procrastinate. For most of the night, I chatted with Alex, a new Italian member of the CWS. Her conversation is interestingly direct – I’m not sure whether that’s due to the language barrier (I taught her the word ‘dumpling’ after she claimed gnocchi was pasta), her culture or her natural personality.

Charlotte was a little upset about my comments on monogamy in my last entry, understandably so, but this journal has always been a honest one. She's so deserving of being the most important person in my life - I've not known such unconditional affection from anybody else other than my family, and she accepts my being close with other female friends - but I worry that I don't always give her that confidence sometimes. I could always be a better boyfriend.

On Wednesday, before that day's feedback workshop, I met Gary for a discussion about publicity for our Oxfam open mic on November 9th, seeing as he is our officer in that department. It's easily the most ambitious event we've held yet, requiring a large amount of organisation; Gary's already made a micro site and arranged an extensive advertising campaign, and in addition to discreetly screening our performers, they will also be charged to perform.

The feedback session was quite amusing. Two performance poets that I hadn't met before thrilled us with their work: a well-off girl responded to being told that her voice 'wasn't black enough', and another quite serious man wrote about elephants and strawberries at Sainsbury’s. I told them both about the open mic - having some new members involved over outsiders would be highly preferable. In the bar afterwards, I spoke with two other new members, Rob and David Astley, mainly about football. Rob is part of a group of friends which hire an Astroturf twice a week. I may yet be jumping in - I haven't played regularly since I met on Peel Park with the Mormons every Saturday morning a few years back.

A few hours passed before I left with David Langdon to watch the Unthanks play at Norwich Arts Centre. I offered to pay for David's ticket as he had nothing more important to do and I would have hated to experience a band of their beauty alone. We sat drinking lemonade and chatting by lamplight in the venue bar for a few minutes before entering the theatre.

The concert reminded me of Stars in London in its modesty and emotional honesty. Rachel Unthank personally came on stage to introduce the support, immediately presaging the night's informality. Jonny Kearney and Lucy Farrell were a pleasant pairing, the former's warm and slightly awkward voice and bright guitar supported by the light melodies of the latter. And then the Unthanks came on...

Nobody Knew She Was There
Twenty Long Weeks
Lucky Gilchrist
Because He Was A Bonny Lad
Annachie Gordon
Sad February
Flowers of the Town
Guard Yer Man Weel
Living By The Water
Felton Lonnin
Where’ve Yer Bin dick
At First She Starts
The Testimony of Patience Kershaw
Sexy Sadie
Blackbird

Encore:
Betsy Bell
Here’s The Tender Coming

It was a wonderfully touching, dare I say human, performance of such emotional intensity as to make me tingle at several points. There was no pretentiousness or perfection to be found here - sections often continued one beat too long; the double bassist suffered a nosebleed and had to sit out temporarily. The two sisters chatted with the audience on a regular basis, even encouraging us into a quiet sing-along to conclude the night. Most of the Unthanks’ music has such a soothing melancholy, from the hauntingly insistent celebratory mourning of Lucky Gilchrist to the uplifting, but ultimately resigned, determination of Patience Kershaw. However, we were greeted with equal optimism, graced with playful interludes like Where’ve Yer Bin Dick and the music hall jaunt of Betsy Bell (which also included Rachel’s clog dancing, as did Lucky Gilchrist). With no disrespect intended whatsoever, none of their studio work or my words now can demonstrate the atmosphere or their live presence on the night.

In the breakdown of Blackbird, Rachel made sure we applauded every member of ‘the Unthank family’. This was all –round entertainment, a community joined inextricably together in joy and in sorrow. It was quite simply the truest representation of life’s essence that I’ve witnessed in a while. As I wrote in David’s notebook at the time, the Unthanks have single-handedly secured my love for the north-east.

After the concert, I spoke with Becky and Rachel when they came out to supervise the merch booth. They were nice enough to sign the notes I’d been making all concert for an intended review (what I just wrote here is the closest approximation to that so far), having noticed me with the pen and book at the front of the crowd. I told Becky about my affiliation with the area and my visit to Redcar after they mentioned it in the introduction to Sad February, and asked Rachel about the surprising omission of Blue Bleezin’ Blind Drunk, the first ever Unthanks song I heard due to their performance at the Mercury Awards. She said they wanted to concentrate on the new material. I wished them luck for the rest of their tour.

I’m tempted to buy a physical copy of their new album, despite having already downloaded it (legally via Amazon, I might add!) in mp3 format. Tangibility is a valuable asset these days.

The next few days were uneventful. I attended an obligatory dissertation meeting on Thursday which didn’t offer any particularly new information, although I did get to catch up with Hazy and other first year friends like Laura Coyne and Frances. Hazy and Jo Piffero are also writing poetry dissertations under the supervision of George. I’ve arranged a meeting between the three of us tomorrow where we can exchange work and offer each other motivation. I’m hoping we can keep it up until the end of the semester: we vastly outnumbered poets need to band together.

On Saturday, I headed out early to join the Eastern Blues in the Wig and Pen for Chelsea’s away game at Villa Park. There were around eight attendees this time around, more than the number to which I’d previously been accustomed. Following my typical first impression in which I immediately spilt cider into Cat’s handbag, Joe and Cat know me for spilling something almost every time that I’ve been with them. I kept up this tradition by tipping the salad from my burger all over my lap. Mike Hargraves finally joined us for the Blackburn game yesterday– he seemed very excited about signing up when the club gains sixty members; apparently, the former won’t be too far away with an influential group of season ticket holders about to persuade their friends. By this time next year, the Eastern Blues should have official recognition.

A quick trip to the city to buy a birthday card later, I returned home to find two Californians roaming the house. It turned out that I’ve forgotten that Lizzy and Laura Konner, Andi’s flatmates from the first year, were staying with us on a week-long visit. They brought gifts of Lucky Charms and smore flavoured Pop Tarts.

The following afternoon, the entire house went to the Wetherspoons on the Riverside for lunch, excluding Jack who was on his occasional climbing trip in the Peak District. Jay attended for the meal then left soon afterwards to work on his dissertation. He officially moved out a few days ago, although the difference is only noticeable now that the Americans have departed again too. The house is no longer cramped. Perhaps my milk will also survive a little longer in the fridge! From the conversation’s shift after he left, it appears I’m not the only friend that he’s insulted, accidentally or otherwise, recently.

The rest of the evening was slow as I flitted upstairs and downstairs, catching the end of The Last King of Scotland (one of the books that I didn’t read in my first year) and helping Joe with writing an editorial article for one of the main Chelsea supporters’ sites. Over the second half of the week, the Football Manager 2010 demo was toyed with and abandoned – my next venture will begin with Truro City by the end of this coming week. Playing with Chelsea temporarily was much more bearable than my usual lower league outfits who can barely string a few passes together without losing the ball or putting it out of play. The torture I inflict upon myself in the Blue Square South is meant to serve as a developmental experience.

Monday 19th – Sunday 25th October
Monday was my mum’s fiftieth birthday. I woke up late to have my father, my great uncle Doug and Colin arrive at the house. Beforehand, we wandered into the city centre, with Doug wanting to witness the historical elements. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much opportunity for that, as Dad decided that I needed new trousers for our planned dinner out. Therefore, for an hour or two, we drifted between stores looking for clothes and searching for my my mum and aunt who were incredibly difficult to pin down. I always forget just how irritating spending time with my family can be at times, with its often unnecessary hassle and arguments.

Eating at the Waffle House for lunch, Dad disapproving of the price, I was then escorted back to Downham Market, sitting around before as a family we drove out together to sit down for a quite enjoyable meal at Timbers. Timbers is a pleasant hotel just outside of Downham, including a large bar, restaurant and function room within what seems to be a renovated barn.

Discussion quickly started about arrangements for my twenty-first birthday, which will fall between Good Friday and Easter Sunday this year, right in the middle of the Easter break. I still hadn’t considered anything in too much depth. I quickly dismissed the idea of holding any party in Manchester; considering all of my close friends at UEA are southerners or can be approximated as such, it seemed more pragmatic to split the celebrations or hold any event down here. The comfortable atmosphere of Timbers, along with its room availability, suddenly seemed quite suitable. I can’t think of any better candidate at present. Already, I’m getting carried away with thoughts of dozens of friends in attendance with a wonderful meal and an indie DJ, or even my forming a one-night-only band...
,
I was taken back to Norwich the next morning for my seminar, skimming through the next day’s workshop with Jodie before heading home. Now that my workload is about to become heavier with the looming threat of a Dark Times essay, I will struggle to attend two workshops a week. All of the other senior members are facing their own commitments. Jodie and I have already decided not to organise workshops next week, being Reading Week, instead holding open writing sessions. It will be interesting to see how we cope with the pressure alone.

I had another enjoyably smooth meeting with Jane Abson again early on Wednesday afternoon. We discussed my various approaches to work and the miniature deadlines I have set myself mentally in order to stay on track - for example, I’m hoping for ten poems by the end of Week 8. At the start of Week 6, I’m currently on five. I’d better pick up the pace! Along with organising another meeting where we can further discuss how I balance my time, she has also offered to help me with organising my search for a potential MA course. (Ed: I'm keen to avoid braving another new environment for now, whilst also being aware of my separation from Charlotte for another year. The shortlist of cities is currently Norwich, Manchester, Newcastle, Oxford and London... The last option is intriguing.)

The meeting that day was again quite successful, this time focusing on interior monologue. I came out of it with a villanelle based on someone’s confession that they really dislike cats. Two people conspired together and satisfyingly destroyed Katie Price and Peter Andre. For the first time, there was a satisfying large turnout after the workshop too –a decent sized group appears to be forming, so I’m pleased. I remained in the bar with David Astley when everyone had left in order to sample the Table Football group – as with Poker Soc, getting soundly thrashed by players far superior to me in a competitive environment didn’t strike me as the best way to make friends.

Thursday was entirely concentrated around the television, intrigued as I was by Nick Griffin’s appearance on Question Time and the protests that occurred outside the BBC Television Centre beforehand. In retrospect, I don’t feel anybody on the panel came off particularly well, as many people have commented – seeing Griffin ridiculed was indeed enjoyable, but it was painfully obvious that he was in for a hard night as soon as the program opened and a Muslim and an African American were seen to be sitting around the table. It didn’t feel as much as a triumph as it would have been if Griffin had been allowed to ruin himself without facing abuse from almost everyone in the studio. If anything, it has only fuelled the BNP’s claims of conspiracy.

I finally started a fifth poem on Friday evening before Tallie came over to hang out for a few hours, having attempted to focus on her own dissertation and finding herself stressed. We had our usual Internet exploration for a few hours, laughing at the absurd ad hominem arguments on the BNP’s website to classic cartoons from our childhood to ‘animal vs. animal’ fights on YouTube. Today, I watched the first two James Bond films with Andi and Bridges. Bridges bought all twenty-two films, re-mastered, inside an attaché case for £100 last weekend.

So, on to Week Six. Amy Wragg, a friend of the CWS, has invited us to her Halloween open mic in St. Gregory’s Centre for the Arts on Friday. Currently, there are few freshers involved so I’ll need to prepare a piece. The Twilight Sad are also playing on Wednesday night – I may turn up and pay on the door, depending where I am with everything else. Most likely, I’ll ignore that rule and turn up anyway. No wonder Orientation is going slower than anticipated... Discipline is urgently required.

Having eight poems written at the very least, along with my first Dark Times essay, before Charlotte arrives on Bonfire Night for our trip to Dublin would be a sufficient target; with the latter due in the middle of Week Eight, starting two weeks early would be a great step for me.

Charlotte’ll be staying until the following Monday; it’ll be the first time that I’ve seen her for nearly three months. We’ll need to be awake at 7am that Friday – my aunt and uncle offered us the opportunity to stay with them to take two hours from everyone else’s journey in the morning, but that would have involved Charlotte and I sleeping in separate rooms overnight; there was more chance of Nick Griffin becoming a communist! (2.17am, 26th October)

Current Mood: Unsure.
Current Music: Frightened Rabbit/The Unthanks.

Three drafts.
Floaters (The accompanying typography unfortunately failed.)
there! accidentally
you glanced through
the open window
at the evening street droning beneath
to follow a glimmer
rising
up
slowly
steam. or a ghost perhaps?
you chase it
but it evades you
then another shadow drifts into your view...
understand that
they are nearly nothing,
scattered strands of life
(like all of your experience)
trapped between the gap:
the promise of your eye
and what flickers behind it

Smoke Bay
There are few things more out of place
than a hot chocolate in June (except maybe on
a steel morning like this), or me stumbling out
with it into the horizontal rain, streets full
of voices singing in a cold choir of spirits.

Even the gulls are shivering as they nudge elbows
along the terrace. Through thin panes of glass,
I watch a veil of mist descend over the river
to creep kindly between cars on distant bridges.
Malmo. Reykjavik. I breathe in these words,
clear and crisp as snow, hold my lungs tightly

then blow them back over the Tyne, where
the grey sky is beginning to hang: tiny boats
drift on the darkening water, pass through
an opening eye to the melody of a harp...

The day becomes fragile after that. We’re left
with an outline, an unfinished tower that
builds itself up to fall down. Like the Etch
-A-Sketch doodles we shook up and scattered,
all is impermanent and disappears into smoke.

Deluge
Braving wind through a bathroom window,
I watch the sky try to ravage the roofs
with bullets. Soon dark, sun or subtle snow

are nowhere to be seen – above, clouds move;
rain slides down the pipes to the alley floor,
the storm’s flow irresistible: the roofs

can only hold so much. At the back door,
trash floats around confusedly, carried
by water sneaking through the sunken floor

into the hall of our flat... It harries,
claiming bashed boxes with a muddy smile
from forgotten piles where they were buried,

making for the front. But freedom beguiles
the boxes; with abandon, they set sail
on a journey longer than the Nile...

The cold rain outside congeals to hail
then thrashes at the closed window.
I think of life as like a trying sail
towards lighter land, clear like morning snow.

Current Mood: Tired.
Current Music: Bright Eyes - Smoke Without Fire.

Harmless sparks.
Following my conversation with Jo Catling after last Tuesday's seminar, I think I've changed my mind about Poetry in Dark Times. The three hours (well, closer to two and a half) were dedicated in their entirety to examining Holderlin's Hyperion's Song of Fate; looking at poetry in such depth with no answers is becoming more fruitful, as I left the session with plenty of ideas. Jo told me afterwards that she is intentionally non-commital with the aim of encouraging us to discover our own interests - our reading would be clouded if she offered her views, and she would learn less too. Even her experienced opinion is not definitive. I see her now as a mirror: by smiling and offering nothing, she reflects us back towards ourselves.

I'm going to start planning the close reading this week, or at least decide which poem to pursue - the essay may not be due until Week 8 (Jo's thankfully left the deadline open) but the sooner it is out of the way, the sooner I can plan for my project. 1500 words doesn't feel very much anymore so I will have to ask, if like my close reading for Stephen, secondary criticism is necessary. I feel that's more suitable for the project.

Poetry continues to come slowly; today, I should finish a third poem to show to George tomorrow morning, perhaps rush a fourth. My hope was to have five at this point. This last week hasn't been the most productive in that sense; I finished a draft of Smoke Bay on Tuesday evening then didn't write for a few days. Jay didn't like Smoke Bay when I asked him to take a look, insinuating that it ticked all the boxes but was 'by-the-numbers'; however, he did provide some useful criticism in saying that some images need clarifying. He hasn't moved out yet. Soph thought it was the best poem of mine that she'd seen. I was personally quite proud of it when I finished it after a few hours of concentration - I definitely write in stops and starts.

The CWS continues to be my main distraction from study. On Tuesday after our seminars, Jodie and I attended obligatory Equality and Diversity training. I ran an introductory poetry workshop on Wednesday, seeing as most of our members are invariably prose writers. We're still getting an unusually high turnout of over thirty people to every workshop - now that we've moved back to our usual room, we're suffering a regular problem with chairs.

A few of those are also beginning to come to the bar afterwards which is promising. Later on that night, once most people had trickled away, I joined David L and Anna Pritchard, a new postgrad member, in joining some freshers at their flat in Nelson Court to order in cheap pizza and mock the Twilight movie in true MST 3000 fashion before walking home. (The film was unintentionally hilarious, but still better than what I expect of the book.)

On Thursday, I had a poor night's sleep and couldn't garner the inspiration or energy to do any independent work. I made a quick trip into the city to send my Dad a birthday card (he turned 51 on Friday) before cycling onto campus to meet Jodie again and plan our workshop on epistolary literature for the following day, in honour of World Post Day, until 11pm. Sat in the bar for an hour with the likes of John and Will, Jodie and I had an interesting conversation on monogamy, along the lines of this (anything below is my attempt at a summary, by no means ad verbatim):

'I'm not really the jealous type,' she said. 'If someone cheats on me, I try to understand. I don't think it’s realistic or natural to have feelings for just one person in your entire life, or unloyal to have them for more than one person so long as you know the boundaries. Someone can have the majority of your attention but everyone has brief flickers every once in a while. Alcohol just amplifies those slight impulses that you otherwise probably wouldn't act upon and makes things dfficult. Often there’s no desire to hurt the other person at all. ...Have you ever wished before that you could pause time, have sex with someone and then resume things just as you were without the awkwardness? That would make things so much easier.’ (I nod my head in thought.)

