Back To School

Back To School

Why I Need to Find a Job and why my Nerves were Foolish

So it's begun. 

I had the first two hours of my four-hour-week today. Yup, it's Monday at six o'clock in the evening, the sky is blue with only a hint of a dark cloud rolling away towards the coast and half of my university week has already flown by. I have officially returned as an enrolled student at the University of Edinburgh. The irony that I spent today, of all days, dressed in full on Carolina regalia (carolina hoodie, ron-a-thon tshirt, UNC shorts, red owl back-pack that's definitely seen better days) only dawned on me in the last couple of minutes, but it's a fond sort of irony. 

Today was funny. I woke up to my alarm, heard Zoe in the shower already and rolled over thinking 'right when she comes out, I'll get up and jump in', only I rolled over and fell straight back to sleep. Luckily, being the wonderful friend that she is, she did come in and poke me in the head to wake me up once more. So eight-thirty in the morning, I'm up and dressed and entirely clad in my tarheel uniform, thinking I'll go to the gym. Three hours later, Zoe's gone to class and I'm still not at the gym. 

For those who don't know, when I look outside the living-room window I can SEE the gym. If I wanted to I could lob a lacrosse ball through it's likely-closed-off-chimney without having to use the lacrosse stick. It's that close. But somehow, in my head, as my continued Fringe lurgy made my whole body quiver, I managed to psyche myself out of the venture. 

"People. Will. Be. There." I worried, "Everyone's going to see how horribly out of shape I've become." 

"Oh yes," Replied Self-Consciousness, "And they will be JUDGING YOU."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sensible-Me retorted, "Nobody's going to care. You'll be fine."

"But I'll be on my own."

"You're being a moron. Get up and go." This last one sounded suspiciously like my mother. And Lauren. 

Luckily, as this conversation occurred for the umpteenth time and my Shmoo sent me her zillionth video, Zoe came home and we arranged to go to the gym AFTER class. The other fortunate thing about my brilliant procrastination skills was that I realised horror-of-horrors that I had a tonne of reading to do for my first class that I had yet to do. And then even more for tomorrow as well. Scribbling out notes, hastening through Carruther's and cramming a load of talk on neuroscience and folk psychology, I did at least manage to stay one step ahead of the game and do quite a lot of useful work. 

Turning up to class was fun. I was there a few minutes too early (I was quite convinced that it was meant to start at two but apparently not) then, floating through the corridor came a voice... a familiar, lightly-Scottish brogue that brought a curious smile to my lips. Could it be...? YES! It was David, the brilliant retired-teacher-turned-philosophy-student, who joined Holt, Jo and I on our quest to defeat the university exam system and actually pass it despite (in my case at least) kind of having no clue what on earth was actually going on. I feel this might be a recurrent problem this year... it's all right though, Jo is in my class for Social Cognition and we've already set up a study group at his house on Tuesdays. Phew. It totally put my fears to the side and his surety in this teacher makes me more confident too. 

Tomorrow will be nerve-wracking. I still have to write up everything I've read today and put them on a group document that we can all then read and share. It's all Frued and art and psychoanalysis, so whilst I'm sure my subjects will coincide, I'm a little put out that I've two psychology-based classes when I already know how useless I am at psychology. Hopefully my layman's folkiness will be enough. Also, I'm just hoping that everything will fall together like it did today. I must remember to buy some more notebooks and folders. And rocket salad. 

Wednesday and Thursday will be this weeks deal breakers. Dissertation overview meeting and then supervisor sign up... I'm more than a little concerned that I might not end up with the tutor I need as my supervisor. I'm also quite worried that he might hate my idea and reject my thesis as it stands... Oh me, oh my, this is what happens when I have too much free time and can think and think and think over what's to come. Over-thought things always become mountains when they're even smaller than pimples. 

