I am Student. Hear Me Type.

I Am Student

How Fiction  Life Works

The most well-thumbed book on my desk is 'How Fiction Works' by James Wood. A rather brilliant teacher gave it to me last year and it's quickly become the most useful text ever suggested. I even agree with the FT that it should find it's way onto 'every novel-lover's shelf' because I've used it for everything since. Even if not directly relevant, there's a little bit of inspiration that just leaks out of the pages. Maybe it's passion. Maybe it's the fact that I can't help but agree with much of what is said. Whatever it is, this book is sort of like my bible. 

Tomorrow, you see, I have a midterm. Balzac, Dickens, Flaubert - these are the great writers that I've somehow to analyse and assess and place into a coherent essay in one hour. The Black Sheep, Hard Times, Madame Bovary - these are the 'realist' texts that must be interpreted, word by word, sentence by sentence, metaphor by metaphor. So I'm reading James Wood and taking inspiration from the dog-eared pages that are almost as tea stained as the inside of my bright yellow mug. Flicking through, I've calmed down, the nerves are settled even though I'm woefully under prepared (having a weeks notice tends to do that to you). But this is no book review. As much as I love lauding the inky fingered answers that Wood gives us to the questionable relation between artifice and verisimilitude, I feel I should save that for another day when perhaps I have more interested readers.

No, this entry is about the fact that I am a student and reading this book whilst my thoughts collect like dregs of tea that's steeped too long, has reminded me again of how much I enjoy this. Thoughts connecting, drawing lines, curling like letters to make words; having nothing to distract you; being carried away by a stray idea and then returning to the original concept with a new perspective, a counter argument; feeling interested and being taken on a wild journey inside your own head. Brilliant. 

Sometimes I can just sit here, books open with their spines broken and pages straining shut but held open by strategically placed odds-and-ends (ie. tweezers, lumps of blu-tack, dry tea sachets), and think that actually, yeah being here in America is stressful in a way that's only just short of the IB, but I'm still doing what I love. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 
SCRIBBLER

Living with People

Living with People

My apartment was robbed and everything was replaced with exact replicas...I told my roommate and he said 'Do I know you?' - Steven Wright

When I first started writing this entry I was sitting in the quad curled up under a tree in the shade, the flag pole behind me, the preparations for tomorrows game going up around me and the sound of ten people sitting outside the library playing ukuleles. You may think I'm making this up but I'm not - as I basked with my toes in the midday sun and my face in the shadows - nine boys and one token girl strummed through the chords, singing along together to disney songs, to that inglorious version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow etc. And what's more they were in harmony. This was no mediocre ukulele showdown, it must have been rehearsed.

It was rather wonderful - if I see them again then I'll take a photo. 

I was thinking though (whilst Madame Bovary lay listlessly by my bag, spine cracked on the same page I've been stuck on for the last few days, whilst the ukuleles thrummed in the back of my head and a territorial squirrel began hurling acorns at the girl under the next tree) that having a room mate is probably one of the hardest things that any of us Brits have had to go through since we arrived here. I know that it's certainly one of the hardest things that I've ever done. 

Where this idea came from I suppose is probably the fact that we've all been talking about breaking the contract and trying to find a house for five or something so that we can all live together - with our own rooms, own kitchen etc. It would be such a perfect situation because we'd be able to eat better food, sleep when we need to sleep, stay up when we want to stay up and everyone would have their own space to retreat to at the end of a day when all you really want is to be on your own and mope or something. Because, you all know (if you've read: Tar-Heel Born, Tar-Heel Bred.) that my room mate is Andrea - one of the most hilarious girls I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Yet even if you get along 90% of the time, there are always those moments when you can't help but scowl right?

I mean, mornings. OH those mornings. My family will be smirking to themselves as they remember trying to wake me up for school - it was rather a challenge - and that's not really changed too much with age. Mrs G (my old house mistress from school) definitely saw me at my worst. Andrea has to put up with me - the morning nightmare - everyday. And then she has to put up with me through out it too (at least everyone else was able to push me out the door and off to school). Not only that, I've managed to make it a really bad habit (one that Zoe knows all too well) of being at least 5-10minutes behind so that you have to SPEED walk to class. 