Once Friday’s workshop had finished, I played table football with a few new members in the bar, then headed home with the intention of working. Instead, I decided to spend time with Jack because I'd barely seen him this week. We played Halo 3 before our friend Chantal walked over in the torrential rain, then watched Peep Show and True Blood, because Alan Ball's name is a sure sign of quality.

Chantal spent most of the night in Jack's running shorts because her clothes were so wet from the walk. Being the gentleman he is, Jack also insisted on her taking his double bed for the night while he slept cold and uncomfortable on the sofa. He's currently building a practice climbing wall in the basement using the spare pieces of wood that came with the house. His enthusiasm makes me smile.

Saturday afternoon saw the start of the poem which I will be finishing tonight, detailing the rainy day at Charlotte's flat in a terzanelle: a new form for me. I have been feeling my way thus far. I managed to tease out the first three stanzas but they were too airy for the atmosphere that I'm trying to recreate, so I ditched them and started from scratch. This draft is a little more physical and closer to my original aim.

In the evening, Jodie came over straight from work and we shared Indian food in my room, mainly chatting instead of designing this Friday's workshop as planned. (She is another friend with admirable dedication to a cause.) She left at around midnight; having missed the last bus on Earlham Road, I walked her up to Unthank before returning home.

It has become somewhat of an in-joke in the CWS that Jodie and I have turned into a aging married couple: she is the nagging wife and I'm the obedient long-suffering husband. Our relationship is much more of a partnership than my dealing with John as Secretary last year. That isn't to say that John didn't take my advice - if anything, it was more like he didn't need it, but for all intents and purposes, excluding my additional year of experience and our slightly different roles, Jodie and I are equal and work together a lot more. The banter is inevitable, due to the sheer amount of time we've spent together recently. There's nothing wrong with being playful so long as we aren't distracted from our work.

As a reminder that I do have a life away from university, Dave Franklin called me yesterday for a catch-up. He's now living in a flat near Shudehill, looking for another job; since he found out he has epilepsy a few months back, he had to resign from his lifeguard job at Pendlebury Recreation Centre. Chris Westby’s enjoying the start of his Medieval History course at the University of Manchester.

Sam has designed a website for the new band he’s trying to form, Modern Silence, and has been recruiting members for the last week or so. He left an contact email address on the website, so I jokingly contacted him under the name of ‘Robert Plant’ asking for an audition. He very nearly responded.

‘You’re such a dick,’ he told me over MSN. ‘That’s like me contacting you to offer you a job as a reporter.’ Only if the offer were from Rupert Murdoch.

In a few days, I'm going to watch The Unthanks (nées Rachel Unthank and the Winterset) play at the Norwich Arts Centre. The Twilight Sad will follow them in two weeks. My parents are visiting Norfolk this weekend - the cruise is only two months away now so I need to buy some more semi-formal clothes. Charlotte will be here again in less than a month, just before we travel to Dublin. Time to get back onto that poem and produce a few more. (7.27pm)

Current Mood: Level.
Current Music: The Strokes - Heart in a Cage/Editors - Papillon.

Sleeper awake. (Part two.)
On Friday 25th, John and I began our reconnaissance for the social the following week by meeting in a coffee shop just outside the Forum. It was a brisk evening, still light at about six, and we spoke for a while in the looming shadow of the nearby church. I'm always impressed with John's knowledge and enthusiasm. We found ourselves on the topic of Scandinavia after I told him about my family's cruise this Christmas - my desire to visit the far north of Europe has been brought up several times before. It turns out that he shares the same interest, so we further considered why that might be. The region's perceived crispness, distance and clarity are appealing, in stark contrast with the sight-bending heat of the Mediterranean that we've visited countless times - it would be a fascinating experience.

Our first stop that night was The Box Office, the indoor bar/restaurant in Cinema City on St. Andrew's Street. We wanted our new members to have different environments to write and speak in, and this place was modern and sharp with its bright spotlights and glass ceiling. As I ordered a drink at the bar, I noticed the barmaid's uncertain expression was familiar - after a few seconds, I realised it was Amy McCallum. She definitely succeeds at assuming roles (as an actress, she certainly should!) - her hair was up and dark brown, not the shoulder length blonde that I became accustomed to this time last year. She told me it was her trial shift - I wished her luck, although I made things awkward later by ordering a double Cointreau. She'd never heard of the drink before.

Tom turned up not too long later and the three of us discussed the main theme of my dissertation: the tension of finding oneself in any unspecified place. John identified with my idea of the past encroaching on the present, moulding it like putty. Both of them seem to remember the empty soul of A Hotel Room in Moscow.

Continuing with these city/country studies may be the way to go - I still find Norwich's claustrophobic cobbled streets wonderfully mysterious, as one can turn the corner of one street and be faced with a new atmosphere. George seemed to suggest chasing the geographical focus first - perhaps that will make it easier to tease the more subtle aspects out.

After Catherine, David and Will joined us, we made arrangements at the Birdcage (60s chic) and Miike's (a typical student bar) before heading back to the house on Gloucester Street. Having thoroughly planned our social and first workshop, along with gaining a record amount of members, Will told me he thought this was the most successful start to a CWS year yet. That would be questioned later.

That weekend was uneventful. Gemma held her twenty-first birthday party on Saturday night, finding herself covered in chocolate icing from the enormous cupcakes her parents sent her. (Her mother runs a B&B, so we're used to seeing food in bulk around - it took us a few weeks to get through the 3kg bag of dolly mixture.) Sober and feeling slightly awkward, I settled for battling Arin (Louise's ex-boyfriend) with two remote control cars over the basement stairs. There was also a strange guy at the party who identified himself as an anarchist, calling himself 'Youth Section' when his real name was Matt. I had to lend him a towel when he spilt white wine on his jeans - everyone else thought it was urine. It might have been that too, to be honest.

Earlier in the day, I had a nice conversation with Danielle at home, now that she and Sam have access to the Internet. Zack is apparently growing quickly, and they said they may pop down for a visit. I'd rather postpone that until after the New Year. Danielle told me about a bust-up they had had with Sam's sister and her husband at a family reunion in Dorset. The couple are impotent; of course, being devout Mormons, with the religion's family values, I have sympathy for their inability to conform. Having tried and failed to conceive a child, they settled for a dog instead, whose liveliness almost injured Zack. This led to Samielle saying that the couple were jealous, and the couple calling Zack a bastard. Sam's dysfunctional family is continually bemusing.

This became relevant again on Sunday in conversations with Charlotte and her sister Soph about the dangers of Twilight. The franchise's final encouragement of obsessive romanticism, with Bella hastily sacrificing a realistic life for the male 'One', to me, seems frighteningly close to the other traditionalist propaganda that often comes out of Hollywood in the form of romcoms; even Sex and the City's very modern women were forced to settle down eventually. I also wonder whether Stephanie Meyer's Mormonism accidentally shines through in this regard, with the Mormon tendency (in my experience) to meet, marry and have children as quickly as possible without waiting until the relationship has been sufficiently tested.

We're meant to use our adolescence to experience limerence and realise that it's ultimately unsustainable: often, the people we love begin as idealisations; coming to terms with their reality makes or breaks a couple, as we either learn to love the flaws of the other person or leave them and move on. The 'One' is a fallacy - truly understanding another person is difficult, and compromise must always be made. If teenage girls grow up sticking to Twilight's maxims, they will either have to learn painfully or be stuck in perpetual emotional adolescence. Wuthering Heights showed the terrible consequences of the obsessive approach, and is much better writing.

Will and David wandered past my window on an afternoon walk, so I called them back. I went out to join them for a while, only for so long as to walk around Earlham Cemetary, which was typically serene. I always cry when I visit graveyards - their silence tends to make me feel morbid. On some of the graves we examined the engravings on the stone about the people below had been worn into oblivion. Witnessing those didn't help my mood, unsurprisingly, considering my and my mother's shared fear of neglect. We marvelled at one man who had been alive during the French Revolution. 'Just think,' David said, 'in one hundred years, we'll be buried somewhere and other people might be looking at us...'

Last Monday wasn't too notable. I ate at the Frankie & Benny's on the Riverside with my housemates in honour of Gemma's actual birthday, and sat in the Grad Bar playing Scrabble with Tom, Will and Gary earlier on. I got dumped with all of the vowels.

When my morning meeting with George was done with on Tuesday, I headed to the Dean of Students' office to meet with Jane Abson, the university's Disability Co-ordinator. She emailed me at the end of last year asking to meet but by that point I was already back in Manchester. Because I'm listed as having AS, even if I don't feel it affects my work directly, her job is to make sure that I'm satisfied with my university experience. Apparently we should have met the year before.

She was extremely friendly and easy to speak with, taking a lot of interest in my life and projects: Orientation is obviously the dominant one at the minute. We even joked about football for a while - she's a Manchester United supporter. I told her about my target of a First and my recent problems with procrastination, and she seemed determined to fight for my cause. We're scheduled to meet again next week after my next meeting with George so she can keep track of my progress. I'm thankful for another supporting arm.

So back to the CWS. I mentioned earlier that it's taking up most of my time lately; that's mainly because I naturally seem to interpret Wednesdays and Fridays as taken up entirely. That interpretation's obviously incorrect - I need to maintain my morale and concentration. Every spare hour is a useful one.

The first workshop on Wednesday didn't go as smoothly as I'd hoped. Despite arriving onto campus early, I managed to forget to email myself the plans for it in advance, leading to a disapproving look from Jodie and a lot of guilt for me as I scrambled to type up the handout we'd already made again. The session had already started, with nearly seventy people waiting. Thankfully, rather than lambast me as they were entitled to, Bex, John, Will and Jodie tried their hardest to take control before I finally calmed down about an hour in. In the end, it turned out to be a decent, if extremely stressful, workshop. Sat on the Square with drinks afterwards, Jodie made it clear that we (I) need to be more thorough with our planning. It was a one-off mistake, but I agreed, before a man with a microphone and a box of Celebrations came up to us asking idiom definitions for an ESL website.

Friday was a little better. The committee seemed a little more hostile, despite the overpriced but passable Tex-Mex meal we ate on Chapelfield Gardens the night before. Although I arrived early enough to make photocopies of a poem, having recycled our setting workshop from last year, John and Bex were adamant that I should have done it earlier and that I wandered around the new members as we were delayed getting inside, even though they seemed fine in their individual groups. That sort of pressure was not welcome when everyone knows I'm not the best public speaker. Barring an iffy bit in the middle where I tried to incorporate scriptwriting, the session passed without a hitch. At least most people seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Once we'd started the social in the dim lights downstairs in the Birdcage, it worried me that there were precious few freshers. Almost everyone that was in the room initially was either a senior member, a postgrad or an exchange student. The only fresher with us before we got to Miike's was Alessandra, an Italian who seemed quite shy. My most important role as President is to secure a committee for next year - as it is, John and Bex will be studying for their PhDs, Tom (Walker) will have left university and Jodie will be spending a year abroad. Obviously, I don't know if I'll still be at UEA yet.

One fourth year member, Ailsa, strangely remembers me from my first year - she was on the LitSoc committee and we met at the first and only social I attended. Unfortunately, their President left at the end of last year and the society folded due to lack of interest so she naturally came to us as her next choice. I'm sure our society won't suffer that same fate, but I'm still aware, even now, of our need to bring in new blood.

Thankfully, once we'd moved to Miike's Bar, most people gave up writing and started interacting. A decent sized group of freshers also arrived. I had a nice conversation with Alessandra; she regularly switched between English and Italian in her notebook, once even in the same sentence - the transition was quite intriguing. After touching upon her course and background (her family were reluctant towards her studying in England - I was unsurprised to learn Italian family ties are also strong), I discovered she had a strong interest in astrology after she asked me for my starsign. I find it an interesting and surprisingly accurate science at times. Hearing that Aries are not disposed towards settling down made a certain amount of sense.

Tom Shanks has postponed work on the magazine until January. I have no disagreement with that - it'll give me a few more months to pull together a feature and some reviews. Let's tackle the next few weeks first before the next few years. (6.19pm.)

Current Mood: OK.
Current Music: M83 - Saturdays = Youth (album).

Sleeper awake. (Part one.)
'Use your hands; you know that they are worthy...
Use your hands; you know you love to get them dirty...'

I intend for this to be another quick entry, as I'm yawning already. Here we go then, from last Tuesday (22nd), in a loose order:

It was invigorating yet strangely discourging for me to head onto campus that sunny afternoon and find the Square bustling with students again, especially the freshers looking nervous whilst waiting in various queues. Realising that I know less people the more of them that swirl around me is a little daunting, but I've made a few new acquaintances over the last two weeks through the society, which has now resumed full activity, and my Poetry in Dark Times seminar. I'm sure that some of them have the potential to eventually mature into friends. There are plenty of new things going on, but on the whole a lot remains the same - meeting Will in the Grad Bar for error-strewn games of chess and finding various ways to procrastinate are the two biggest constants from the last academic year.

Speaking of Poetry in Dark Times, the module is so far unspectacular, as I expected. The two three hour seminars I've had so far have been a little slow for my liking, seeming to follow the pattern of examining a few poems with Jo Catling, the tutor, offering no concrete themes to consider or satisfactory qualification of our opinions. Perhaps dissatisfaction is the point, although Jo has said that the module will pick up its pace soon. Regardless of whether it will, there are far too little answers for my liking so far, so I may well start chasing them myself to make sure I'm ready for the first essay, a close reading of a poem of my choice.

According to last year's module outline that will only be 1500 words long - the sort of essay length I was writing in my first year. The first essay I ever wrote at university was a close reading of John Clare's I Am for Stephen Benson's Reading Texts class, and I scraped a 70 for that, so for my not to manage a First for that assignment will be unacceptable. The project due by the end of the semester will be the largest assignment I've ever written in my academic career thus far; with so much on the line, I need to get the formula right first time.

The dissertation too has been slow. I wrote a short outline for him at the start of this week, clarifying my intentions a little further:

My overall aim for this dissertation is to create a short collection of fifteen to twenty poems inspired by the theme of ‘orientation’ and all of the connotations which emerge from the word. The poems are intended to sympathise with the human struggle of adapting to life, the process of finding a place or sense of self in a variety of perplexing situations:

Geographically and culturally (moving from one place to another, either nationally or internationally, perhaps making a transition in class; dealing with the idea of home),
Chronologically (coping with the weight of the past and/or future, and their regular encroachment on the present)
Mentally (coming to terms with the limitations and frailties of the mind, especially in terms of consciousness, memory, or emotional/linguistic expression)
Philosophically/religiously (finding meaning in an increasingly secular society; dealing with death)
Sexually (identity and preference)

I plan for Orientation to begin with the epigraph ‘Everything must belong somewhere’, referenced from the song I Must Belong Somewhere by the band Bright Eyes. My decision to introduce the collection like this serves to support the collection with a loose narrative structure, gathering its diverse parts together into a whole by providing a solitary idea that the poems can contemplate or challenge in their own fashion whilst also supplementing an overall debate. (...) I don’t think I should answer the question (‘Must it?’) that the poems will ask collectively by the end; it’d be better to let them try to fight out a conclusion by themselves.

In an early morning meeting this Tuesday (he's only on campus on Mondays and Tuesdays, so his timetable is quite tight), George told me that my proposal is definitely sound but he can't help me further until I actually produce some poetry. At the moment, as he nicely suggested, my ideas are empty rooms; the walls have been painted so to suggest their future mood, but the necessary details, the furniture, are missing. My aim is to have at least five or six drafts to present to him by the next time we meet on October 13th. Thus far, I have two, and I only expect one of those to make the collection in some form, so I really need to start using my time more ruthlessly.

I'd say the main detractor from my studies at the moment is my work with the CWS. Socmart took place last Wednesday, so I spent a good five or six hours with the rest of the committee handling the stall.

Our audience was typically varied: we had our usual majority of people that seemed enthusiastic, a smattering of chirpy American exchange students and a few Creative Writing minors with the arrogant attitude that because they managed to get onto one of the university's more sought-after courses they have no interest in practicing their art further. My personal favourites are the indecisive types, who clog up the stall, blank-faced for five minutes while you try to give them the spiel, before finally deciding that it's not for them and pissing off once other people have walked away. There was one unusual encounter with a Chinese girl who wondered if she could write caligraphy in her mother tongue. Unfortunately, her English was very limited and, after trying to explain that I wasn't sure how that would work, I felt uncomfortable in turning her away.

Despite the trials of diplomacy, we gained around 220 names for our mailing list this year, which I had to spend the next day typing by hand into our account: the highest number of people that we've pulled since I arrived at university. The next week's first impressions had to be lasting ones.

My concentration is flagging. I'll finish this in the morning before I get some writing done. And I will get some writing done. (12.54am, Monday 5th October)

Current Mood: Tired.
Current Music: Radiohead/Sarah Blasko - As Day Follows Night (album).

