~ Sceopellen ~

Yesterday, travelling on the train from London, I saw something I shall never forget. We pulled into a station, and I looked out of the window from my book and saw three people on the opposite bench. One looked upset perhaps, back turned to us, the others were comforting her, rubbing her arms. Then she tipped forwards, and collapsed. An emergency doctor rushed along the platform, put her on an oxygen bottle, then a drip, lying on the platform. He was trying to find her pulse, hear her breath as we were pulling out of the station. I hope she gets better…

Today, I have found out that one of the men who died in the Virginia shootings was a Fulbrighter, a scholar in the same organisation that I work for. One of the best, the chosen elite given a chance to travel and study, learn and teach in America. The chance of a lifetime. Now, he is dead. It feels so close to home.

All the newspapers, all the TV channels are full of death, guns  and mental illness. I can’t help wanting to scream and tell them to stop it. In the ‘civilised’ west, we have this amazing moral sense against institutionalism, against restraint and enclosure for mental health patients. There is a greater stigma surrounding mental health than there is around criminality. I don’t understand that stigma – they are all people who have been thrown into the genetic lottery, just like everyone else, and have ended up with the worse end of the stick. More than anything, I feel pity for this guy. He could have been helped and simply have lived a quiet life in an institution, looked after and perhaps taken up a craft – woodworking, animal husbandry. I have seen it done, I have seen it work and be so rewarding for those who are ‘institutionalised’. Such a negative word in our ‘modern’ society.

Plus, I wish that we could simply turn off the news. Too much sadness does nothing good for our bustling, commute-obsessed world. I think the last ten minutes of the news should be positivity only – things like ‘Mrs Smith’s rescued cat Tibbles’ and a kid writing her name for the first time. There is such beauty in the world and we just don’t get a chance to see it half often enough!

Today was a tough day, and back to work again tomorrow. I think it’s bedtime…

Today, I have been in a rather strange mood, although I am somehow removed from everthing around me. I think it’s because of the Virginia shootings.

This sort of thing always affects me. Every time. Even when I know hardly anything about the situation and am so far away, something pulls me away from life into a sense of common humanity and deep sadness. This time, I know someone on that campus, who I feared for. And more than that – this time it was on a campus, a university. I am a university student, on campus, and it could have been me. It could have been anyone, and there’s nothing more painful than that fact. I can see myself, lined up against that brick wall, and that shocks me to the core.

I see university as my freedom, my escape, my adventure – a whole new world, opening out in front of my eyes. I feel like a tiny baby, eyes straining as wide as possible to digest everything about this new, amazing world in one glance, tiny fingers grabbing at anything in order to discover it. Perhaps some of these students weren’t natually curious, weren’t hard working or conscientious, and just wanted their degrees. But regardless of that, they were seeing a new world and their futures were just beginning. That woman on the front page this morning could have been the next great engineer, that man could have found a cure for cancer. Of course, they could have all just had office jobs, typing at desks, coming home to a wife and kids. But they were just starting that adventure.

So I walked around my university campus today and saw all the happy, smiling people, and just saw it happening here.

University is meant to be a place of learning, a place where terror stops at the gate and people are allowed to simply learn. They are touched by great minds, taught of all the intricacies and glories of this amazing world and turned back into great cauldron of human life to do soemthing amazing, be it to crack the human genome or learn to cook an omelette. These people, 32 individual, special people have had their chance at this amazing world, seen it open up to them, and then been killed, lined up against a wall.

My entire body recoils at that. It is almost as though it is learning that is the criminal. That’s why they were there.

In a way, I am petrified. My campus hasn’t seen shootings, as far as I know, but rapes, assaults, knife attacks, arson – almost everything else. This next? Yet, in another way, I feel rather defiant. That’s why, when I was walking around my campus today, I stood taller than normal, conscious of a new overview. A new height. That’s why I seize life by the ears and shake every amazing moment I can out of it. Life is too short.

Today, I again met with a couple of my tutors, and again, I loved every moment. We skimmed over Exeter Riddle 20 (varies…) and I will post more about it at some point later. Suddenly, I don’t feel guilty for being there and taking every chance that i’m given. Before, I felt exclusive, intimidated and I felt as though I was wrong for getting any preferential treatment from my tutors. I don’t want that. I want to learn as much as I can. I see the difference. Every chance and every moment will be beautiful. If I died tomorrow, I would be happy with what i’ve done. My only regret would be not having done more. I don’t see that as a bad viewpoint, thus far.

