Flett-cetera

To blog is to shout loudly in a room by oneself and expect to spark a conversation. It is this mode however, that I find is so easy to slip into during everyday discourse.

Conversation should be like tennis, one side serves the other returns the ball and the rally is maintained as long as each party remains engaged in the game. Unfortunately this is so often not the case and one player ends up dominating play resulting in short and frustrating rallies with at least one of the players, and more likely both, recognising this imbalance.

The graph of conversational satisfaction starts to decline when one of the participants is essentially delivering a soliloquy. We all love a story, but in conversation anecdotes must be kept brief if a happy equilibrium is to be sustained. Good conversation can never occur if one side is simply using the other as a nodding, “uh-huhing” intellectual sounding board.

But there are difficulties to be overcome if we wish to have more of these satisfying types of chats. It is a great strain to constantly approach conversations as journalistic interviews; it’s an effort to evaluate the open-endedness of one’s enquiries and responses to avoid that dreaded dead space, the numbing radio silence.

Equally, no-one wants filler. They want track after track with no dips in quality. Every single a hit.

This seems like an unrealistic expectation, and it is. Going into a conversation with an idea already in your head about every response, every nuance of the “interviewee” mapped out and charted like a script is never a good idea. We’ve all done it (or at least I have); gone into the shower with a real bone to pick, or that one question you’ve always wanted to know the answer to, and come out having written an entire intricately plotted scene in your head complete with directions and camera angles. You’ve got all the counterpoints ready to go, every rebuttal at your disposal. You go out into the world and perhaps you’ll ask the question, make the point, or bring up the subject. Then the disappointment begins.

The best conversations are never pre-planned. They come of their own accord, naturally, when you learn something about the other person you weren’t expecting to discover. Something tangential grows into an arm of its own.

I’ve written these paragraphs as someone hopelessly unqualified to discuss the subject. It is from my experience of frustration in conversation that this has emerged. I more than anyone am guilty of enacting these flawed methods I have highlighted, but it is only by acknowledging these inadequacies that I can hope to move past them.

So I’m going to have these conversations. I’m going to start these dialogues, because lurking within everyone are these overlaps of interest that can spark uplifting, surprising and enlightening discussion. People have so much to offer and everyone has their particular niche.

A conversation shouldn’t be about showing off how much you know about a certain subject, it should be about learning from each other and developing minds. That’s why from now on I’m resolving to berate myself not for being an asocial freak when I fail to have a satisfying chat, but for missing the opportunity to experience what the other person had to offer. Locked within everyone is the potential for fascinating conversation; we (and moreover, I) just have to get better at accessing it.

I think I owe you a blog post. It’s almost the end of my first semester at university and I’d like to keep you in the loop.

Life in Hermit’s Croft is falling into its routines. The installation of street furniture is complete. A gleaned guitar, a lamp and leather seat. Fairy lights lazily draped above the sink exude their quiet glow, and 6 Music is interspersed with Radio 3 from generously gifted PC speakers.

On Thursdays of an evening I’ll attend some wordy gathering, or when the mood takes me, a guest lecture or a workshop. Perhaps a couple of days in the week I’ll visit the gym or swim. I’m settling into equilibrium, but I want to fight it.

You find me just as I have given my presentation for my oral class in German. The subject was the federal state of Brandenburg – core of the Hohenzollern dynasty and seat of Prussian Kings. In German one is prompted to reflect upon the nature of language. Is one dialect representative of the language as a whole? Can you say you’ve learnt German if all you know is Hochdeutsch? You’d probably have a hard time in Bavaria.

Similarly, one is also invited to consider questions of identity and a sense of place or belonging. We think of our Scottish identity, a year on from a no vote and on the day of our patron saint. I consider my Orcadian upbringing. I’ve come to realise just how lucky I’ve been to have grown up in such a nice place, with a real sense of cultural identity; this perhaps coming rather artificially from the need to promote ourselves to further the tourism industry? Maybe I’m being cynical – it could be that the strength of oral tradition and inherent kinship with our forbearers has led to the preservation of such things, but who knows?

Edinburgh has many advantages over Orkney, whilst it may be great to go into the pub and recognise almost every person, one can’t help but crave anonymity at times. I can go to things alone and feel less of a loner, because actually quite a lot of people are loners too. I can go to a writing workshop and feel among friends without exchanging names.

Over the weekend I took part in Scotland’s Climate March, praying most of the time for a turn in the weather to ease the damp miserly of our technicolour advance. I suppose that’s what they call direct democracy.

Speaking of democracy, let’s talk absolutism. Yes, I’m loving my European History course, which stretches from the Renaissance to the French Revolution. I am fascinated and appalled at the audacity of figures such as Machiavelli, Louis XIV and Frederick the Great. I find it thrilling to contemplate the intellectual movements which influenced them; the apparent contradiction of Absolutism and Enlightenment married to great affect by Prussian Kings. You can see why I picked Brandenburg now…

University allows time for deep reflection, self-discovery and extra-curricular development. So naturally, I’ve spent mine watching Rick and Morty, discovering Peep Show, Parks and Recreation and becoming a huge fan of Community. In all seriousness, some books I’ve read in my spare time are More’s Utopia, Wilde’s A Picture of Dorian Gray and I’m just finishing Dracula. But just to be clear, I whole-heartedly endorse Rick and Morty. Everything about it is great. Watch it.