Manaña/It's only your life.
'So marry yourself to your work and crowd your confusion with words...'
(Kevin Devine)

A short entry today, as I'm quite tired and I'm trying to settle back into the socially acceptable sleep pattern of 1-9. Today was satisfyingly productive in various ways - I had my hair cut by a laid-back Italian man in a place towards the end of St. Benedict's Street, and also did rather well in terms of diet, a few rich tea biscuits aside (which are hardly the most fattening of options anyway). Having taken my bike to be fixed for the meagre sum of £4 following the hair cut, I spent about half an hour this evening cycling to and from campus, with a ninety minute detour to see Vicki Lister and Richard at their house on Dover Street on the way back for a brief catch-up. I intend on adding the night cycling to my daily routine as it's a relatively comfortable but suitably tiring form of exercise. The last time I used Colin's Wii Fit, it said I'd hit my ideal BMI if I dropped my weight down to ten stone. Keeping control of what I eat, along with the two return trips a day to campus(now that I'll use my bike to speed to seminars again) should help me lose that weight in no time. It shouldn't be too difficult an effort. It's bizarre, my actually having a health regime!

On Thursday, Catherine filled me in on a proposition she'd been given to write features for a new independent music magazine that aims to shake up the local scene. Apparently, whilst drinking at the Waterfront club over the weekend, she'd started a conversation at the bar with the man who was in the process of starting the magazine up. Thinking that I'd probably find the opportunity more useful, she thankfully sent me the manifesto he'd sent her, along with an address to contact. Here's the twist: the man setting up 'Inverted Magazine' is Tom Shanks, the man I've visited twice this year about my computer problems! This sort of coincidence barely surprises me anymore, but still never ceases to impress. In our emails thus far, he seems very enthusiastic about letting me take part - our taste in music is surprisingly similar and his vision of a publication that will quickly garner a controversial reputation in the area is personally extremely exciting. We've made plans to meet up for a drink soon in order to discuss how to proceed. By sheer luck, I have the chance to gain some experience in the area of work that I most wish to pursue. This should more than make up for missing out on Words and Music!

Work with the CWS is also coming along nicely. Again, on Thursday evening, I headed onto campus with Andi, Gemma and Louise with the hope of getting into the Returner's LCR. (The house is completely full again. I watched Away We Go with the same three on Friday, spending the rest of the evening watching TV - how refreshing to see a film where the couple aren't in doubt!) Unfortunately, tickets had already sold out, so I stayed downstairs speaking with my friend Joe Wright, whom I barely saw for most of last year. Unbeknownst to me, he had spent the year as President of Minotaur, the university society exclusive to drama students, which went some way to explaining why I hadn't seen him around! Once I'd chatted to him about my own Presidency, he seemed very interested in joining us this year; having a specialist scriptwriter and dramatician involved will definitely help enrich our group.

The first committee meeting on Saturday helped clarify a few things - this Friday, a few of us will be heading out into the field of Norwich city centre in order to scout pubs for our first social next week, the event now dubbed 'The CWS Pub Scrawl'. Hopefully, John will have recovered from his recent hernia operation by then! We'll be recruiting this year's members at Socmart this Wednesday, now that the new freshers have arrived and the autumn semester has started, and have also made plans for our first open mic in November: all gates of which will be donated to Oxfam. We're still arranging that with the charity, but I have confidence that it will bring us some good publicity. I'm glad that my 'job' is becoming more enjoyable.

I've started using an external hard drive so I'm unlikely to lose my files again. My first seminar will be in thirteen hours. After several months of recuperating and preparing in my life, a loose sense of direction and structure has finally been resecured. Although the future, including tomorrow, is blank, I'm confident, for now, that I can come up with my own answers. (1.53am.)

Current Mood: Satisfied.
Current Music: Desaparecidos - Read Music/Speak Spanish (album).

Daisy.
'Well, if I take all these things and I bury them fast
And then pray that they turn to seeds, to roots and then grass,
It'd be alright, it's alright; it'd be easier that way...
Or if the sky opened up and started pouring rain
Like it knew it was time to start things over again,
It'd be alright, it's alright; it'd be easier that way...'

'Suffered a swift defeat; I'll endure countless repeats.
The gift of memory's an awful curse;
With age it just gets much worse, but I won't mind...'

(Brand New, 'Daisy' and Death Cab for Cutie, 'Stable Song')

I'm writing this entry in the renovated section of the campus library downstairs, towards the front of the building where a set of computers and the newspapers used to be. This was where I'd come in and print off my assignments around the time of a deadline if the larger computer room to the other side of the building was already full (which it frequently is); now, it's full of cute pink, purple and black plush furniture with a wider seating area. It has a more comfortable and social atmosphere than further upstairs, which now has colour coded areas determining how loud you can be. One woman browsing the shelves snapped the other day when I found myself sitting near my old flatmate Nick in the red 'silent study' area and we dared to ask how the other was, even though we were the only three people on the entire floor. The semester doesn't start until next Monday; campus is still quieter than usual but the daily increase is noticeable. It won't be long before we're flooded with freshers. I currently wouldn't mind having their lack of need of responsibility.
.
I've been on campus most days for the last few week or so, trying to plod through all the administrative duties that come with being CWS President, among other things: booking rooms for our coming workshops, and having to rebook some, meeting Jodie to plan the first of said workshops, requesting a publicity grant from the student union, organising our stall for Socmart next week, etc, etc. Our Halloween open mic will now take place by candelight in a local church, after Amy Wragg, an ex-CWS member who runs regular events for local performance artists, extended me an offer to let us join in. I'm currently quite uninspired by the idea of unnecessary effort, so each day passes by without any new poetry. I look forward to having a jolt awake at the beginning of next week.

The Friday before last (4th), Jodie and I went for a Starbucks in the city on an afternoon the chill of autumn clearly made its reappearance. We mainly discussed her current crush, who is, predictably awkwardly, moving away in a week or two. Jodie has been a model of pragmatism as long as I've known her, never expressing infatuation with anyone before, so her new nervousness has an element of charm. She told me that her housemates are revelling in her discomfort, seeing as she has been presented with a situation where she can't rationalise her way out. Conversation also flitted upon workshops, how our funerals would be (I suggested that I wouldn't mind balloons) and whether we planned on having children. I can't say I'm sure about that one at the moment. The Starbucks was inside a Borders, so I bought Russell's The Conquest of Happiness before we parted ways, Nicole surprising me with a phone call just as I got through the door at home. There's my incomprehensible relationship: a state which has long been constant.

I had a quiet weekend retrieving my computer's music before seeing Jodie again at the Fat Cat on Monday, along with Jay and Bex. Jay has now permanently moved out, I believe, but he's been granted the honour of keeping his spare key. Jay and I spent most of the night at the bar, having political discussions with the strangers sitting nearby. One of the men that came to the bar (Welsh, I believe, around our age) admitted that he would probably vote BNP, expressing the need to vote to extremes in order to reach a balance. Although he seemed friendly enough, I marked everything he said with a tinge of caution after that.

Wednesday summarised my frustrating friendship with Jay; I got home after spending the day on campus, actually having managed to make some small progress with Orientation (I found a Picasso painting in one of my Rilke epigraphs - I now have a nice track to guide the centrepiece along. Eventually, I'll start putting these in The Thumb Compass!), to have a conversation with Jay about how the CWS was going. When he asked me about the progress of his 'Arts Council' idea, I tried my best to avoid eye contact. Finally, I said to him that I was ignoring it entirely, as had been my intention all along, saying that it requires too much effort and organisation, especially at this time of year, and I was busy enough focusing on our usual projects. Jay wasn't amused.

'Whatever, it's your society. It isn't too much effort at all,' he said. 'It just needs some intelligence and ambition, for God's sake.' I didn't take his insinuation lightly, but typically stayed silent and let him walk out of the room, quickly becoming haunted by the spirit of the staircase. If he cares so much about his idea going to waste, why doesn't he take the option we offered him: to pursue it unhindered by any other duties and keep me in the know? Why does he need to be in charge? I admit I can get caught up by big ideas, but he seems to have forgotten the importance of the details; in this situation, he seems very farsighted. I haven't seen or spoken to him again since I went to bed that night.

On Thursday, I bumped into David Langdon whilst in the Union bar. I was emailing Stephen Benson, having suffered another pang for the Words and Music module, to see if there was any chance I could sit in the class unofficially. Unfortunately, it's too over-subscribed for me to fit. I was set to meet him again for a discussion yesterday but unfortunately arrived a few minutes late. There is obviously no chance of my forcing a way into the class, but hopefully I can cadge a copy of the module outline so at least I can pursue its ideas in my spare time. Having the career ambitions that I do, I feel my not taking part in some way would be a horrendously missed opportunity.

After giving Jodie a call, the three of us sat discussing workshops over lunch. David is much more resourceful than he gives himself credit - I can see how he was a good Secretary in my first year. I also sat with Hazy and Sam Tucker briefly, who were watching England's women footballers in the European Championship final. They were blatantly perving. I met Sam the next day for lunch in the newly renovated coffee shop on campus - I'd accidentally left my room booking confirmation sheet with her the previous day. Spending time with her again brought memories of my first year. I might see her again at the Returner's LCR tomorrow night, depending on who's going. Now that would be a flashback.

That night, alone in the house again, I ordered a Domino's pizza online (genius system) and had some quiet conversations, in particular with Emily Collier. Emily's a friend from Eccles that I met online at the start of my fresher year, and saw in person a few times last summer. She's probably the youngest of my current friends, having just turned seventeen, but has a certain maturity stamped upon her due to her problems with chronic anxiety. She's just been removed from Eccles College due to non-attendance, caused at first by her anxiety and then glandular fever, explaining why I hadn't seen her for so long. Now she's on a home course for her AS Levels, and optimistic about refinding her balance. Situations such as hers help put my own problems into perspective. As Catherine said to me that night, 'the person I am has been modelled out of successive sadnesses. ...It's not a second skin, but (more) like the shape of you has been carved more clearly after every blow.'

It was Colin's eighteen birthday last weekend, so my parents drove down to Downham Market to visit for a few days. I saw my Dad for the first time in months as he picked me up early on Saturday morning in his shining new black Mazda (a hugely impressive car compared to the stuffy Fiat Brava that he owned for the last decade).

During the hour long drive on a largely empty road, listening to my copy of The Resistance which strangely arrived that morning, two days before its release, we were caught behind a minivan chugging down the motorway. 'That exhaust's going to go,' Dad said as we watched grey splutter emerge from the back. His prophecy quickly came true as the back of the van exploded in smoke with us driving straight into the murk. Dad slowed down immediately, as we both envisaged being shunted from the back, and I shouted for him to put the hazard light on. Thankfully, the van already had stopped right in front of us, and with the road relatively clear we reversed slightly to speed off in the neighbouring lane. It's the closest to a car accident I've ever been in but I felt surprisingly safe. We were lucky the motorway was so clear!

We prepared for Colin's party by setting up a gazebo in the garden, filling it with Christmas lights and flying an '18' balloon through a hole in the roof. I wondered about the strictness of my aunt and uncle when they made clear that Colin's friends wouldn't be allowed into the house, and that the party would be over by 11. With the weather as calm as it was and the distance that some of the guests had to travel, I suppose that those decisions were justified, but I still disagree with some of their petty house rules. I'm glad that I was brought up by such lenient parents!

Around ten of Colin's friends turned up - a decent turnout in the circumstances, and by the end of the night I managed to make friends with a few of them with the help of some drink, an acoustic guitar and the two party mix CDs I made. I felt sorry for Kathryn and her friend Meg, who were being ignored by the older kids, and so kept flitting between the two groups. Kathryn (who is three months off fourteen, it must be said) had a sly try of some alcopops under my supervision, and ended the night trying to feign sobriety, as did Colin and I until his parents went to bed when I called Charlotte asking to use foodstuffs as names for any future children. I'm not the best example for what I consider my younger siblings! At least Colin enjoyed himself, but I'm still going to take a break from alcohol. I doubt it will last beyond Socmart next week, or even the LCR tomorrow night.

I was up at 6.30 the next morning with a hangover, so I drank a bottle of water and watched Match of the Day. Everyone was up a few hours later to watch Colin open his presents - I bought him a guitar tuner under advice of my aunt. My family were disappointed that I didn't write him a card, but I prefer to avoid buying them if possible: I find them too impersonal and concise, brief and undeveloped thoughts. It was my intention to write him a letter, now that he is a man, but he didn't seem too concerned about it. Most cards don't get looked at again once they've been opened and read.

As happened last year, we all went to the local Indian for a decent lunch. I spent most of it sat next to Kathryn as Colin spoke with his friend Jack. When we got back, the three of us watched Family Guy - I took a nap halfway through following the lack of sleep earlier. We laughed over a few more Internet memes and then I had a game of poker with Colin. He's still very much a beginner (I beat him relatively comfortably when I pushed him all in on pocket 3s holding a pair of Jacks) but he's clearly eager to learn more about the game. We then watched the Muse album's bonus DVD together before going to bed. He got the same CD the next day, later getting a poker set of his own - one can't question his enthusiasm for his interests.

The next day, following the customary few hours on Wii Fit and Wii Sports, Colin was the one to escort me home, with my uncle Iain giving him advice from the passenger seat. I was slightly uneasy, but despite some shaky moments, as are typical with learners, Colin wasn't as bad a driver as I had thought he would be. It won't be too long before he passes his test.

The house is beginning to fill up again now. Jack came back two nights ago but has returned home briefly to celebrate his twenty-first. We'll hold our own for him over the next few days. Tonight, I watched In Bruges with Gemma, Andi and Louise (the house's Northern Irish friend) - an interesting dark comedy that made me want to read more Pinter. My only experience so far has been with Krapp's Last Tape.

My module schedule came through today, with my only seminar on a Tuesday:

Monday
Free day (technically, but I should be using these to write my dissertation).

Tuesday
2pm - 5pm: Poetry in Dark Times seminar with Jo Catling, Arts 2.85

Wednesday
Free day. (CWS workshop normally 3pm - 5pm, with customary pub visit afterward.)

Thursday
Free day.

Friday
Free day. (CWS workshop normally 3pm - 5pm, with customary pub visit afterward.)

It's almost obscene, isn't it? My work has been left entirely to me now. Let's see how I get on.

I'd like to spend the rest of the week getting something for Orientation, along with getting the CWS committee together for the first meeting of the year. I currently have a doctor's appointment for about an hour in the middle of Socmart so I hope there will be enough people to take care of the stall!

It's been decided that Charlotte will be joining me and the rest of my family on our cruise to the Canary Islands over the Christmas period. She'll be sharing a room with me and my parents, but with some earplugs and some patience that should be entirely bearable. I knew that Charlotte would have otherwise been at her mum's for Christmas, and that she dislikes spending any more time with her mother than she has to, so the cruise would provide an exciting escape. Christmas Day is also her birthday so I obviously wanted to be with her for that, even more so than I usually do if that's possible. I'm looking forward to our dressing up and walking arm in arm into the dining room, although any Titanic parallels are best avoided!

I decided I wouldn't pay so much to have the old hard drive fixed so I'm currently waiting for its return from Sprowston. My mother praised the maturity of my decision - it seems even memories have a price. Maybe I'll destroy it when it gets back: the remnants of two years could pass away for good, and I could deal with their deaths as we deal with any other - the sharp emptiness of loss dulling by the day, but walking with the ghosts forever dancing in my mind. (1.50am, Thursday 17th September.)

Current Mood: Reflective.
Current Music: Brand New/Okkervil River/Death Cab for Cutie.

All of everything, erased.
'And it came to me then that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time...'
(Death Cab for Cutie, 'What Sarah Said')

As a result of my laptop hard drive failing at my grandparents' house this past Sunday morning while I was in Downham visiting family, I can't remember much of the last two weeks, or the last two years for that matter - the outlines are all there, but the details and colour are missing.

After having it looked at by two technicians (including the one I used in January the last time my computer decided it couldn't take my abuse), having a new drive installed and getting the computer running again, I've just sent it off in the post to a data recovery specialist in Thorpe St. Andrew. I was warned that the price for retrieving all of my files may be over £500 if the drive's significantly physically damaged; hearing the bubble-wrapped parcel clunk to the bottom of an empty post box a few hours ago could have made my debit card vomit.

Gran, expressing the trait she has clearly passed on to my mother, felt guilty for inviting me over in the first place (as if that had an actual impact on what had happened), and so has put some money into my account. The rest will have to be paid for out of my savings. It will certainly teach me to leave the computer on the floor, and to stop tempting the gods by backing up my files.

I know that I've been depressed about the whole matter for the past few days, not only because all of the preparatory work I've done for Orientation is on there, along with other university work, but a hell of a lot of music and personal artifacts too - conversations, Internet favourites and other ideas. While I would much rather this lesson had taken place now rather than late in December when I should be starting to finish up, having to waste time on chasing a potentially lost cause and rearranging myself is still demoralising.

Everything I could remember from my plans for Orientation, along with other lists, was quickly scribbled down onto a notepad, so most of the flowers have been picked from what, admittedly, was probably a weeded garden, but I can't shake the feeling that I've forgotten or lost something important, at least one thing. Of course, there's no guarantee that I'll get whatever it is back. The prospect is positively haunting. I suppose there's nothing I can do at the moment other than use the fragments to start again. To what I do know then, of which there is little.