On the plus side, Friday is only four days away and that means the weekend. Wait... my weekend is on Tuesday. Nevermind. Friday is only four days away and that means the return of the Blueswater Collective (whose review I really do need to remember to edit and post up on here) to Edinburgh. This means my bestest squatters will be in the same city at the same time doing the same thing in the same place (oh em gee it'll be the same trill and everything). Yup, Charlie will be back in town and I'll have a good excuse to go hang out with my favourite non-female trumpet player and maybe it'll stop raining. That last point is probably wishful thinking.

So on with the week! All two hours of it. My gosh I need a job. 

Je serai poète et toi poésie, 

SCRIBBLER

Half - A - Semester Later....

SORRY FOR THE WAIT LOVELY READERS!!!

This is brought to you from MIAMI. But it has NOTHING to do with Spring Break.

It's been a crazy half a semester complete with all the highs and lows of this study-abroad programme. In many ways, this semester has been a lot easier - I'm relaxing more because I've finally taken to heart that it's the experience and not the grades that matter here (I mean... it's pass/fail right?) and there's also the small fact that I don't need to strive with all my punitive might to make friends. No, the hard part, the settling in and finding you feet, the geography and the schematics... that's all done. The Safety Net and the Ways That Be, that's all figured out. 

Of course, some things have been very different from first semester. I'm attending entirely different classes, I've fallen in love with the cutest dog ever and my local haunt seems to have been overrun by new exchange types. I do love those new exchanges though - they're all real characters, especially the Aussies and the new Weegies.... and I've finally met the renown Aiden, befriending the plethora of Irish as we go. Furthermore, things are constantly metamorphosing. Fiona and John have both moved rooms, I'm down a room mate (yup, Andrea has gone home to bonnie auld England) and Alex is shacking up with a pretty Southern Belle.

I'm only just beginning to wrap my head around some of the stuff that's happened. It feels like the only reason I'm able to step back and think is because, right now, I'm sitting in Miami, sipping a hard lemonade, the 'Allner-glow' about my pinkish skin and loving the fact that whilst some people are being strange and evasive, this holiday is looking like a wonderful time to make new friends and reacquainting myself with others.  Not only are some of the Godstowe Girls here (namely Nnesochi and Jackie Mocatta) and tonnes of girls from ADPi Miami/Florida bound - but I met the author of Eve of the Gods yesterday! It was rather wonderful, though since then I've had an interesting time with 'the voices in my head' aka nom de plume M.

Thinking about it, I almost don't want to note down the banal, day-to-day activities of Chapel Hill. I've said it once and I've said it a hundred times: UNC is a tiny, blinking light on a billboard, or maybe just a photon floating along the light pathways given off by said billboard or... I don't know - the giant bowl of Mojito is going to my head. But yes - UNC is infinitesimally puny. I miss the city. I miss big, busy, pollution-filled streets, complete with high street shops and bizarre fashionistas and the muddling crowds. I like being one in a big ocean of people, where everyone makes an effort with how they look and yet people won't comment if you're having a frizz-off with a jew-fro; where everyone acknowledges each other with glances rather than with drawn out small-talk conversations; where dinner is had with a glass of wine and no one looks askance when you buy Ben&Jerry's alongside Pinot Grigio. Chapel Hill is sweet, friendly, you could sleep in the park without fear of lunatics there - in fact, some passerby is more likely to check you into a hotel than to steal your purse - but my god, it's wonderful to be out of the rhythms that harken back to the GCSEs and IBs. What a sweet, strange, nostalgia accompanies the international student at Chapel Hill. 

So instead I'll update you on.... something else. People maybe. Spring break, certainly. But for now, I can promise I'll be back writing in the next few days.

LOVE TO YOU ALL.

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

That Poetry Class

20th Century British and American Poetry

A Snippy Moment 

I'm sure you have better things to do than to read my rambles on the way a straight-backed professor runs his class but I'm going to do this anyway. You might want to do something more interesting, such as sharpen pencils or wash behind your ears instead, I'll understand.

I know also I said that the next post would be on An English Christmas, as a counterpoint to An American Thanksgiving, but since my photos desperately trying to avoid being uploaded, I decided to skip over that for now and launch into the new term. I will come back to Christmas and New Years though - I owe it to the 22ft tree and Zoe CJ to mention it.