Beautiful and powerful artwork.

Incidentally, a new book has been released called The Children of Hurin, by J.R.R. Tolkien and edited, or rather woven together by his son, Christopher Tolkien. I plan on finding and reading it, and hopefully lasting longer than I did with my attempts at The Silmarillion…

HarperCollins, £18.99.

UPDATE: Have a look over at Wormtalk and Slugspeak for a fascinating discussion of Tolkien new text and a wonderful overview…

The one depressing thing about reading  the blogs of other medievalists – not that I would class myself as one – is hearing about all the conventions and classes they go to and I can ‘t. At the moment, Kalamazoo. I would love to go, I know that some of my tutors do so, but I could never afford it.

Same with the interesting information – how do you people know all this stuff! I feel incredibly stupid…

Right now, my dream is that an amazing medievalist would take me under their wing a bit and let me help with their research, make the tea, photocopy – just to be around the subject and learn anything and everything! I love it too much…

I live in hope…

I have just had one of the most bemusing conversations of my entire life. My friend and I have worked out a way of dramatising Beowulf on MSN.

What fun madness this all is!

Today, I have probably had one of the least productive days of my life. I was meant to be revising for the wonderful first-year exams I have coming up. Instead, I have added about a billion links to the bottom of this page, researched a future Medieval MA and discovered that academics actually have lives. Well, I knew the last one already, but I have just had this amazing fact reinforced by several rather interesting blogs out in the World Wide Wiggle.

So, these blog posts. The last hour has been spent on Professorial Confessions (rather snazzy name), being bemused by university politics. I suddenly realise that I have more to say on this topic than I would wish. Let us just say that my impression of my tutors rests solely in the world of;

Lecturer: “We need more money for our research. Therefore, give us students.”

Students are given.

Student: “I love your subject. Thank you for teaching me. Will you help me learn more?”

Lecturer: “No, I am very busy.”

Student: “Oh, ok. I shall keep working hard because I want to have your job.”

Student leaves.

Teacher: “What an attention-seeker. Interested in my subject! Pah! I shall now cruelly present my findings to the rest of my department.”

This has happened to me. I am speaking from experience. And I still want to be a lecturer. I came to university with the bizarre belief that I was finally allowed to be passionate about my subject. It turns out that this is not the case.

Although, I am generalising. Across my department, there have been three tutors who have encouraged me and been more kind than I could ever imagine. Unfortunately, none of these three actually teach me. So, in my little fantasy dreamland, I have been reading academic blogs and digesting random comments-which-mean-very-little-to-me-but-sound-interesting. So Jenny, thank you. You probably will never read this, and that is probably a good thing. I will pluck up the courage one day to say it to her. And to lots of other people…

The only downside of reading all these wonderful blogs is that I also read about many wonderful meetings and conventions that I cannot go to. Mainly because I am rather skint. Namely, Kalamazoo, which sounds amazing. Unfortunately, the plane ticket to the USA puts it well out of my budget, leave alone the registration, accomodation etc.

I should get back to revision. And listening to Ayub Ogada. Which is a wonderful source of procrastination.

Just as a quick note: I realise that many of the pages are either blank or are password controlled on this page. I would love to open them up, but I fear that my notes are incomprehensible or that I am breaking copywrights/plagirising somewhere in them, and my lecturers have made me completely paranoid about plagiary.

If anyone really wants to get at them, I can send them the password as long as I speak to them first about it. Duty done.

A first post. Always a memorable, yet strangely forced experience. Here it goes.

Welcome to my blog. Or rather, I welcome myself, as I doubt that this will become particularly popular. The reason? It’s about Old English. Or Anglo-Saxon, if you prefer.

I know basically nothing about this language as yet, but am truly captivated. Inspired by several other blogs around on this subject (if you root around for long enough), I have decided to track my progress, and perhaps encourage someone else in the process.

The name of the blog: essentially a complete invention of mine, which I am dubious about. I quite liked it though. It appeals to my ridiculously romantic side.
- sceop : to create, form.
- ellen: courage/valour.

So basically, I am creating courage. I feel that is rather apt at the moment, as I still think myself slightly crazy for even setting myself this magnificent challenge.

More tomorrow. 1am is not the time for coherent speech, leave alone coherent Anglo-Saxon. Night… Or rather, godne mergen!