During the first ten days or so since Charlotte started crossing the country to see friends, and since I returned from Downham, I've mainly divided my time between reading Charles Simic's collected works, continuing to find ideas for Orientation and spending time with friends from the CWS, mainly with John, Will and David at their house or the pub. My day at Jodie's house was constructive, as we addressed a few key issues and began preparing for the new semester. It looks like we're going to start switching between 'big' and 'little' open mics in the Grad Bar and York Tavern, and planning workshops much earlier and more thoroughly than previously. Soon, we'll have Socmart to consider, but there are many minutiae that need dealing with first, such as booking times and dates for rooms in Union House and securing a finance grant. We decided that the first social, in an attempt to appeal to the hedonistic freshers, should be a creative writing pub crawl. There is a lot to be done.

Last Saturday morning Jay made another unexpected appearance, this time with his father and brother to move most of his belongings into his new house. He's been staying in the tiny box room that technically belongs to Bridges since last autumn, finding himself with less than desirable housemates at the end of our first year. It's the only bedroom in this house that is smaller than mine. He remains here for the time being; his new room is being used as a spare whilst the house he's found with other members of the OTC is being redecorated.

Without wishing to sound unpleasant, I'm somewhat relieved that he's finally moving out - although he's perfectly acceptable company most of the time, his intensity and 'tough love' style is occasionally uncomfortable, making me feel as if under heavy scrutiny. If I were to be neutral, the house would certainly be less cramped, and he is definitely deserving of a room larger than three quarters of the size of mine.

I met Joe in the Wig and Pen to watch the Chelsea game against Burnley. He spent a lot of time in between play telling me of his drunken adventures in Magaluf a few years ago, involving bridegrooms-to-be handcuffed to dwarves for a week, waking up on roofs miles away from where he had started and chatting with Everton legend Howard Kendall. He's contemplating holding his stag do there, and he urged me to spend some time there within the next few years for the experience. I shouldn't have to say that it isn't my sort of scene, but if he will be holding his bachelor party there then I would tag along. Joe also promised to help me, with his many contacts, with my dream twenty-first birthday afternoon - a Chelsea away trip at Old Trafford. Of course, that's in April, so that can wait until later. I'd like to take my Dad, if he could stand the away end. Something tells me I won't manage to coax him into 'the bouncy', which is a shame.

I raced back to the house after the game to be picked up by my Grandad and Kathryn and taken back to Downham. With the computer failure and staying at my grandparents' house limiting entertainment options, I spent most of the weekend reading and visiting the other house to hang out with Colin and Kathryn. Colin turns eighteen next weekend, so I'll be back quite soon.

On Monday afternoon, I again had little to do. The afternoon started with my snoozing, waking up to see surreal patterns in the curtains, with flower petals temporary angry peacock eyes. Grandad and I decided to go for a walk into Wimbotsham, the neighbouring village to Downham a mile or two away, where the annual Classic Bike show was taking place.

We wandered towards the village down a small road between two fields, with the sun beating overhead and the continuous roar of motorcycles passing us by with the breeze. Reaching the town centre, we were greeted by what must have been thousands of bikers, of various ages and genders but almost all leather-clad with piercings or tattooes wearing black classic rock band t-shirts. One man we passed had his entire face tattooed.

The most striking attendee I found was a girl who swiftly moved past me in the crowd, slightly younger than me, slim and quite attractive with her short hair and lip piercing, dressed in an yellow tank top incongruous with her leather pants and boots. She didn't fit with the majority, reminding me of Impa, the Spanish hacker/biker/pilot woman that was the main protagonist of my old The Silent Spy drafts. Now I wonder how her inspiration, Alicia Martín (Rivero), is doing. She is dearly missed. I've just contacted someone with the same name who looked similar over Facebook. We shall see.)

We queued for a pint in the local pub before walking home where we watched the end of Mouse Trap, Goal! and A Few Good Men (all enjoyable if unspectacular films).

I've just found the old backup John Frost helped me make just before I started university - a decent start for regaining my music, on a hopefully temporary basis before the main bulk is returned or otherwise. Although I'm worried about losing that and the poetry I wrote in my first year of university, a vital stage in my development as a writer, it's probably best not to think about it just yet. One shouldn't hold a funeral for something before it's dead. (11.01pm.)

Current Mood: Unsure.
Current Music: Conor Oberst with Gillian Welch - Lua.

My mirror speaks.
I thoroughly enjoyed Saturday afternoon with Joe and Cat (now engaged), regardless of Didier Drogba's last minute winner to win the game 2-1. We were joined on the train to London by Ron and Karen, a middle-aged couple that own a shop somewhere in Norwich and had closed for the day especially for the game. From the classic shirt that the bald and playful Ron was wearing, along with the early morning conversation, they had been clearly been fans since the 1970s. I didn't feel out of place, despite being the youngest member of the group by a few years, as Joe and Cat were again extremely friendly.

We spoke more about our respective fields, after the mainly transactional conversation when I met them in the Wig and Pen - Joe is a successfully self-employed builder, having designed and built a house of seven figure worth; a suitable job for someone of his height: he, like Sam, is around 6'4''; Cat, being around my height, used to work as an airline stewardess.

Getting off the train at Liverpool Street, we boarded the Tube and got on the District Line for Fulham Broadway. Joe and I agreed about the vague sense of excitement one gets on a match day as more and more people in blue begin to board the carriage. When we stepped out into that familiar atmosphere on Fulham Road and turned left towards the Bridge, we made an unusual diversion into the hotel La Reserve for a quick pre-match drink. Sat on the leather seats in the lounge with our beer and sandwiches, our group was joined by two interesting characters.

To my left, in combat shorts with a shaved head, was a member of the Finnish supporters' group who had flown over with his wife for the game. He had two spare tickets for the next game away at Sunderland; apparently, due to problems in booking care for his children, their trip to England would have to be cut short and he wanted to give them to actual fans instead of touts. With that game being in mid-week and the furthest trip north of all this season (therefore the most expensive), we all politely declined. (I later bumped into him again in the Shed Upper toilets before the game, this time eager for the tickets after speaking with Mike Hargraves - unfortunately, he had already given them away). To our right was the founder of the original Fulham supporters' group, who was now a respectable ninety years of age. With many different generations and types of supporter in the room, I thought it to be a microcosm of the modern game.

When we had traded score predictions (mine was 2-0, which proved most accurate in the circumstances), our band then dropped into the So Bar under Ron's encouragement. The So Bar has a reputation for being the loudest place in the area on a matchday, and this was especially true with it being the first day of the season - we wandered in the side door to a wall of heat and a booming chorus of Ten German Bombers, with celery and alcohol flying across the room. Inevitably, Celery started as we bought our drinks, and people knelt to the floor for Ten Men Went to Mow, leaving us needing to wait to leave. Of course, none of us minded.

I gave my Dad a call underneath the Shed Upper before taking my seat to watch the game. It was a tense affair, particularly with Hull's Stephen Hunt, newly arrived from Reading, scoring the first goal against the run of play. He fractured the skull of our keeper Petr Cech in a questionably hard challenge a few years ago, and this was the first time he had played against us since; consequently, we abused him all game, booing and shouting whenever he got the ball. Thankfully, we equalised before half time as Drogba scored a wonderful free kick. The expectation was that after the break, we would come back out and get the comprehensive lead that our pressure deserved, but that proved not to be the case. With Hull defending resolutely, and us missing our chances, it looked all set to be a draw, until in the second minute of injury time, Drogba chipped the ball over their keeper Myhill from a tight angle, with the ball falling gently into the far corner of the net. It was reminiscent of Frank Lampard's wonderful goal in Barcelona back in 2006, if certainly less intentional. The fans celebrated raucously regardless. I was in such a good mood that I went out of my way to give away my Tube day ticket to a stranger (I still wonder if she was heading anywhere interesting), and the train home, though cool with our having escaped the heat of the Underground, was given an additional glow by the afternoon sun.

My time in Stamford for the next few days was a little less eventful. Charlotte and I arrived at Chloe's house in the evening with plenty of food for the barbecue, greeted relatively warmly by Chloe and her other friends. Our walking to Chloe's house from the station had felt like a return to the riches of Winsford, with every building acting as a beautiful reminder of an era between the medieval cobbles of Norwich and Manchester's industrial sprawl, filled with churches and white stone. The house in which Chloe lived was what I expected, then - not quite on the scale as the one I visited last summer, but similarly spacious.

With Chloe busy hosting and inexperienced with the grill, somehow, I found myself quickly taking charge, later finding that the reason that the meat was taking so long to cook was because the gas tank hooked up to the grill was empty. When the grill was safe to delegate to someone else, I explored a little upstairs, taking in the guest room Charlotte and I would share and speaking with Chloe's brother Tom briefly in what seemed to be the music room at the top of the house. I appreciated Dylan, the house's quiet golden labrador, much more than I did Will's over-excitable spaniels.

Following a relaxed meal with the rest of the congregation, finished with home-made brownies and pavlova, we wandered to a local pub to finish the night with kareoke. As is always expected in such places, most singers were absolutely awful, but Charlotte and her flatmates seemed impressed by my performance of Where The Streets Have No Name. (I've recently been considering creating a musical duo with Helen Thomas. Watch this space.) Halfway through the night, I got a nervous call from Sarah Thacker. I think I've already mentioned her being unhappy with her course at London Met - she wishes to change courses, but with her awkward grades and the options provided by clearing becoming drastically limited this summer, she has little chance of finding a place at somewhere she'd be happier without returning to college to take another A-Level and also having to find somewhere else to stay. Unfortunately, her best option at the moment looks to be to stay still.

The next day, Monday, was more awkward. In the afternoon, our group, consisting of Chloe, a few of her local friends and others from Charlotte's college, headed for lunch at an upmarket pub, the Periwig. Charlotte and I spent most of the hour or two on the periphery of the conversation. It proved the same in the evening, as everyone watched a documentary on Peter Andre and then Confessions of a Shopaholic once we'd eaten last night's leftovers. I wasn't in the best of moods, feeling slightly uncomfortable in the all-female group and often having no involvement or interest in everyone else's conversation. Consequently, I spent a lot of the day disappearing, mainly reading Chekhov's later stories or the newspaper upstairs. It probably made Chloe feel awkward as a host, but I saw Charlotte was keen to be social (despite her having little enthusiasm or involvement either) and wanted to remain for that reason. I'm not sure that my behaviour helped her cause though, or my reputation among her friends.

As Charlotte and I discussed the issue in a quiet moment in our room, a loud plane passed by overhead.

'I half hoped that was something God sent from the sky,' I said. '...Not just because of the singing.' (Chloe was singing downstairs, and, being kind, she is not that good.) I didn't say whether it was an explanation or an atomic bomb. To be honest, I didn't know.

A lot of my life seems to be spent in existential crisis, caught in the thought that everything is inherently meaningless and standing in the crossfire of a battle between two constant sides: one that finds that fact an unbearable burden and the other incomparably freeing. The purpose I assign myself, for my own survival, is to confront this despair that envelops our race (although, as Kierkegaard once pointed out, that does not mean that most of us are despairing); I must provide a human voice in my writing (even if it is not always the right one), reflective of the limited experience we share; I must try to sympathise with and explain the actions of others, however subtly or indirectly; I must attempt to touch upon, as accurately as possible, all that's inexpressible and distant in our lives. When I can provide a sense of comfort for those living now or in the future, then I am able to feel truly useful, and then I have some comfort of my own.

Charlotte went back to Northampton yesterday after we spent Tuesday night at John's once again, leaving me alone to deal with the mouldy washing up. For her to go after so long together was saddening for both of us. I'd forgotten what it's like to have complete privacy. I've spent all day listening to the eighteen hour long Death Cab marathon run by the radio station of Baldwin-Wallace College, Ohio, bombarding the poor hosts with obscure requests.

I have plans to start organising the CWS' return with Jodie tomorrow, and a film night with Catherine the night after. Other than that, I have no solid company for a while. Now is the time for restraint, reflection and poetry - solitude is perhaps the prime environment for a writer, and I have to admit that I'm a little scared to return to it. Maybe I need that fear to get things started... Even a month ahead of time.

P.S. Using Chloe's bathroom scales on Sunday, I found out that I'm a few pounds overweight for the first time ever - hardly surprising after an inactive summer all round. I've already returned to my usual university diet, with a few easy improvements. Fixing my bike for the third time may go a long way.

Current Music: The Death Cab for Cutie marathon/Bright Eyes - Middleman.

Turning-point.
'Work of seeing is done,
now practice heart-work
upon those images captive within you; for you
overpowered them only: but now do not know them.
Look, inward man, look at your inward maiden,
her the laboriously won
from a thousand natures, at her the
being till now only
won, never yet loved.'
(Rainier Maria Rilke, from 'Turning-Point' (Michael Hamburger translation))

The past ten days or so since my last update have been, for the most part, pleasantly formulaic. Jay left quietly one morning, apparently for army duties, leaving Charlotte and I with the house to ourselves once again. There seems little point in our squeezing in my small bedroom all day while the lounge downstairs is unusually empty, so most of our days have passed with us sat here on the sofa, using the laptop and reading while watching unhealthy amounts of daytime TV. Having experienced the occasional smothering by sitting and working upstairs last year, often encased, as in a bell jar, with thoughts clouding the inside, I appreciate having the chance to air the room out now; keeping it a stress-free zone has helped to renew its sense of comfort.

Of course, we haven't been locked inside all of the time - we went for dinner this Tuesday night at a small Thai restaurant down St. Gregory's Alley, for example. (We got drunk on rosé wine and were served by the giggliest waiter I've ever encountered.)

Charlotte felt adventurous last Monday (3rd) and wanted a walk through the city centre. It being a muggy afternoon, we stepped out into the sunshine and had a wander around the Forum for the first time, looking at the exhibition on identity that was on the bottom floor (which will surely add a little to Orientation) and the library at the back of the building. One of the exhibits was a computer linking to a website where one could see how the geographical concentration of their surname changed over the last hundred and fifty years. Unsurprisingly, mine was, and remains, a strongly Lancastrian name; due to the French prefix at the start of her name, Charlotte couldn't find hers. My being in a relationship with someone called 'De-Hayes' still makes me envisage, centuries ago, the unlikehood of a farmer marrying someone from the bourgeoisie.

With Charlotte entranced by her beloved books, and I in too an impatient mood to fill out a membership, I headed back outside while she browsed through the library, watching the clusters of emo kids (because the Forum appears to be Norwich's equivalent of Urbis in that respect) and finding it strange again how I found myself in this time and place.

On Thursday 6th, in my desire to be productive while I am still not directly writing, I started a blog for Orientation. (When I have been reading, it has mainly been translations of Rilke, hence the epigraph of this entry.) I ended up naming the blog

thethumbcompass; I would have preferred to give it a simpler title, almost in the manner of one of LOST's Dharma stations, but unfortunately 'The Compass' or 'The Lighthouse' were already taken. My ultimate choice is probably better actually - it captures the links with navigation I wanted, and the project feels a little like orienteering (trying to find my way to a place in a certain amount of time), or hitchhiking with a vague sense of direction. I haven't let it speak its first words yet, but the main bulk of my activities will remain here. I am thinking of it as a supplement, a better insight into my processes.

That evening, John came over for a fajita dinner and the three of us sat watching Aliens and eating Ben and Jerry's. (Charlotte agreed with us that it is better than Ridley Scott's still commendable first; with the fifth effort he apparently has in the making, I hope he brings the series back on track! No more pointless crossovers please.) The next night, we met up at the York Tavern and I spoke to him about my and Jodie's plans for the CWS, among other things. We've met up with John regularly recently, he being the only close friend of mine in Norwich at the moment; Jodie, with her new job and visits to family in St. Albans, is not regularly available, although we did see her this past Monday night for dinner at John's.

Last night, over a drink of Cointreau at his house, we had a enjoyably scattered conversation reflecting on our families, Shakespeare and Victorian literature. Towards the end, he told us he was leading a discussion today about the art exhibition currently residing there, No Visible Means of Escape, a collection touching on surveillance and imprisonment. Charlotte and I were definitely interested, so after meeting him for lunch in the Mall, we decided to explore the exhibition. Two pieces were particularly striking: the first was an interactive installation in which one of the museum staff would silently observe people as they entered the room, writing what they saw for all to see up on the wall. (Charlotte and I chose to affect this by sneaking in an inflatable canary, bought from the Mall's Norwich City shop, and leaving it behind for a while to make our own symbolic point.) The other was the one John discussed: a darkly humorous Lego representation of Auschwitz concrentration camp. Some people have been known to prematurely leave the gallery due to finding the exhibits offensive - John contemplated the purpose and merit of such 'offensive' art, personally seeing it as valuable.

It was yesterday that I realised John has quietly become one of my best friends; although he speaks a lot, he never has anything uninteresting to say, his wit, honesty and easy-going nature are refreshing, and we match on a large number of opinions and interests. He already plans to stay in Norwich after his MA course ends next summer, and I've grown to love this city too much to return to Manchester completely, so we've already discussed moving in together next summer.