In the mean time, I wanted to talk about poetry. This blog started with several ideas in mind - to let my parents and family know that I was alive on a regular basis, to try and construct a narrative about the life of an exchange student, to talk about my ideas (creative and academic) and then finally to simply see if I could. I admit, I haven't been the most successful when it comes to maintaining this thing - I constantly forget about it, start writing and end up boring myself, start reading and realise I'm likely boring you... etc. And I've probably told you a tonne about being here - in terms of the night life and the girls of 304 - but it's not like I've reviewed a night out at East End or critiqued the varying attitudes toward the Greek System. I've told you about meeting people, about feeling new but I've avoided mentioning anything about homesickness or inter-room bitching, or the stress of trying to organise a dozen disparate groups into a single Spring Break plan. I've also completely neglected to put up any ideas whatsoever - except my brief narration of The Epiphany Moment.

Now, with George Lensing as my teacher, I feel obligated to rectify this situation.

Lensing is described on 'ratemyprof' as having 'no respect for his student's opinions', choosing only 'his favourites works' and having select 'favourite students'. He's also described as a 'brilliant, well-read teacher' but a 'task master'. He sounds like my sort of teacher. I like the challenge of trying to impress them, of having to try hard to prove that you have the right to sit in their class and soak up the knowledge that we haven't leant yet. Part of the reason that I loved having JDHorton as a tutor in Edinburgh was because he was so brilliant: he seemed to enjoy teaching us (as long as we all turned up...) and encouraged us to improve our writing, our analysis, our knowledge. He asked us to give as much as we could and if that was more one week and less another, so be it, there were rewards and debate. Perfect. I think we all thrived in his class. This guy... well I can see why he has such mixed reviews.

He's enthusiastic, incredibly well-read, wonderfully opinionated and I want to impress him. I don't know why people have described him as unapproachable because I think he seems like a genuinely nice guy. Having said that, I find it baffling that a teacher of a class aimed at upperclassmen would set punitive 1000-word papers (I'm going to ask for an extension). Similarly, there's a boy he keeps asking to read who reminds me of that moment in Sense & Sensibility when Edward Ferrars ploddingly reads a sonnet only to be passionately reprimanded by Marianne for being too 'sedate'. I wonder if that kid's a 'favourite'.

I think the thing that bothered me most was last week's Wilfred Owen seminar.

Wilfred Owen, of course, has been part of most British school curricula for years - and most literature students will have studied his poetry at least once, if not four or five times in the course of their studies. I first studied him for GCSE, then the IB, then briefly in First year and in depth again in Second year. I guess we also have Remembrance Day and how many of us had to read poems out in Assembly, stand up in Chapel or attend a Service with our grim-faced grandparents? We generally know a great deal about WWI and Sassoon and Owen and Brook and their influence on the 20th Century. We also know facts about WWI: the number of people killed in the Somme, the amount of money spent on new tanks, the influence of machine guns, the use of trench warfare, the policies of General Haig, the treatment of PTSD etc. So for class I retrieved all my notes on all the poems of Wilfred Owen, I dug up my old essays - including my interpretation of Owen's work against Joseph Conrad's on the theme of Naturalism - and I rewrote a bunch of notes on the general themes of WWI poetry. 

My first realisation was that Americans view war quite differently to us. I can think of few people who believe that Owen's poetry is about anything other than bitterness and reprimand. What else can we take from the heavily ironic final lines of 'The Old Man and the Young' or 'Dulce et Decorum est'? When you read 'Mental Cases', can the images of the 'purgatorial shadows' as they 'slob there relish' be read without cringing or at least evoking a sense of horror? Yet when we studied 'Disabled' alongside the overly cited 'Anthem for Doomed Youth' and 'Dulce et Decorum est', between the students and the teacher there seemed to emerge a strange naivety. Furthermore, Owen's collection famously begins by saying that it is 'not about poetry'. It is about war. This is how I came to write about the role of the witness and the influence of Naturalism on war poets such as Sassoon and Owen last year. I can see why people may find it a strange claim to make on an anthology and was eager to discuss this when the topic arose. So when we begin I have a lot to say and the points I make are, at first, listened to with an ear that's half-cocked in my direction. Then they begin to suggest that the 'drawing down of blinds' is a symbol of the acceptance felt by the people at home over the 'funeral' given to 'those that die as cattle'. My hand shoots into the air, 

