Since last we spoke, much hath happened. The last time I wrote to you ever dearest Diary, from the confines of the student blogosphere, I was in London, boarding a coach. In front of me was a man with a vast beard, but scant hair atop his head, wearing glasses.
From behind the rims of his circular spectacles, were two ice-blue eyes that had about them a kind of calm intellect. After a time waiting in the queue, I struck up a conversation with him.
He had a trace of a northern-accent, but for most part sounded like I do: received pronunciation. We spoke intially of linguistics, but soon shifted subject to a shared passion of us both: Anarcomunitarism. James is a well-read Leftist intellectual philosopher, a kindred-spirit. He too had experienced long-term homelessness, and, like me, had fallen on his feet: found a place to settle down. A patch of paradise. The two-hour or so long chat I had with him was intense. We covered a lot of ground, from the futility of the 'free-man of the land' movement, to ideological discussions regarding Left-wing authors.
Then, as I was at the coach station, I met another man. A quiet gentleman with just as blue-eyes as James, again sporting rimmed spectacles. He was a librarian at the O.U. and told me a little of the history regarding the city. The man was helpful and gave me directions to where I needed to go, to get to the Conference.
After taking the next bus, I found myself in some commercial complex. Instead of taking another bus, I yomped with no map nor navigational aids to the hotel. It took me about an hour to find it. Once there I checked-in tranquilly.
The minibus ported me to the site, and I found my way to registration in a colourful building. As I browsed the various literature about the place, a pair of senior members of staff had a word with me. One lady was looking at the course books for 'Voices and Texts', I expressed my admiration for that course. When next she looked at 'Making Sense of [Artefacts]' I also told her what I think of that module, which I am currently studying: that it was excellent, exceptionally well written and really very good to be studying.
As it turns out, the lady was a Master of Arts, a literary expert. T'was nice talking to pair of them. Registration went smoothly, and I went straight to dinner. I sat on my own, and tried not to feel too awkward in doing so, looking about the place with hazy eyes, scatty, mellow.
Then I strolled about the grounds, orientated the map I was given, and had another smoke. It didn't take me long to find the new-comers introductory lecture. All the speakers there were witty, informative, and the talk was useful to hear. Before it began, I started to write a poem:
"In the nerve-centre of the marshmallow space-ship,
akin to a set out of Babylon 5,
the corridors of learning
amidst a sea of beautiful minds.
A culminated cultivation of intellectuals.
The flagship of which..."
(it's work in progress)
So, anyway, after the talk was drinky-poos, a social hub. Again, I stood alone, pebble-dashed on the rocks of isolation. A tough looking young bloke whom I had passed in the auditorium was there, I decided to speak to him. He was a computer-programmer, a Romanian. It was nice talking to him, especially in French (he spoke many languages). We talked about how many people give Romanians a bad-rap, and how lots of people from here (the United Kingdom of Great Britain) claimed to be from Romania, when they have never been there, nor had any of their ancestors.
We switched subject to that of hacking. He was adept at doing so, and told me how easy it was (I already know how easy it is) and this disgusted me. Trojans, back-doors, port-scanning, yes yes yes. I am a creator of programs, not a destroyer.
Then I spied a tall man with long hair, and decided to cross the room to talk to him. Barry was a physicist and flute-player. Very cool man. I soon took off with him, saying "Don't hack!" to my new-found Romanian friend.
Barry and I went for a walk about the grounds. I spoke of Attic vase analysis, and he told me that he had his own personal collection, which currently stand in museums about the country. He was a really cool bloke.
After returning from the stroll, I agreed to meet him in the bar. As I mingled awkwardly in the place, chatting to a few people (in particular a senior member from Inverness, a fellow historian and intriguing gentleman) Barry finally turned up with his flute. We grabbed a chair, and began to play. We were in-tune straight away, and the audience were liking the sound. However well the first piece we played (some funky jass thang, made up on the flex) the repertoire began to get exponentially more tangled, and I lost motivation to play after about an hour or so. But the brief jam was enjoyable, and I found it amusing how Barry would stroll about the place, long hair flailing as he blew his flute and danced at the same time.
The next day I met another literature expert, Nichola. I spent the rest of the time spouting gassing with her mainly. She liked my poesy at least, and it was nice talking to her. I am sure we'll stay in touch (providing my email is not compromised again!). It was overall a nice Conference, even if I had a semi-nervous breakdown half-way through upon discovering my Uni' blog had been shut-down.
Upon my return home I managed to make it to the gig (I walked straight in). That evening was most eventful. We had a second person collapse at the bar (that's twice in as many months) not from our playing, but a loss of balance and excess of alcohol intake. I stayed until five in the morning, and now cannot physically speak because of all the singing I have done. I am also quite ill at the moment, and have been for days.
At the end of the night, Mike Taylor 'lost the plot' again, and started screaming at me, blaming me for all of his lifes' problems. The entire pub rallied to my side and they slung him out, with minimal force. Cousin helped a great deal, as did Tim, a giant of a man.
I had confided in my colleague Harry about everything that's happened in these past few weeks and months. About being ostracized, vilified, and having my accounts hacked into (my old wordpress blog and email account) and he had many supportive things to say. I had not considered this course of action before, but in his cockney accent he said, "If I was in your shoes I'd have contacted some heavies I know in London, call in a favour, and have them taken down." I thought this perhaps a little too drastic a reaction, but it did make me laugh when he said, "The thing about banjo players is that they sound great when you throw them down a well!" Ha ha!
One banjo player I am not going to cast down a well is "Gulliver" who's due to turn up to next weeks' gig. That should be good. Might be alright.
After that comes a language meeting at Oxford University. Then is another gig, this time in Portsmouth. My boss said she'd drive me there, and to lectures, which is very nice of her. Even since my gripes about the rates of pay, I've had a 50% pay-rise. Nice! She's so groovy man.
Anyway, Stay On the Flex y'all, Maxy Waxy xx
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