Norwich has become my home for the foreseeable future. I will always be close to where I was born too, of course, but I'm not sure that I belong in any single place yet. London, Inverness, Iceland and France... I would like to stay in those too for at least a small period of time. All I know is that currently, here seems the most comfortable, and the present is the strongest sense I have.

This Monday was probably the most unusual day to pass recently. I've already mentioned that we saw Jodie and John that evening, but the tumult happened earlier on.

The weekend had passed by without much fuss - the football season had finally started again, and on Sunday, Chelsea played Manchester United in the Community Shield. After coming across a TV adaptation of The Turn of the Screw in the morning (that story is still as wonderfully vague and impenetrable to me as it was when I first read it), Charlotte and I sat for a few hours in the Mitre pub on Earlham Road in order to watch the game. There were a few fans from each side watching, but the neutrals all had their usual 'red team' bias.

I never understand the criticism that Michael Ballack gets from fellow Blues; his foul on Patrice Evra in the buildup to Chelsea's second goal (for which United were given advantage before relinquishing possession) was a classic example of experience and continental 'class'. Of course, in an ideal world, there'd be no cynicism in the game, but sometimes the difference between a win and a loss means deliberately taking out the more advantaged player and taking the consequences for the team. Successful sportsmen may not always play 'the right way', but their realism is often the reason they are better at the game than others (hence why the English rarely dominate anything internationally). For Manchester United, of all teams, to complain about that, is more than a little pious, especially when their player, having been barged in the chest, went down desperately clutching his face. Anyway, I digress.

On Monday morning, Charlotte and I were taking a shower together. (She's just said that we were 'saving water', but that would be a blatant lie.) Midway, I suddenly felt very lightheaded, and rested my head briefly against the wall. For the next few seconds, my vision changed; I'm convinced that I was still somewhat conscious, with a light apparently distant in front of me (a phosphene?), feeling irresistibly caught inside a swirling noise drowning out other thoughts. Upon reflection, it was probably the water around me. When I could see again, I was gasping on my knees at the bottom of the tub, looking up at Charlotte before me. Seeing her look of simultaneous concentration and terror was one of the most tender moments I've ever experienced. I felt like I had just re-emerged from death, or been reborn.

In shock and still feeling weak, I sat down on the toilet seat as my fingers tingled. Charlotte told me that I had turned deadweight in her arms, convulsing for a few seconds before coming to. I don't remember ever fainting in my life before, never mind fitting. Shaken and pale, I asked Charlotte to find my phone and call an ambulance whilst I drank some water. Within what seemed like seconds, I let two paramedics, Duncan and Kris, into the house while I sat on the living room sofa in a towel.

Effortlessly calming, they tested my blood sugar, blood pressure and heart rate. Duncan was the more talkative of the two, saying I made the right decision to call considering the fit. He joined Charlotte and I in the back of the ambulance as it drove, asking for my details while we also spoke about ourselves. We told him how we met; he mentioned that he came from Kent and grew up listening to the Who and Pink Floyd. When we arrived at NNUH, I was wheeled in on a chair. By this point, the whole process felt very melodramatic. Waiting for a booth in A & E, we overheard him in conversation with a fellow paramedic about how he was going to pop the question to his girlfriend. His dark haired friend joked about hiding the ring in a clay pigeon plate, or securing entry to the Egyptian pyramids and embedding it in Tutankhamun's face for her to find.

Once in the booth, everything the paramedics had checked was checked again before a brilliantly brisk middle-aged doctor came in. It took him less than five minutes to establish that I had definitely fainted, due to a high temperature from exercise and the environment, and the drop in blood pressure led to a non-epileptic seizure. There would be no lasting effects, and I was free to go. With that, Charlotte and I caught a taxi home.

I'm still intrigued by the whole episode, especially those few seconds of semi-consciousness. I've rarely, if never, felt so acutely aware of my mind's vulnerability. A definite tension has been created which I will have to try to address in my poetry.

This weekend will be an exciting one. I need to be at the train station by 7 this morning in order to join the Eastern Blues for the 7.30 train to Liverpool Street . I'll probably be drinking on Fulham Road by 10.30, ready for the first Premier League game of the season: Chelsea's lunch-time kickoff against Hull. On Sunday, Charlotte and I are heading to another Stamford, this one in Lincolnshire for her flatmate Chloe's barbeque.

Charlotte will be leaving next week to spend a few days at home before she heads to V Festival. I think it'll be after this weekend that I'll babble my first new words.

P.S. A few days ago, I bumped into Frequency Magazine's refreshing review of Regina Spektor's Far, discussing the sad fact that contemporary music is now considered a success according to its sales, rather than its originality. The publication is a small and open-minded one, and they are another place I'd like to write for the future. Sport or music journalism would be my preferred career choice if I don't remain in academia, so any experience would be beneficial. I've begun making an effort to organise my present more rigidly, although my loose approach has worked sufficiently so far. Soon, I'll have to consider my medium-term future too. (12.12am, Saturday August 15th.)

Current Mood: Thoughtful.
Current Music: The haunting tinkle of One Missed Call's ringtone/Family Guy.

The retreat. (Part two.)
With my meeting with Joe Tyler that night, I didn't write for Tuesday's myths and legends theme. Instead, I spent the afternoon distracting others, tinkering on the piano with my limited skills and discussing the day's Independent; with Will's family having a subscription to the paper, our mornings all retreat revolved around reading that together over breakfast and playing Worms Armageddon using John's laptop. With Will driving me back to the station for my eighteen hour trip, I took the train back to Norwich, showered then headed straight back out to the Wig and Pen to meet Joe and his girlfriend Cat.

My first impression was not the best one, as the unknown pub provided a step for me to slip down and promptly spill my drink over the table! The meeting only lasted an hour or two, with a few others turning up, as we agreed which games we would try to attend this season. I will definitely make the first Prem game against Hull on the 15th, but what I will be involved after that is still uncertain due to my budget and degree commitments. Joe and Cat are obviously different to my university friends, but they seem like enjoyable company nonetheless. The Hull game will provide a good opportunity to get to know them better.

The theme on Wednesday was children's stories. Having missed the start of the day travelling back to Isleham, I spent most of the afternoon lying on the trampoline with Catherine as Ed scribbled his tale nearby, with David and Daisy also making occasional visits. We compared the scars on our bodies, and spoke about our childhoods fitting with the theme; neither of us felt particularly inspired to write. Just as well, really: John's 'educational' offerings on how to deal with a child with Tourette's and a Nazi guide to making friends stole the show that night, backed up by Tom's disturbing child molestation case. Others included neo-conversative goats, sea urchins and Ed's idea that butter, cheese and mustard makes a healthy sandwich.

After readings and a few games of poker, I stayed up late with Will and Daisy playing other card games. Now that Daisy and I are not confused as to where we stand, each of us being in our own relationship, we understand each other much better than we did, and have a joint rationality, honesty and morality. Will was, as always, well-meaning and friendly.

Thursday's theme was horror. I've had the basis for a song in my head for around a year, sung from the perspective of a drunk man outside his ex-girlfriend's house, wanting to talk. The melody and narrative are meant to become increasingly unsettling before ambiguously ending with the man threatening the woman from outside. That afternoon, I set out to complete a full draft. Catherine took interest in my project and, having no better ideas of her own, asked if she could join in. I took the lead on my guitar, and she accompanied me on backing vocals - she is a decent singer, and so it proved a slow but ultimately productive partnership. For readings, John wrote about a Bangor marine biologist's confrontation with a Great White, Tom a psychological thriller about a man's hallucinations.

When we had done reading, David, Daisy and Will moved into the computer room to watch DVDs while the rest of us stayed in the lounge drinking, having a conversation that started about porn and moved onto other topics. Catherine changed into her black dress to show it to everyone. David didn't seem in the best of moods when she asked his opinion as he passed through, and she remained demanding of my company despite giving it to her for most of the day. When I confused her name with Charlotte's in a Freudian slip, she got visibly angry and I calmly walked away. She later apologised. In a quiet conversation with Daisy, I learned that Catherine had asked David to share her bed platonically on the first night - her obsession with me was giving him mixed signals, and he was understandably annoyed.

On Friday morning, I finally made a team on Worms Armageddon and took on John and some others. I played the game a lot on the N64 several years ago, and have consequently perfected 'darkside' (defensive) tactics. I initially went on a three game unbeaten run, and it looked like I'd be adding a fourth, but when the game crashed and had to be restarted, the group decided to work together to eliminate me first. Again being competitive, I was not amused.

Catherine left in the evening to attend a party in March and then move on elsewhere. As Will drove her to Ely station, I joined Daisy, David and Ed in walking Will's two spaniels down the country paths. We wandered past horses and cows, and travelled for half an hour before turning around in fear of a storm. I was mainly in control of the younger dog, Hattie, who was so energetic she constantly swam against the lead and got caught in brambles. She also dragged me into a wash, and I trudged home with my jeans covered in mud. As pets, I will always much prefer cats - less dependent, large, lively and stupid.

The day's theme was romance and erotica; this led to some intense readings ('maths porn' being one) and some smutty conversation, excluding my football discussion with Ed, a passionate Forest fan. With Catherine gone, I pitched up in a sleeping bag in her old room with Daisy to avoid suffering Ed's snoring downstairs. My negative reaction to dogs was not helped by one of them urinating on the bag on the following night. Thankfully, with my being ill, Daisy offered the bed for the remainder of my stay.

Saturday was relatively slow, as I again sat in the garden with David and Daisy. We played tennis with cooking apples, and Daisy and I visited the chicken hutch hidden behind some bushes before heading inside to play games online. Seeing a chicken running around the garden and bathing in mud while we talked was rather bizarre! That evening, for the crime theme, John wrote a manor mystery with everybody portrayed as a character, detailing what really happened to Catherine after she left the cottage: referencing a conversation we had over dinner the previous day, it turned out she had been killed and would be eaten in case we ran out of food. Tom's story, involving a corrupt colonel and a sadistic teenager known as 'The Surgeon' had a lot of character and potential. I wouldn't mind hearing more of it later!

With my cold caught from John in full swing on Sunday, I spent a lot of the retreat's final day in a lull, writing my final story on the computer after David had left. It had been agreed in the morning, following the success of John's story the night before, that we would all write self-referencial pieces with everyone who had attended meeting for the first time for some sort of quest. Sci-fi or fantasy genres were suggested. I chose the former. Throughout the group, I was mainly portrayed as the ineffective leader - passive and constantly asking advice from others. However tongue-in-cheek it may have been, I am still aware of how I am perceived. Interestingly, Daisy's was akin to a Choose Your Own Adventure story. The last night ended with everyone remaining in a poker game, which boiled down to Ed and I in the final two. As a new player, he proved exceptionally difficult to bluff, but I eventually realised he rarely ever raised. After whittling slowly away at his chips, I put him all-in with pocket 10s. In a lucky escape for me, although he also had a pocket, it was only 8s.

The next day, after a final game of Worms, Will took me to the station and I caught the train back to Norwich with Daisy. Due to delays on the bus home, we had a good hour or two talking. With no other plans, she is probably moving to Ireland to be with her new boyfriend. It may be a while before I see her again. With everybody else sticking around in Norwich, she is technically the first of my friends to leave. I'm sure that we'll keep in touch.

Not much has happened since I returned home, besides yet another near-death experience. I woke up this past Wednesday morning and realised I'd left the hob on from the night before when I stepped into the kitchen and smelt the gas. The hob here has a tendency to stick. It's lucky that I'm not a smoker or a pyromaniac; otherwise, I might have been found a charred mess outside! It is a miracle that I've survived this long, with my near-drownings, car accidents and falling headfirst onto concrete.

I also gave Steph Chisholm a long call that night. She will be starting at Kendall Art School in the next few weeks, and we spoke for an hour or two about our respective near futures. We've agreed to try to speak more often; after a quiet year or so, she is still a very close friend.

I was alone in the house for a few days until Charlotte arrived on Thursday to stay for a week or two. Jay came back from Loughborough the following day. After Charlotte and I made the mile walk to Sainsbury's for some food, Jay cooked bolognaise for the three of us and we drank for a few hours at the Fat Cat and York Tavern. Yesterday, we wached Alien (neither of them had ever seen it fully) along with The Blair Witch Project.
Today, my grandparents and Colin dropped by at the house and took Charlotte and I for Sunday lunch at The Village Inn in Little Melton. My family have an unusual adoration for that pub!

I plan to start reading for the autumn over the next few days, while I resolve a few other issues. I'm about to book my ticket to Dublin in November, and it's been agreed that my rent will increase slightly so I need to visit the bank to change my standing order. My parents are also long overdue a call. John will be free from work by the time the weekend begins. So continues the calm before the storm begins again. (1.36am, Monday August 3rd.)

Current Mood: Content.
Current Music: Sarah Blasko - As Day Follows Night (album)/The Good Life/Psapp.

The retreat. (Part one.)
'Henry James once made the distinction between life as "all inclusion and confusion" and art as "all discrimination and selection". The great artist imposes shape, pattern and order; the mediocre artist just throws stuff at the wall and hopes audiences will gasp.'
(From the Indepedent's review of Lars von Trier's 'Antichrist', Friday 24th July)

Dave's birthday night in the city (on the 16th) turned out to be an unpredictable evening. Catching a bus into Manchester from Swinton town centre, he and I met his friend 'Moorsey' for a pizza at a restaurant simply called Dough somewhere in the Northern Quarter. I had met Moorsey a few times before - a dark haired and extremely friendly character, in a relationship with the girl once with Lee Newton, a high school friend of Dave and I who moved to Georgia (the U.S. state, not the country) several years ago. Despite sharing the company of a vegetarian and a vegan, eating my Moroccan lamb pizza wasn't uncomfortable as the three of us chatted easily.

While the food was undoubtedly enjoyable, the atmosphere was less so. With a larger birthday gathering sitting across the room, the noise levels were distractingly high, and the service awful. The waiters openly admitted that they kept forgetting our orders; by the time we left, Dave's pizza and two cheese garlic breads had been struck off the bill, without any suggestion from our party - not the most successful way for a business to be run.

Back out in the dismal Manchester rain, we wandered back south towards the Printworks to meet Chris and some others in the nearby Hard Rock Café. (Charlotte texted me earlier to gloat about the bright weather in Suffolk, where she'd travelled to attend Latitude Festival, only to have to buy wellies and brave a flooded tent later.) David had been invited to have a meal with that group to celebrate other birthdays, but had declined after discovering he couldn't eat anything on the menu other than starters and side salads. The main birthday girl of the group, Alicea, invited us back to her student flat near Piccadilly station for further drinks. After a few Sex on the Beaches, we headed to Satan's Hollow; thankfully, I had earplugs to counter the unappealing squelches of dubstep I had to endure for a few hours. Following a shared House of the Dead game with a stranger, I eventually caught a Kick-a-cab home with Kirsty Ford, an old college friend now sporting an undercut.

On Friday morning, I packed and took to the road with my Dad to make my return to Norwich. I was surprised to find Jack in the house when I stepped through the door in the afternoon, and I caught up with him a little when Dad headed back to Downham Market; he had spent the last few weeks climbing in southern Spain. A few hours of settling back in at home passed before I walked towards campus to spend the evening with Jodie at her new house in West Earlham. Having wandered around in West Earlham before, I can say it is closer to home in its isolation and roughness than where I am now.

Over a few glasses of homemade sangria, we discussed her new job as a Starbucks barista and our plans for the CWS under our leadership, considering, among other things, a return to the intimacy of earlier open mic events and the running of individual NaNoWriMo workshops in November. More recent open mics held in the Grad Bar have been larger than the sort I was weaned on in my first year, and it's occasionally unnerving for those who are not performers (including myself) to speak to a room full of people who are, on the whole, unknown. While the benefits of this sort of audience are obvious, it doesn't accurately represent the core members of the society, especially when most are slightly arrogant performance poets or comedians that believe they have nothing to gain from workshops, only using the CWS as a vehicle for their own (questionable) work. One of Jodie's most endearing traits is that she always knows what she wants, having suggested both of these ideas; someone of her ambition will be a strong and reassuring presence when the society starts up again next month.

Halfway through our discussion, her housemate Tash got home, dressed in a red shirt. A keen Labour supporter, she had spent all day canvassing for Labour in preparation for the imminent Norwich North by-election. (They eventually came second to the Tories.) For the rest of the night, we debated feminism, our degrees and English/American literature. I wouldn't mind visiting their house for dinner again soon.

Jay was in the living room when I got back in the early hours, watching episodes from the original Star Trek, having returned from an OTC trip to Germany. I watched a few episodes with him before going to bed.

I'm still not sure Jay's forgiven me for my 'stealing' his Presidency, as relations remain edgy. John and I offered him the role of 'Project Manager' so he could still pursue his ideas for the society; Jay seemed very keen on creating relationships with other art societies, along with providing the university with its own writing magazine. In a conversation with him in the kitchen recently, he dismissed doing this with the CWS, seeing the majority vote against him as a lack of commitment to his venture. To be honest, we have tried and failed with such ambitious ideas before, and his vague manifesto clearly didn't inspire confidence. Throwing his army commitments into the mix, the overwhelming feeling among friends is that, with my late entry, the society has made a narrow escape. I intend to defend the society's heart, as an informal group rather than a flawed business.