"Don't you think," I say when called on, "that whilst the image is a peaceful one in contrast to the first stanza, there is a sense that just as the 'hasty orisons' are given by 'wailing shells', the idea that a 'patient mind' and 'girls pallor' can act as the 'flowers' and 'pall' for the dead, as well that that final image of the blinds... well... don't you think that those lines can also be read with a sense of irony? Can we not read them with a sense of the fickleness of those at home, a reflection of their naivety as they don't seem to understand the grim reality of war?"

"No. I don't think this is a bitter poem." Is the response.

I don't think. 

Seriously? That's the great rebuttal? I couldn't quite believe it. Not because the point had been completely shot down but because he refused to even engage with it. There are a great many reasons to interpret that poem in either direction, I was acknowledging that his word had merit so why not refute mine? 

I think what I'm trying to say is... I think this class is fascinating and I think Dr Lensing is brilliant, however, I wish there was more room for actually debate. There is nothing more frustrating than being told that you're wrong without being given any reason for being told as much. The distinction between Edinburgh and UNC is astounding but surely that should be beneficial - a collection of differing opinions, isn't that one of the most important things to have in a class discussion? I don't want to be agreed with, I enjoy playing the devil's advocate and that's partly the reason why I find this class so underwhelming at the moment. I'd rather argue with someone about a particular interpretation of the meter than solemnly agree with everyone else let alone listen to stories about meeting Seamus Heaney that offer me no insight to his writing. 

Well my rant is over. I am inspired to actually focus more on my writing and reading now so I suppose that's something to consider. I promise to write something less petulant next time. 

Maybe.

Je serai poète et toi poésie,
SCRIBBLER

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

Good Morning UNC!

I'm here. I've arrived. The wait is over. The Scribbler is officially ON TOUR.


The flight over was interesting; we bought our tickets through BA and of course had assumed that it would be a BA flight as you do, but it wasn't - come check in we'd discovered it was an American Airlines flight (which really isn't the same product at all). The plane was a dark gun-bolt silver, the colour George used to paint his Space Marines before the lick of blue. Inside it was old, the seats still became floatation devices and everyone who wanted to watch a film had to do so on the hanging box-screens that, back in the nineties, was already old. It was bumpy at times, we lurched and we trembled and every time the seat belt signs went  on a tin voice told us to sit down and strap up. But we landed and that's what counts. Even if I doubted we would at times.


The sun was just coming out as we touched down after a brief electric storm (part of the reason the flight was so bumpy). Pathetic fallacy? I think so. I think the last few days have been a turbulent rollercoaster of emotions to use a cliché, but I feel quite settled here right now.


Mrs Hart, she's ever so lovely was there to collect us after the hour or so that we spent coming through customs - if you have a visa you need to fill out the I-94 as well as the arrival form - and she gave us a brilliant, scenic drive-by tour of the town showing me every place that I'll need to know. We started at Horton, my new halls of residence and we giggled at that, then saw all the stadiums (the most important of which is basketball - just across the road from me!!) and the main shopping street. It's a brilliant little town, although I think they call it a city, all that style that I imagined Blanche to come from in Street Car. There's a very strange sense of having stepped back in time. Everything is Southern style architecture but it's reminiscent of European designs - all pillars and equilateral porches.


I think I could love this place, albeit in a very different way than I love Edinburgh. Edinburgh is wonderful because it's a city, it's full of history and literature and culture (and pubs). I feel with Chapel Hill that I've stepped into the countryside, it's so unbelievably green, and as a place it's clearly very sports orientated.


Right now, as I sprawl out at 9am on the comfiest bed I've ever slept on in this  amazing place, I'm quite happy, very content and incredibly excited to explore.