Perhaps I should take this moment to say: ANDREA , I am so so sorry about this terrible ritual I'm in and I promise to try and reduce it to 2-7 minutes from now on!!!

An extended example would probably be music. After  all, I love Andrea's music, I want to steal it (but I have no room on my iPod) because it's all the music that I don't have. But then in the same way that I'm sure mine does  for her, there are times when I'm like URGH TURN IT OFF. 

The good thing is with us, we pretty much can tell each other when that's how we're feeling. If we want quiet, quiet it shall be. But for those brief moments the frustration bubbles and it's because you have a room mate and you just can't help it. Especially for us poor girls. 

So if that's what you're like with your friends then what happens when you're not? I suppose you can just fold into passive roles where it's like a meet-and-greet and you just barely acknowledge each others presence. But that seems so sad. I love coming home and seeing Andrea's face peer up from beneath her lofted bed and to hear her music splash out across the too-quiet-too-white-corridor and then swapping stories about our days. I love our stupidly deep conversations in the middle of the night when we both have 10ams the next day but we feel like arguing about God. I love the fact that we can talk about boys (Guinness eeeehhh) and home and dairy milk and parents and so on. I love that we can be silent and it doesn't feel awkward and that she'll just laugh at my inability to dress myself without procrastinating. I love that I can laugh at her when she wriggles up onto her bed. I love that when we go to boxing we laugh at each other and how incompetent we are (and hopefully later about how incompetent we were). I love our Diet of Love and our Mirror of Happiness. 

How sad would it be not to have any of that? And yet, so many people are sharing with people that drive them more insane than the Crazy Frog song. Alex's room mate couldn't be more of an antithesis for him - where our Limey Abroad  is the guy that'll one day be driving tanks (because that's actually what he wants to do) Keown (aka Gun) is the guy that doesn't leave his chair - in favour of playing the role of a tank in Age of Empires or... Star Quest or whatever it is that he plays 24/7. Poor Fiona, stuck with the 18 year old, binge-drinking tween, has over heard certain gossiping Suite-mates. At least they could have the courtesy of saying things to her face. And John. Well. That's a whole other drama (apparently I should insert a winkie face here). 

So I guess that's all I really have to say - I feel incredibly lucky that I have Andy - even though I know I must drive her insane sometimes. Living in a shared space with someone is HARD, people should bear that in mind when they travel abroad. 

For now though... I suggest we all start looking for a flat though for next semester. Could be massively worth it. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
 SCRIBBLER

Frenzied

A Very Short Ramble 

Today is one of those idyllic days that England would only ever see once or twice a year. It's cool, hitting highs of only 17degrees celsius but with a sky so blue and a wind so fresh that it'd hard to remember that this is North Carolina and not a blinding day on the Dorset coast. I went to collect a package (proper British Earl Grey - thank you family!!!) and buy something for lunch (sushi which turned out to be day-old and rancid), it was a nice break from the absolute paralysis of today.


Last night you see, well and Thursday's little adventure, was brilliant. We'd planned for a while to all have dinner at the Wonderful-304 and that finally came into fruition and then, although I was meant to be going to the Mallard Ball,  we ended up in a place called Pulse.


There were sooo many of us and we all tried Long Island Ice Teas: vodka, rum, tequila, triple sex, gin and then a dash of sweet/sour something and coke, although Andrea dashed mine to the floor and then John tipped his down Emma. But all in all rather amusing.

There were only four of the 'well-known-faces' out though and we all cheers to Fiona and to her family because we missed her moves on the sticky old dancefloor. And the fact that between John and Wevine, the rest of us stood no chance in the sing-off!!


Maybe I should feel a little disappointed that I missed the first sorority cocktail but it was so much fun last night that I really can't bring myself to!!


Anyway, I shouldn't be updating this (blame it on boredom and the slight guilt I feel for not updating in sooooooo long before) right now - I should be knuckling down on the essay I have due on Monday. A far-too-short essay comparing the wonderful La Rabouilleuse (The Black Sheep) by Honore Balzac and Dicken's less intriguing Hard Times. Definitely should have done more by now. But it'll be done and I've actually formulated a question now so that's a good start!!!

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
 SCRIBBLER