Anyway, I mainly spent that weekend with David L and John before meeting them at Norwich station on Monday 20th to travel to Isleham. On Saturday night, I visited their house to watch The Libertine (a bawdy film) and play Call of Duty 4. I also spoke with David about the implications of the recent creation of artificial sperm on The Third Development - it appears that I now have a viable scientific basis! The following afternoon, I accompanied David on his walk around the city to hand in copies of his CV. (He and Daisy completed their degrees with commendable 2:1s, so he is now looking for a job, wishing to remain in Norwich rather than return home to Wimbledon. John and Will are First Class philosophers, and will start their Masters study in September. Tom Walker will be assuming David's room in John and Will's house while his position is still uncertain.) Later on, John got back from work and we watched Top Gear and the first episode of The Wire. Earlier, with David in HMV, I bought the autobiography of Mark Oliver Everett, which I just finished a few days ago; I admire his resilience after experiencing so much death in his life, and I also learned more about the inherent desire that lies behind my own creative process - all in all, a worthwhile read.

With John, David and Daisy on Monday afternoon, I caught a train to Ely where Will and Ed (a new member from this year, who is likable, but rarely makes facial expression and has an extremely monotone voice) were waiting for us outside the station. Tom was already waiting at the cottage. With luggage causing limited spaces in Will's parents' car, Will took David and Ed back to Isleham while I joined Daisy and John in initial grocery shopping. My main contribution to the basket was biscuits and cake, excluding the items I considered that the other two rejected; John said that I was clearly working class in my choices: everything was cheap and/or easy.

Will returned to take us back to the house, and after greeting everyone again, I wandered around in fascination whilst the others agreed upon room arrangements. (It turned out that because of my absence, I would spend most of the week alternating between sofas and futons downstairs.) It occurred to me that Will must have had a very sheltered childhood with his sisters Flo and Matilda (they even have traditional names!); the house in which his family lives is an isolated Victorian cottage, with an unusual layout, bookshelves in every room and an acre of winding garden surrounded by fields that also serves as home for their chicken. It seemed the perfect place to stay and write with friends, reminiscent to me of To The Lighthouse or one of those country manors that hold murder mysteries.

The layout we chose for the week was similar to how Mary Shelley created Frankenstein, with our meeting in the morning to decide upon a theme, writing during the day and reconvening in the evening. The theme for Monday was, unsurprisingly, travel. Always eager to experiment with a theme, and wanting to create relevant work for Orientation, I spent the afternoon in a hanging seat beneath a tree in the garden, writing the following sonnet before taking to the trampoline in the sun. The prose writers continued their labours inside. I am quite satisfied with this as a first draft.

The Eternal Garden
I often forget the path to this place
in a long time away, distracted by
immediate chores that bombard our race
with their 'Now's and 'Here's. Almost every day,
I long for a space where time doesn't breach,
with empty swings and the polite debate
of birds, that I can walk, bury small seeds
to help them rise on some distant date.

Somehow, after seven sad months of search (ugh)
down barren streets, alone in friendly rooms,
I've found a way back: ideas in the earth,
about to emerge from forgotten tombs!
I'll give them the strength to grow into trees;
such wisdom will last the short life of me.

By dinner time, our eight was complete: I, John, Will, David and Tom, Ed, Daisy and, in the evening, Catherine. After a vegetable stirfry and the Roald Dahl design-your-own cake I'd retrieved from Tesco earlier, we all went to the lounge to sit down for readings before playing Twenty Questions and then going to bed. I took to the computer room, unable to sleep with Ed's snoring in the lounge. Daisy was lucky enough to miss it.

Not everyone had something to show, which was fine - I certainly wasn't the most prolific over the week - but those of us that did had some memorable pieces. John wrote an interesting, and increasingly absurd, stock nineteenth century letter complaining to a travel company about a disastrous cruise. Ed had written something about time travel. As we discovered over the course of the week, Ed had a habit of writing for the sake of the length, often producing overlong and complex pieces which were difficult enough to follow unhindered by his voice. (This habit was mocked in our self-referencial quest pieces on the final day. I chose to portray him as a tedious reverend.)

The best antithesis of the day was found in David and Tom's pieces - in typically cynical fashion, the all-black clad Tom wrote a scathing satire, discussing the pointlessness of 'tinned fish' on trains. This contrasted amusingly with David's offering, which speculated enthusiastically about the respective stories of those using them. As David read, the rest of us raised hands, so as to mark out particularly pretentious points. As is the case with mine, his work is occasionally prone to accidental bombast.

Faint but obvious antagonism between Daisy and Catherine that appeared that day unfortunately proceeded to last all week. Catherine is consistently overwrought, especially about her ability to write (her negative perfectionism is even less rational than mine, as she is an exceptional poet); Daisy privately told me that she found her attention-seeking, and the group began to joke about her whining after she left on Friday. However unexpected it is that I'm now close friends with Daisy, following our strange encounter last year, and understand that Catherine is difficult to appease, I'm also sympathetic towards Catherine's behaviour. We have an understanding of our own after all, and share the same northern anxieties - we aren't traditionally accustomed to such intelligent company.

Cutting temporarily to prevent overlength. Be right back. (7.10pm).

Current Mood: OK.
Current Music: Deerhunter.

Mistaken for strangers. (Part two.)
With Charlotte needing to head south to attend Latitude Festival this weekend, she decided to catch the same train back to Manchester with me on Wednesday 9th, staying with me in Swinton for a few days before returning to Wellingborough. That was after a slight delay in making it to the station, as Charlotte realised she had dropped her wallet in a car park somewhere along the way and raced back to retrieve it. She is not renowned for her running skills, but I was impressed with the speed in which she made it back to the Victoria bridge where I was waiting perplexed with all our luggage!

That evening, Andy picked us up to visit Chris Westby at his new flat in Fallowfield (a.k.a. 'Student Central'). Dave was also in attendance. Chris will begin studying for a new degree in Medieval History at the University of Manchester come September, hence his move out of Salford - a more suitable course for a English history enthusiast. As he is only sharing the flat with one other friend, the place is small but modern and welcoming. Following a visit to the nearby Tesco for alcohol, the five of us sat watching Beerfest (whatever you expect when hearing the name is probably true - a suitably silly film to watch drunk with friends) and Keith Lemon's Very Brilliant World Tour which I watched the entirety of when I last saw Chris over the New Year. I rarely see Chris these days so I appreciated seeing him briefly.

The next morning in bed, Charlotte was concerned that she was 'late'. I was surprisingly calm, choosing to make jokes about the matter so that neither of us would panic to an unnecessary degree. We did some Internet research so we knew what we were dealing with (at most a grain of rice, pickled by Charlotte's recent nights out), then headed up to Morrisons to buy a test. Attempting to make the situation as emotionally distant and absurd as possible, I chose the checkout till manned by none other than my old friend Ian Collier. He was entirely relaxed, having been in the same predicament 'loads of times' before, and wished us well. To an ironic soundtrack of Drain You, we sat for a few minutes at home awaiting the results. The opening bars of Lithium brought the answer, carefree in its melody.

During the whole affair, I contemplated all of the variables that led to this event: a man started a band in Bellingham, Washington in 1997. Across the Atlantic several years later, two people listen to that band in towns hundreds of miles away. The desire of one individual to follow that band around their tour leads to a meeting outside a venue in 2008. There are many sub-plots to this tightly woven story. If an event could be considered to be a drop in a pool of water, the drop causes ripples that intermingles with other ripples and drops, creating new events. I have never been one that fell for the false comfort of fate - I find the mindboggling possibilities of chance in life much more inspiring.

Later in the afternoon, we went to Sam and Danielle's flat for dinner: an Indian curry feast. Another old friend, Mike Seymour, was also there. Charlotte was envious of Zack's bungee baby bouncer. I was envious of Zack's apparent ability to look enthusiastic about everything he sees or hears, and saddened that that innocence will all too quickly disappear. Other than just chatting, the four of us mainly played a lot of Call of Duty.

When we left, Charlotte noted the regularity of my being undermined by certain friends. Following years of being the physically smallest and most passive influence in my male group of friends, I have long been accustomed to fulfilling the role of the fool or the underdog. Charlotte can probably understand now why so many of my close friends are female, and why I have recently chosen to spend more time with university friends, among whom I feel more respected. I am beginning to enjoy less the company of those that still, unwittingly or otherwise, assert their dominance over me (Dave and Chris have massively improved of late). Everyone who knows me knows that I dislike unnecessary arguments or fallouts, but I am finally starting to stand my ground. If any improvements are to be made, there needs to be positive communication. If I don't feel there can be, then perhaps it is time to let these relations wander peacefully.

On Friday evening, Charlotte and I dressed up to eat at Koreana in Manchester city centre. The meal was typically delicious - I had my usual beef dumplings and chicken bibimbap, with Charlotte's plum wine sorbet the clearest tasting dessert I have possibly ever tasted. When we were finished, we traipsed to Piccadilly Gardens to meet Dave, Andy and Becky to spend a few hours in Satan's Hollow. With the booming music and my regularly disappearing to speak with the many friends popping up, including Lauren and Sarah Thacker, Charlotte felt a little uncomfortable alone in a strange environment and spent a while at the end of the night standing in the dark corner near the door until I'd said my goodbyes. Unable to speak without screaming due to the noise, we had a few conversations that night by text. Somehow, one turned into a word association/pun game: tired tyred tiered tigered llamaed laméd blasé blancmange carte blanche carpe diem carp of the day... As a poet, my fondness for playing with words is obvious.

On the late bus home, Charlotte and I had the misfortune to be sat near a group of drunken men who were threatening certain passengers. They discovered that the person at the front was French, and proceeded to ask them questions about his country only for them to disbelieve his answers. One poor individual who got irritated by their comments gave them a look, and was consequently met by a tirade of homophobic abuse. We were extremely thankful when the leader of the group got off the bus one stop before us. It disappoints me that inconsiderate people like that continue to exist, even in our modern day society.

Before accompanying Charlotte to the station on Saturday, my parents took us for a late lunch at Café Rouge in the Trafford Centre. Charlotte appeared very impressed by the scale and grandeur of the place, in its gold chandeliers and enormous marble staircases; having spent pretty much every weekend there with Dave in my early teenage years, it only occasionally presents such wonder for me. I'd never been to Café Rouge before, but when we walked past it looking for somewhere to pitch I immediately wanted the recent French theme to continue, choosing to eat as provincially as possible: Confit de canard with Cabernet Sauvignon wine, topped off by a trio of crème brûlées.

I reiterate that I would love to spend several months wandering around France in the future, not only to try the local food, but to immerse myself into the culture. Watching Paris, je t'aime with Sarah on Sunday, following another trip to Rivington, only reinforced this desire further.
I also remembered a cinquain I wrote, influenced by Sarah at the start of last year when I was still experimenting with the form. I don't believe that I've deposited it here yet:

Confetti (January? 2008)
(Shy) Sleek, soft,
With vibrant (twinkling) green
Bordered by adult black.
Why try? I know I won't forget
Those eyes...

I finally finished Washington Square that evening; when I return to Norwich, it will all be poetry, so that may be the last novel I read for a little while. Yesterday, I dropped in on Sam and Andy for the last time before I travel back tomorrow, and today is Dave's birthday so I'll soon be meeting him to head into the city for dinner. (Coincidentally, it is a year today that I met the girl I've spent nearly eight peaceful months with. Long may it continue!)

The CWS retreat is next week, and after that I will have eight weeks to prepare for my degree's final year. I'm sure there will be plenty of escapades in between, especially with the new friends I hope to make in the Eastern Blues. The reconcentrated future can wait just a little longer; I'm going to enjoy life while it is still scattered and light. (4.54pm)

Current Mood: Excited.
Current Music: Murder by Death - Who Will Survive, and What Will Be Left of Them? (album)

Mistaken for strangers. (Part one.)
'Oh, you wouldn't want an angel watching over;
Surprise, surprise: they wouldn't wanna watch
Another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults...'

"'You know a part of him - what he has chosen to show you. But you don't know the rest.'" (Washington Square, Chapter XI)

Despite my own advice at the end of the last entry, I didn't end up having any sleep until halfway through the train journey up to Thornaby. I chose instead to eat a very late dinner (having forgotten to do so earlier in the night) and finish packing before catching a taxi headed for Manchester Piccadilly at around quarter to six.

Like couriers or freight workers, taxi drivers are paid to carry a burden safely from one place to another. Ideally, anyone that works with a motor vehicle for a living can take something to its destination without too much hassle - anyone in that field that can't needs a swift reassessment of their position - but that skill alone in a taxi driver is not particularly exceptional. Admittedly, some of the characteristics of inanimate 'loads' are certainly evident in the people that taxi drivers look after temporarily, like the tendency to become distressed when bashed around during a journey. However, we are a more complex cargo; we can ask for additional services to just physical comfort while we are taken from A to B. The best taxi drivers, I've found, are able to adapt to such requests, providing things like good conversation to entertain their passenger(s) sufficiently, preventing a potentially long ride from becoming tedious and perhaps even making the transfer seem an adventure in itself.

I believe my driver to have been a master of his craft. A smiling late middle-aged man with glasses and greying hair, he asked the usual questions as we sped east out of Salford towards the bright morning - where was I heading, for what purpose and so on - before enquiring about what I do normally. I told him that I'm a literature student in Norwich, specialising this year in poetry and the works of Henry James. He was very keen in engaging with these topics, wondering if I'd heard about the new poet laureate (that being Carol Ann Duffy, one of my earliest influences) and being eager to learn more. He made no effort to talk about himself (because, of course, the customer is the highest importance), and whatever he lacked in knowledge in my area of interest he made up for with enthusiasm. I got out of the cab at the station, pleased with our conversation, and I wished him well for the rest of his shift. That driver served as a confidence boost for twenty minutes. The ten pounds felt extremely well spent. That is how trade should be done.

On the train, with the First Class cabin almost empty, I decided to upgrade my ticket for the luxury of leg room and a table to sleep on for the second half of the journey after continuing with Washington Square. Charlotte met me on the Victoria bridge between Stockton and Thornaby and we walked back to her new flat in the former's town centre. It sits above an alt shop on the high street, overlooking the centre with a pub directly opposite. The hall has a strong scent of smoke left by the flat's previous owners but fortunately I quickly adjusted to it. The flat was furnished and decorated well by student standards, more reminiscent of Sam and Danielle's flat than my house on Heigham Road with leather sofas in the lounge and a double sized bed in Charlotte's room.

After cuddling up for a while and catching up on sleep for an hour or two, Charlotte received a call from her mother telling us to meet her in a nearby car park. She, Charlotte's stepfather Derrick and Charlotte's two half-sisters had made the journey north from Wellingborough to visit for the weekend, and had stayed at the flat for dinner on the night before. Climbing into their seven-seater car, we were taken for lunch at an ever-vibrant Frankie & Benny's. Charlotte wanted to leave as soon as we stepped inside, greeted by swarms of children clambering over chairs for parties. Despite the excessive clamour the place made over birthday celebrations with songs over the PA system (I don't think I've ever heard a chant of Happy Birthday addressed to 'Dear Patron' before), the informal atmosphere helped me settle in with Charlotte's relatives more easily. After we'd finished eating, we were taken to Argos so that Charlotte could buy some essentials for her room (a DIY bookcase, a new bedcover and a laundry basket) before being dropped off back at the flat. On the short drive back, I smilingly listened to the argument that Ellie and Alex, Charlotte's young half-sisters, had regarding the latter's control over the balloon she was given at the diner; Ellie was annoyed that it kept blowing towards her and slapped it away. Alex demanded an apology on the 'sad' balloon's behalf.

I had been slightly nervous beforehand about meeting Charlotte's mother; the tone Charlotte adopts when discussing her has always been one of embarrassment or distaste, and I had been half-led to believe that she was socially inept and inherently dislikeable. On the contrary, I found her, and the rest of her party, to be quite acceptable: she may have made the occasional faux pas but she was nowhere near as objectionable as Charlotte made her out to be. Charlotte maintains that she was simply being well-behaved. Admittedly, I have the same self-consciousness about my own parents in company, albeit not such a intense or vocal one. I suppose it's an awareness left over from adolescence, where any tiny social flaw can be perceived as humiliating.

The days I spent with Charlotte in the flat were typically quiet. With Charlotte's two housemates Rachel and Chloe having left for the summer, the flat was all our own to lounge around in. During the afternoons, we mainly read or used the Playstation 2 (for Guitar Hero!), watching films in the evening before we went to bed, like Fight Club (which I had wanted to see for a while, due to its similarity to American Psycho - the former is probably the better film, the latter the better book) and the heartwarming The Diving Bell and the Butterfly (which, being in French, was unsurprisingly lent to me by Sarah). One evening, Charlotte also took me to see the nearby school where she had been working on placement.

On Sunday, soundtracked by the CD radio, we attempted to build Charlotte's wooden bookcase; her constant reading means that she owns an abundance of books of various genres, too many to leave in a pile against her bedroom wall. Having only the worn and ineffective tools left behind by previous tenants to use on the fiddly materials, the process quickly became irritating. Once a screwdriver had been hurled and embedded into the carpet, we became apathetic and waited until Derrick could bring us better equipment on the following day. We eventually left it without the back panel, flimsy but functional, desperate to avoid wasting more time with nails.

We wandered out onto the high street on Monday afternoon for lunch, also looking in the nearby charity shop and WH Smith for books. Excluding an old copy of Jurassic Park (which I fondly remember reading during a car journey several years ago), my purchases were all Eastern European, mainly Russian: a collection of Chekhov's best short stories, Crime and Punishment, Anna Karenina, The Unbearable Lightness of Being and a copy of War and Peace for the bargain price of £2. With all the poetry I should be reading at the moment, I plan on saving these delights for later, as my side-interest in European classics continues. Having started War and Peace and uncharacteristically abandoning it ('because reading it was an interminable, unstimulating, toilsome experience'), Charlotte has playfully bet me that I will not finish it before my twenty-fifth birthday. We will have to see about that.

Not long after we returned to the flat, an almost apocalyptically heavy storm started, with hail battering the windows and rain flowing over the roofs. I watched and listened curiously from the open bathroom window as the grey sky cackled and the water began to flood the small alley behind the flat, causing the trash left from the takeout restaurants next door floating confusedly against the walls. Charlotte and I went downstairs to check the hallway, which by this point had already turned into a muddy, silty stream trickling through the closed back door to congregate in a pool at the front where the door was watertight. Our main concern was for the electrical equipment nearby; thankfully, neither of us were frazzled, and we drained the corridor.

On Tuesday, Charlotte and I officially achieved domesticity in baking a home-made chocolate cake together. All did not go to plan, however, as, lacking a tin, Charlotte placed the cake mix into the oven inside a plastic container she believed would survive the heat. Needless to say, it didn't. By the time that the cake had properly cooked, the plastic had melted around the entire base of the cake, essentially becoming a plate. Unbeknownst to me, Charlotte had seen this happen halfway through and neglected to interfere, thinking perhaps rightly of the hassle needed to transfer the cake elsewhere. After freeing the majority from its car wreck with a knife and peeling the base off, the cake was actually not that bad. The topping was a little too bitter to be perfect (dark chocolate is my least favourite of the three) but our first joint foray into baking was not a complete failure.

Having bumped into Tim and Hannah earlier while out buying ingredients, they arrived at the flat in the evening and we shared conversation over another dinner at Peking Gardens. As a couple, they are undoubtedly quieter than Charlotte and I, particularly Hannah who is quite reserved and unused to our humour; Charlotte and I have a quirky dynamic that is often only intelligible or appropriate between ourselves. There were numerous awkward silences, and at times their shy reactions to some topics made me feel extremely crude!

On the way back to the flat, we were approached by a homeless man named Paul who had a speech impediment. While everyone else wanted to keep walking, once I've given recognition to someone seeking my attention I find it extremely rude to ignore them. He looked less homeless than most, dressed in a decent jacket and shoes with a vest underneath. Before the inevitable asking for money, he told us he had come to Stockton for a kickboxing competition, being a champion himself (he proved this by showing us how high he could kick: very) but had been robbed by fellow competitors of a heavier class. Without money, he was now waiting a few more days for a lift home.

He was very social and complimentary, saying he had stopped us because we looked nice. He shook our hands repeatedly and taught us (without our asking) how to defend ourselves against someone trying to strangle us (that being lifting their arm and snapping it at the elbow). I was concerned about my arm being used in the demonstration! Before leaving us, he mentioned that he would be around for the next few hours, so if we had any problems all we had to do was seek him out. All in all, a bizarrely lovable individual.

It would be safe to say at this point that I have a strange fascination with homeless people. Their situation forces them to be more social than perhaps they may usually be - in my experience, many have been intriguing and likable characters - but unfortunately the stigma surrounding them, especially our cynicism about their motives, leads us to maintain emotional, and often physical, distance. It seems to me a very sad and strange limbo - to be clearly human from their faults and yet regularly not treated as such by their fellow man.

More to follow after a few hours in bed. (Started Tuesday July 14th, around 9pm. July 16th, 3.54am.)

Current Mood: Tired.
Current Music: Psapp - The Only Thing I Ever Wanted (album).

St. Modesto / I could be with anyone.
'I know you'd take one on the chin; you'd take it in the teeth for me;
We are a team, but we are untied. I'm sinking with the weight
Of all the things I cannot do, but when I'm losing it, I know, I know you're losing it too...'

It turns out that the effects of Sunday's walk on my left foot have been slightly worse than expected. For the last few days, I've been hobbling around with what I assume to be a sprain on the side, on long enough walks to disregard even the starting R of RICE, never mind the other three letters. That foot is most likely weaker than the other due to all the incompletely healed injuries it's sustained over the years from my stumbling on uneven surfaces or going over awkwardly during games of football. Yesterday (as I am now into Saturday morning) was less strenuous than the previous three days, so I should be able to walk comfortably again by the time I return home.

Mike's 21st birthday celebrations have lingered on, with him taking time off work this week with the aim of having continuous company until the finale tonight, a fancy dress gathering at Rock Kitchen. As I told him, he was perhaps a little over-ambitious, as he has spent most days bored and alone due to most friends understandably having other commitments or logistical issues in attending. This Monday and Thursday, I attempted to soften the blow by offering him my time, mainly playing video games and poker either at his house (on Monday, with Farran, a gamer friend from college) or mine (Thursday, when I couldn't leave the house due to my mum forgetting her keys before work).

Once my mum was safely home on Thursday night, we shared cake and wine at his house with his friend Olivia, who had left her two children with a babysitter. Tony, Mike's work colleague at the martial arts centre where he teaches, also joined us for a while from his house a few doors down the street. Drinking with someone almost a decade older who has already been through a marriage (Olivia) and someone who is still in one (Tony) is not a situation I find myself in often - they clearly have more serious considerations to worry about than I do!

Another visit to see Sam and Danielle on Wednesday afternoon left a similar impression. In our time together, I took losing badly at an Xbox party game personally, and felt slightly bored of waiting on the regular and lengthy occasions when they had to take a break to feed or comfort Zack.

With numerous friends purchasing property or starting families, I almost feel in a prolonged adolesence. My parents are constantly warning me that I will probably face a culture shock when my time at university is over and I finally need to pursue a job, but I intend on enjoying this period of comparatively low responsibility while I am still young and able. Hopefully, three quarters of my life are still glittering in the darkness ahead - why burden myself with more unnecessary worry now?

The most eventful days I've spent this week (Tuesday, Friday) have been with Sarah Thacker. Feeling staying inside to be a waste of this week's humid warmth and intermittent sunshine, she picked me up on Tuesday afternoon to lead us on a walk up Rivington Pike. During the journey there, we sang songs by Stars and Brand New in the car, speaking of past relationships, music, literature and university as we wandered up, took in the spectacular view of the reservoirs and surrounding barn houses, then, eventually, (after hours of being lost in the woods in the rain, being attacked by uncomfortably large insects!) made our way back to the car.

Sarah has just finished her first year at London Metropolitan; she shares my love of the city's diversity and emotional isolation, but is only studying at the Met due to problems during her A-Level years, which she consequently completed with two qualifications, albeit A grade, instead of the usual three. We both agree that she would be perfectly capable of studying at the neighbouring UCL if not for her unfortunately compromising position.

When we were done exploring for the day, we made our way back to my house to watch Amélie, a film that Charlotte had lent to me during my last visit. As could be expected, Charlotte was entirely accurate in advocating it for me, it not only being a wonderfully quirky film but also part of the French culture for which I have held much fascination since I started learning the language in my childhood, despite unfortunately never spending a prolonged (if any) time in the country's cities, or, as I have previously mentioned, having had the opportunity to make use of my knowledge.

I particularly enjoyed the film's definition of character through the examination of strange mannerisms and habits (like collecting discarded photographs from the cracks beneath booths, for example!) rather than the rather limiting familial roles one often sees on gravestones; I was quite disappointed to see my late grandfather described merely as a 'loving grandfather and father' on my last visit to Agecroft Cemetary with my parents on Father's Day. For me, such basic descriptions are incredibly empty, and are not a fitting tribute to the individual that has been lost. I hope that, when my time comes, no one will be neglectful enough to allow me to be remembered in such a depressingly generic manner, and I will refuse to accept any of my friends or family suffering the same oblivion either.

Being so close to King's Cross and the Eurostar, and ever restless, Sarah has made several trips to Paris over the last year, owning several films (like Amélie) based in the city. We enjoyed Amélie so much that I encouraged her to bring them with her on her next visit. Last night, we watched De battre mon cœur s'est arrêté, which was certainly grittier but equally enjoyable, in between a quick drive out to buy Mum cigarettes, before listening to Chris Walla and mewithoutYou together for a while during our conversation.

While she is never completely satisfied with staying in one place for too long, perhaps due to her moving around regularly in her childhood, I, though being equally partial to adventure, prefer to return to my domestic core, having lived in the same house in Swinton for all of my life and having permanent contacts in my family and Charlotte. My study into Sophia Jensen's fate in Good Morning, Midnight whilst writing my modernism essay over Christmas has provided warning enough for me to defend my centre. I have already brought the novel into Sarah's attention, along with What Maisie Knew, the novel I read at the start of my fresher year whose psychological depth has proved so influential in my writing since.

We spoke about the occasional British lack of European passion, and feeling caught between the popular community and the artistic one: being too independent to fit into the former but somehow not feeling incisive enough to be entirely at ease in the latter. I don't consider myself to be as consistently critical or imaginative as I would like to be - my mind feels sharp at times, sluggish at others, and it does not always cooperate with my mouth well enough to maintain wit or eloquence; consequently, I stumble. Perhaps I can console myself with the idea that even the greatest of thinkers and speakers aren't at their best all of the time. Hopefully, as I gain experience, confidence will follow.

Sarah and I have probably spent more time together in the last ten days than ever before. We considered the other day how most close friendships begin completely by accident and sneak up on their owners quietly - remembering how guarded Sarah was when we first spoke properly two years ago, where we are now is a marvel. We are sufficiently similar and separate to work well.

It would be impossible for me to lie and say that my affection is exclusive only to Charlotte, considering how much I have to admire about many other friends, but it would also be incredibly unfair to suggest that she is not my absolute highest priority. In terms of my interest, Charlotte receives the main meal; others are offered the leftovers. Although I admit that I have a lot of those, I am aware enough of my loyalties not to spoon it actively into their mouths - morsels of love are satisfying enough.

To an extent, it could be said that I'm in love with everyone. I'm not saying that it's right, but for now it's just what I am. Who knows yet whether that is what I'll be?

There's a train to catch in three hours. Some sleep now would be wise. (3.55am)

P.S. My marks statement finally appeared online this afternoon - somehow, I averaged 68% for this mess of a year! I expected a comfortable 2:1, but nothing as high, so I'm delighted. My exam grades both ended up on the 2:2/2:1 boundary which is a little disappointing by itself, but a fair and expected result in the circumstances. With a little more effort, stability and luck, I could pull my dreams of a First off yet. The hard work begins next month.

Current Mood: Tired.
Current Music: Kevin Devine - Brother's Blood (album).

Bullet to binary (Pt. two).
'We all well know we're gonna reap what we sow
But grace, we all know, can take the place of all we owe'

This week began with an evening with Andy, during which we had one of our recently-missed academic conversations.. Richard Armes, a friend from UEA that shared the house with John and Will last year, often fills his Facebook statuses with tongue-in-cheek jokes spanning a variety of topics; that afternoon, it was a mildly sexist one about moving 'the coffeemaker' (his girlfriend) from the kitchen to the bedroom. Through mental association, I suddenly remembered the synopsis for a sci-fi story that I wrote in 2004, and had hidden in a shoebox inside one of my drawers, about a society in the future consisting entirely of women. I had titled it The Third Development.

(What appears below is an updated and paraphrased version of my original synopsis. Background detail has been added or modfied as I have since seen fit, but the skeleton of the plot has been left untouched.)

Around a century after the present day, genders in Western society are more equal than ever before. The Americans have sworn in several female Presidents, and women have finally achieved 100% wage equality. With global rises in violent crime and rioting, scientists theorise that the male Y-chromosome is the dominant cause for unstable behaviour in human society. After mass political debate, Earth decides to undertake a controversial experiment: men are 'phased out' indefinitely over several decades, surviving only as eunuchs used for test purposes. Giant sperm banks are created worldwide so the race may live on while research continues. The 'Third Development' is the final ideal of this project - the theoretical point at which men may be successfully rehabilitated into an entirely peaceful world.

The Third Development is similar to the rest of my earlier prose efforts in that my only true concern was what made the more entertaining story - any plausibility, scientific or otherwise, was merely a nice bonus. I didn't provide any details as to how the men were initially removed, but I think it's safe to assume that it would not have been lightly.

When Andy arrived at my house, I had just been discussing the idea with Charlotte, which led to me explaining it to him before we left for a kickabout in his back garden. We also contemplated the themes of the piece - is a perfect human society inherently unattainable? - and the scientific possibilities of an all-female community. Both of them said that the story has originality and potential, and I'm quite optimistic about its chances if I were to polish it up with sufficient time and research. It is definitely a project that I plan to return to later.

On Tuesday night, I spent the evening with Lauren and Sarah Thacker as we watched Brand New at the Academy. The two picked me up in Sarah's car around six, and we bombed into the city centre in an attempt to beat the traffic, with Take That playing on the same night. I was the only one that had a ticket before we arrived - Sarah paid for a spare ticket from a friendly stranger I met on Last.fm, and Lauren secured hers for twice as much from a tout outside. All of the relationship history floating around between the three of us led to some interesting banter - this was the first time since I was with Lauren in 2006 that I spent time with them both together, despite how close Lauren and Sarah are. I have known the two of them misleadingly long.

Remembering to protect my ears for once, considering the damage they've suffered already, I took earplugs to the concert and wore them all the way through. It made conversation between songs amusingly difficult, and those who didn't know me may have thought I had wax issues, but it strangely made the sound quality better - it was only when I took them out temporarily to test the difference that I realised how much of the sound at concerts is just excess noise.

I took a particular liking to Kevin Devine, the final support act before Brand New took the stage. He had an effervescent presence at the front of his band and his songs had a more individual feel than those of Moneen, the eager to please but unspectacular band that preceded him.

Brand New performed as I expected them to this time around, falling loose a little after a boisterous start. It was not as memorable or powerful a performance as I felt it was in 2007, not helped by the expectedly quiet reception to the two new songs in the middle and the set's lack of singalongs and first album favourites. Ending the set on Welcome to Bangkok, an instrumental, proved slightly anti-climactic when You Won't Know was perfect last time. In his support set, Kevin Devine performed a cover of Nirvana's 'School'; Jesse expressed regret that only a few people in the crowd seemed to know what it was. Here lie the perils of being of an older generation.

The Shower Scene
The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows
The No Seatbelt Song
Sic Transit Gloria... Glory Fades
Okay I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don't
Instrumental?
Jaws Theme Swimming
Play Crack the Sky
Gasoline
Sowing Season
Archers
Jesus Christ
Luca
Bride
Degausser
You Won't Know
Welcome to Bangkok

After meeting up briefly with Chris Barton, who also attended, the three of us sat around the back of the venue for a while on the off-chance of seeing the band emerge. The two support acts were available to speak with instead, but they were not the main attraction, and I never know what to say in that sort of situation other than the usual inane praise. It would have been especially awkward considering I'd only heard their music for the first time just over two hours earlier! Giving up, we headed back to Sarah's car and she drove us home.

Dave and I watched Man on the Moon on Friday evening with a take-away. It's a shame Jim Carrey's acting talents are at times underestimated, as he is clearly equally capable of producing nuanced performances as he is at physical comedy.

Mike's party last night was unsurprisingly dramatic. It started rather slowly, as he arrived to pick Dave and I up and back to his house in Cadishead where we dallied with martial arts in the garden. Once more people turned up and the evening got underway, I got involved in a poker game with Adam Brown (who turned up in a Duff cycling shirt), Dave and Gemma, Mike's on/off girlfriend. The former two were complete amateurs to the game, but I forgot how difficult it is to play against that sort and consequently came third - in a way, their naive aggression is more effective than the fickle caution I play with now.

Soon enough, the alcohol began to flow and the music was started. Even Lee, Mike's friend who is currently training to be a technician in the RAF, managed to join the celebrations. Strangely, several of Mike's neighbours came to pay a visit - several of us found ourselves in the house of an Indian wedding party after the groom had excitedly invited us over, only to be asked politely by one of the matriachs if we could swiftly leave.

Mike had been typically abrasive with several of his guests at times, and disappeared for a long period after an argument with Gem. He turned up again horrendously drunk, shirtless and in tears, as she went outside to sit in the car for a breather. I tried to speak with her in the front to gain objectivity in the situation, but Mike soon opened the door and briskly told me to move. As always, I did as I was told and backed off. The situation looked resolved when they headed upstairs to sleep, smiling, but I know them better than that. It would probably be easier for me not to get involved with relationships this volatile; there are some dark caverns out there that even curious writers shouldn't dare explore, but still I want to strike truth up like a match. I either need more courage to do it, or the better sense to resign.

Everyone started falling asleep at around three in the morning. The doors had been locked, and I knew I wouldn't sleep. Facing several hours of tension in that claustrophobic place, I picked open the kitchen window with some scissors and made my escape. The walk home to Swinton was seven and a half miles, taking just over two and a half hours, but I felt freer by the end of it, so it was worth the blisters.

I'm heading back to East Anglia on July 17th. A week of writing and drinking at Will's Isleham cottage (a.k.a: the CWS summer retreat) will start on the following Monday, with the first Eastern Blues meeting back in Norwich the night after. Of course, it means a lot of flitting around, but I would much rather that than too long staying still. For now, however, I'm still in hibernation. (12.29am, June 29th)

Current Mood: Thoughtful.
Current Music: Kevin Devine - Carnival.

Bowl of oranges. (Part four.)
With Charlotte on placement again on Thursday, I decided to be more adventurous with my time than the day before and catch the train to Newcastle. Plans had been made to spend the day with Vicki Wilson, my first ever girlfriend, and a friend I had only physically met once before in November of 2003. After almost six years, then, a meeting was considerably overdue.

Whilst catching the connecting train from Darlington, however, Vicki sent me a text message asking for a rain check; her grandmother had collapsed in North Shields and been taken to the hospital, so a visit was obviously necessary. Even though I would be alone in an unfamiliar city for at least a few hours, if not all day, I had already bought my ticket and I was therefore determined to make the most of the situation, hoping it would provide some ideas for Orientation.

After stepping out into the unexpectedly cold air of the station, I spent the next half an hour pottering around inside with a hot chocolate (in June!) before eventually buying a miniature map to find my way around the city. I asked Charlotte in a text conversation for any ideas on where I could wander first: she suggested BALTIC Art Centre. I headed east, faithful to my map on unknown streets, winding downhill towards the banks of the Tyne before following the slow but persistent flow of the river down Quayside. The voices of passers by reminded me of soft, melancholy music, distant from the occasionally grating Manchester accent.

My few hours in BALTIC on that cloudy day were enjoyable ones. I scoured every floor, moving quietly between the tiny constructions of Sarah Sze's Tilting Planet to the floor influenced by Charles Darwin's work. The most influential exhibit, from my perspective, was of Tobias Putrih's inherently unstable structure, built to the ceiling with blocks of styrofoam. As I joined others in the room to play with Jenga blocks, and stood in the viewing booth outside watching the river, the cars trailing over the bridges, and the seagulls in their nests, all lined in a row on the sill, I thought about how everything shares that impermanence and irresolution. Even our own experience is fragile; although an outline may remain, the details are ultimately unsalvageable - mere drawings on an Etch A Sketch which is forever shaken up.

'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'

My explorations of the rest of Newcastle city centre took me northwest, through Monument and Newcastle United's stadium to the lake in Leazes Park. There, Vicki contacted me, saying her grandmother was fine and she was now sitting with a friend in the Starbucks on Northumberland Street.

Spending time with Vicki again when so much had occurred in between was unusual, to say the least, but also more comfortable than I expected. Our dynamic has always been flirtatious, fitting in with her natural personality, and with six years of shared history to fall back upon too, it was not that difficult to make conversation. Mostly, we chatted about relationships, both the tumultuous one we shared at the start of our adolescence and those with our current partners. By this point, it was already getting late in the evening, and Charlotte would have had returned from school. Both acutely aware of our respective loyalties, we eventually concurred that it was time for me to leave. I hope there isn't another six years of development to wade through before we meet again.

On Friday morning, I was up early, pressing Refresh excessively online with Pete in an attempt to capture a ticket to see Muse in London when their new album comes out in the autumn. Unfortunately, the slow campus internet connection meant all the tickets were gone before we, or my Uncle Iain, who was also trying to get two for him and Colin, got to see a payment page. In desperation, he instead bought four seats for Dublin on Friday November 9th; obviously, travelling there will be more difficult, but a weekend away is definitely better than nothing. Charlotte will be tagging along with me and my two family members for the experience. Flights and hotels will be booked soon. (Friday itself was an unremarkable day, the main events of which were a trip to the local pub with Georges, discussing the house Charlotte will be moving into just before my next visit next week, and my first watch of Mamma Mia!. To me, ABBA's music, as I suspect it is to many others my age, is a somewhat guilty pleasure - the film would be classified in exactly the same way.)

Charlotte and I made another trip to Newcastle to see Pete on Saturday afternoon. Our first destination was the children's section of Fenwick's, where the three of us played with plush toys and model trains, commented on Mr. Tickle's sexual deviancy, and Charlotte and I had a plastic sword fight in the middle of an aisle while she wore a sheriff's hat. She took off one arm and two legs but I stabbed her in the back. The loss of three limbs? T'is but a scratch! After another visit to BALTIC, and a race with Charlotte down the huge staircase linking its floors, we wandered down the streets of the city singing. I experimented with the prospect of being blind and having Charlotte as my carer, and had a picture taken of me sitting in an alcove which Charlotte later modified to make me look like Abraham Lincoln. I appreciated the temporary regression to childhood with two close friends.

Facing a delay at Darlington station for our connecting train home, I gave Charlotte a running piggyback down the platforms and we wrote a haiku about cats on a business card machine. She now has ten copies of this masterpiece stowed around, with an accompanying picture of a tabby:

'Miaow' is the sharp sound
That cats make when you're clumsy
And stand on their tails.

Once back on Queen's Campus, we walked over to the Riverside to attend Stevenson College's student rep elections. Chloe was one of the runners for Freshers' Rep next year, and several of her friends were there to show their support. The building was slightly flashier than UEA'S Union Bar, both in location and furnishings, but felt more like a conference centre than a place for students to get drunk. Some potential reps were more likeable than others; I naturally found the short, loud and tipsy Liverpudlian girl irritating, along with the obviously toff boys trying to sway the female vote. I had forgotten just how important alcohol consumption is to a fresher's experience, after a year of being comparatively out in the cold. In a way, I envied these reps and their manifestos for their receiving the chance to prolong their lack of responsibility. It was strange for me to feel involved in the entertainment as an outsider to this community, but I had definitely grown closer to Charlotte's circle of friends. Continuing the Meryl Streep theme started on the previous night, Charlotte and I went to sleep watching Angels in America, a series I had been interested in a while. It undoubtedly deserved six hours of my life.

On Sunday, my parents drove the two hours north to take me home. Their journey saved me having to catch the train early in the morning, allowing me to have one last lie-in with Charlotte. Before we left, they took Charlotte and I for a Sunday lunch at a local pub, a strange establishment with an open connection to the Chinese restaurant next door. My mum began suffering from sciatica while I was away, caused by her constant twisting at her work desk, and had difficulty climbing in and out of the car. I have had to help her out of bed on some mornings recently; thankfully, her condition is beginning to improve. Back at Queen's, I gave Charlotte a prolonged and ever-difficult goodbye until I travel to see her again next Saturday (July 4th). Her placement will have finished by then and she will have also moved into her new house, so we will finally be able to share a bed and have the room to spread out - a luxury we've eagerly awaited since staying at her aunt's flat last November.

That night brought the much-discussed result of the European elections, with Labour suffering a devastating loss and the BNP achieving two representatives from Manchester and Yorkshire. My involvement with politics is usually passing; however, the dismay some friends expressed about the loss managed to catch my attention. I initially joined them in dismay, arguing that the BNP's propaganda had swayed the influential working class. Some debate with Pete soon exposed my naivete as to the extent of the situation, and the flaws of my vague liberalism.

It is regrettable that our country's most outspoken racists have earned the right to represent themselves on a continental platform, but two seats is hardly a catastrophic return; the UK as a whole are too intelligent ever to vote a party with such absurd policies into power. They have succeeded in promising the voting public what it has perhaps most wanted for years: a reassessment, however flawed, of immigration policy - an issue that Labour and the other mainstream parties have been far too lacklustre to address. The Tories are a marginally better option at the moment, but not by much. (I still would vote Lib Dem, if I have to pigeonhole my views.) A general election is surely necessary, and parties clearly need to reconsider their approaches. The temporary rise of the BNP may be morally unfortunate, but as an expression of democracy it has been remarkably effective. The elections made our disillusionment clear: the country feels betrayed by the party that's meant to represent them, and core demographics are switching allegiances in return. By administering a short, sharp shock to the bloated establishment, the BNP, however controversial, may have done the rest of us a favour.

I have spent the last few weeks quietly, occupying myself with video games, and, since it started this week, Wimbledon when I have not been in or out with friends, or undertaking various maintanence tasks like renewing my passport.

Friday 12th and Monday 15th were the two days I spent with Tom before his long-awaited departure to Indonesia - he is currently spending several weeks over there to conduct marine biology research. The Monday evening was spent drinking in his garden, discussing our old adventures in Dublin, Rome and Edale and fantasising of new ones in America next year - it turns out he also is planning a summer road trip. Having Andy on board would be invaluable. The Friday was strange in that after an afternoon spent playing Call of Duty 4, we made a trip to the Printworks with Andy and my father to watch Terminator: Salvation and share a few drinks in Deansgate. The film was sufficiently entertaining, and certainly never dull, but sadly eschewed the franchise's established heart in favour of all-out, if impressive, action; in a way, it became the machine it has been fighting against. Christian Bale's apparent presence in every recent blockbuster unfortunately abets the production-line feel.

Last Sunday was Father's Day, and my parents and I had an Italian lunch at the Trafford Centre. The main entertainment in the Orient that afternoon was a man attempting the world record for the amount of books he could balance on his head. In Dad's honour, I sat through the Ryan Giggs DVD I had bought for him when we got home. The fixture list for the coming season provided an interesting clash, with Chelsea's away game at United currently taking place on my 21st birthday. I have already expressed the strong desire to be in the away end.

My module choices came through quite a while back - unfortunately, I was not lucky enough to get onto the much sought after Words and Music class, unlike several of my friends, but at least that means I will have an all-poetry autumn, exploring the work of Holderlin, Celan and Rilke alongside my dissertation: an arrangement which will surely be of some benefit to Orientation's development.

Speaking of which, my eventual meeting with George Szirtes was fruitful - as an immigrant poet from Hungary, and therefore probably well-experienced in feeling slightly out of place, he was very enthusiastic about my idea of an Orientation collection. His advice was simply to read more, especially travel verse, and think of ways to narrow the focus of a concept that is currently so broad to be unreasonably ambitious, referencing theoretical situations and adventures in several countries that I have never actually visited. That will be my project over the next few months, now that I have had sufficient time to recuperate.

I've been wondering about my eyesight since the start of exams, with my left eye specifically a little more short-sighted than before. I would hardly call it a major inconvenience or concern - over the last few days, I've noticed it much less - but too long has passed without my having my eyes tested anyway. Glasses or contacts shouldn't be required.

Mike is starting his house party for his 21st birthday tomorrow; ambitiously, festivities are set to last for a week. I'm determined to make this initial gathering at least, along with his actual birthday on the 29th, so I best get some sleep to prepare myself for the onslaught. I'll finish this up before Sunday's out. (3.51am, June 27th.)

Current Music: Sarah Blasko/Jenny Lewis/Rilo Kiley.

Bowl of oranges. (Part three.)
When I stepped off the train in Thornaby on the first afternoon of June, Charlotte was already there to greet me with her usual enthusiasm. The weather was particularly bright and windy, and so, in an unusual turn from the t-shirt and skinny jeans I am used to seeing her in, she wore a knee-length skirt and a loose top which billowed in the air.

Her exams had started around when mine had ended, and so for several weeks prior to my visit, conversations between us had not been as lengthy, focused or optimistic as we would have liked, as a consequence of our respective rushing around, fighting as much as possible against hitting life's ever-luring red self-destruct button. The difference was that my year had completely finished; for Charlotte, however, as soon as her exams were over, her previous one or two days a week on placement at a local school have essentially become her weekday job until schools close at the start of next month. Deciding to take advantage of the few empty days in between, and thinking she would be happier with me around as attentive company, I made the arrangements.

The first night was a quiet affair, predominantly spent sitting in Charlotte's Stevenson College box room with pizza, ice cream and an episode of Six Feet Under, aside from the usual joint Internet exploration. Her friend Tim (who I had the pleasure to meet on my visit at Christmas - a passionate Radiohead fan) and his girlfriend Hannah invited us to join them for a school-themed night at the local Che Bar, sitting in the kitchen for a while classily with a Tesco carton of wine, white shirts and freckles drawn on their faces with felt tip pen. I would have been interested, but I was still tired from the journey and, by all accounts, Che Bar isn't really worth the effort if you're not wasted before you arrive.

On Tuesday, we spent a few hours in the afternoon visiting Saltburn, a small seaside town on the east coast. The coastal position was obvious from the minute we stepped off the train to the sound of seagulls and the strong scent of salt, and started walking towards the beach down a street full of bed and breakfasts. My disdain for seaside resorts, especially English ones, has been suggested before after my last trip to Blackpool. I think I disagree with their occasional tawdriness, filled as they can be with garish lights and noises and without any sense of cultural identity outside of entertainment. Saltburn was thankfully more innocent and beatufiul than I expected, perhaps due to its small size.

For an hour or so, we wandered bare-footed down the beach, daring to touch our toes into the chilly North Sea water before immediately pulling them back out, and finding a spot to lie beneath the cliff which loomed over the sand. Continuing to stray along the shore, we bought ice-cream and made a visit to the arcade, finding a hunting video game inside. Having never seen anything similarly tacky before, I put in the 50p and spent the next few minutes shooting doves and bighorn sheep with a rifle, all to the fervent encouragement of a yeehawing American voice-over. I did well enough to progress to the next section, but hung up my gun as soon as it asked me to pay more. After that, we took the steps back up the cliff, turning back momentarily to overlook the yawning sea.

The next morning, Charlotte had to be up early to head out for placement. I sat around playing Football Manager, forgetting even to eat (because according to FM, 'real football managers don't need to eat), dress or open the curtains until she returned at around 4. Charlotte's room is on the bottom floor of her accommodation block; apparently, the windows are tinted from the outside during the day to prevent others peeping in, but I wasn't entirely confident that alone would prevent me from inadvertently flashing her flatmates!

A few hours passed in which we trawled Wikipedia for knowledge, again encountering the Nordic countries. I maintain my desire to make an extended visit to these mysterious and tranquil lands one day, particularly to explore the distant and ethereal beauty that I imagine Iceland and Norway to offer, both geographically and intellectually. The music of Sigur Ros remains as wonderful to me as ever - entirely human in its sentiments, but at times surpassing the limitations of language.

In the evening, we crossed the bridge over the river Tees with several of Charlotte's friends, making the journey from Thornaby to neighbouring Stockton for an all-you-can-eat Chinese meal. The group included Chloe and Rachael, the two people she will be moving into a new place with come next weekend, the jovial Georges, and Megan, who hailed from Stevo's rival college John Snow. There was quite a lot of enjoyable banter flying around the table, mainly concentrating on the topic of films; I began to feel comfortable in their company for the first time since I met them all briefly at Christmas. With Chloe leaving early to head to the cinema, the rest of us decided to follow suit. As soon as we returned to Queen's Campus, we hopped into Georges' car, ready to see Drag Me To Hell.

The fight scene in the car involving the gypsy woman's teeth falling out debunked the film's hype of being terrifying, identifying it instead as unnecessarily gross and camp - in other words, typically Sam Raimi. The film was clearly tongue-in-cheek, and the female lead's eventual downfall was ultimately morally satisfying - sacrificing a kitten, then trying to send the gypsy to hell for the sake of saving her own ambition after contemplating giving the curse to a lonely old man and an admittedly horrible work colleague, she was not a likable character, and deserved cosmic retribution. But while the special effects were decent and the constant shock tactics involving the handkerchief were hilarious, Drag Me To Hell could still have been better.

The main aspect of it that Charlotte and I criticised was the weak characterisation. At a stretch, I can see how the characters' shallowness may have been mocking the horror genre- the scene in which the lead comfort eats ice cream at the dinner table then highlights the cliché of it is particularly relevant - but the first two Scream films already did this, with more intelligent dialogue and more likable characters. Even though Gail Weathers starts off even more of a careerist bitch, she manages to develop and so we respect her for that. Neither the female or the male evoke such sympathy here, despite both being ostensibly intelligent and theoretically capable of it. Although it undoubtedly proved extremely entertaining, there is a strange tension in Drag Me To Hell as to which side we should be rooting for, and why. It is for that reason that I'm unsure how successful this film will be in the long term.

I need to finish catching up with events before I can move on to reading or writing poetry again! Expect a flurry of updates over this weekend. (3.27am, June 26th)

Current Mood: Tired.
Current Music: Laura Veirs - The Cloud Room, among others.

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