I don’t feel as if I’ve lost touch with Orkney. Feelings of home come out of me in bursts. A dialect word that so perfectly fits a situation, when one afternoon you find yourself writing a crofting scene ripped from 1850s Harray without ever intending. Just last week I was at a gig where Ross Clark of Hybrid Constellation fame was playing with his new band In Stations. I felt a pang of sentimentality at the syncopated djent breakdown slotted quite unsubtly into some intricate alt-rock composition. Disclaimer, they were by far the best act of the three I saw that night and I’ll definitely go and see them again if I get the chance.

That’s just about all I have to say for now. Adios! Adieu! Tschuss! Ciao! And may the force be with you! #StarWarsEpisodeVIIhype

I write to you after a considerable absence at the keyboard for the past month. Since my last post I have moved to the Scottish capital Edinburgh where I am attending the University thereof in the study of English Literature and German. I currently reside on the ground floor of a block of student accommodation known charmingly as Hermit’s Croft with four other male flatmates, each bestowed with single-syllable names to my triplicate title.

You find me now at the end of my first week of “proper” lectures, following on from the introductory foray that is Freshers’ Week. Henceforth I shall transcribe an account of my misadventures that have accompanied me to this point.

Saturday 12^th – moving in day. My family sticks around for as long as possible, we dine in the Elephant House café; an establishment which claims to have been host to the production of much of the first in the Harry Potter series. I eat little of my lasagne; I’m tense and defensive – this heightened state is mixed in with a good helping of FMO (Fear of Missing Out) because obviously everyone is having the time of their lives and is in a state of unprecedented euphoria, already having a whole city’s worth of friends in their possession within the first day of Freshers’ Week.

I tread carefully around in my new nine-month home. Any quirk or misdemeanour could sour a whole year’s worth of relations between myself and my randomly allocated acquaintances. Steeling myself for rejection and abuse I knock on the door of my, one and only at this stage, neighbour.

And we go out. Because it is expected and because I’ve planned it. All of it. Planned meticulously planned because spontaneity really isn’t me and this day has had too much already. I know the names of the bands playing, all researched and catalogued and calandered (yes that’s a verb now.) And yet, still utterly terrifying.

But by chance, sweet happenstance and coincidence, we meet a Bulgarian. Female Bulgarian. Out of all the nationalities that could have approached us, a Bulgarian.

This sounds unhinged I know, but there is an explanation for the remarkability with which I attribute the cultural collision. Yet a fortnight’s past I had hosted a European Union themed party which required of the attendees to dress according to their own specific and unique member state; this could be either the national dress, an indigenous celebrity or something more abstract to represent the given country. As luck would have it, I gave myself the task of representing Bulgaria for which I learnt “good evening” in the native tongue and made a Shopska Salad for the international buffet.

But the façade of friendship was eroded by the revelation that this 20-year-old was in fact a second year Freshers’ Week volunteer. I immediately began to question the veracity of the encounter, whether the entire conversation had been a false construct designed to make me feel welcome. This information once solicited, could never be withdrawn and even as I sat opposite her and my newly confessed vegan friend drinking ginger and lemon tea back at the flat I could not help the gnawing sense of paranoia from nibbling at my psyche.

On Sunday I attended my first Model UN debate in the Teviot Hall. This was where I met my New Yorker friends as we discussed solutions to the Syrian Refugee crisis. I found it very entertaining as a charismatic and impassioned representation of Lebanon was made, allied with Assad and blaming the Western intervention for the escalation of the conflict and the rise of ISIS. Of course I signed up for this society as I was advised by a cousin – say yes to everything; this of all weeks is the week of agreeability.

As darkness fell I returned to the Student Union; a place I had been told beforehand that I would never return to after the first week. Pronto Mama – a Glasgow-based six piece “indie prog” band were playing. They mixed a progressive sound with funky brass/saxophone breaks and rich harmonies to create a fascinating textural soundscape. For one song the entire band descended from the stage and unamplified sang a hauntingly beautiful acapella. To top it off I realised that I had been “dancing” beside someone doing exactly the same course as me all the way through.

On Monday I took the “lads” on a pub quiz in the Pleasance in which we did pretty poorly. Tuesday saw another UN debate, where territorial disputes and the increasing militarisation within the arctic were proposedly solved by making the region a permanent venue for winter sports by the delegate for the International Olympic Committee. Wednesday was my first proper experience of a DJ set, with a member of Metronomy taking to the decks to deliver a good mix of funk and indie tunes for the night.

Thursday was another first experience, this time of a poetry slam. This was truly a verbal extravaganza, an astounding level of quality and thoroughly contemporary content. It was quite strange to begin with, to listen to and experience poetry in a competitive context but the format did not seem to detract from what was being delivered. The crowd clicking in approval at particularly evocative moments, respectful but clearly engaging with what was being said. This was probably the most subtle yet potent moments of Freshers’ Week, although it was followed by discordant, atonal post rock in the Teviot whilst drunk members of the front row set about their task of destroying a plastic Guitar Hero controller during the progress of the set.

On Friday I went to the Introduction to the Student Newspaper, which really wasn’t much of an introduction to the Student Newspaper but was an introduction to some students who wanted to write for the newspaper. There I met a fellow Hermit’s Croftian and we went off to some flat party in Robertson’s Close which descended into some strange possibly too posh nightclub where shattered shards were scattered across the dancefloor.

The finale of my induction to Edinburgh concluded in Glasgow, where I had purchased months previously a ticket to see Wolf Alice off the back of a generous Ticketmaster voucher. I was greeted, on arrival in the Second City of the empire, by The Proclaimers blasting through the PA in George Square at a huge Yes rally, a year on from the rejection of independence by the Scottish people.

My experience of the gig was hindered somewhat by the necessity of carrying my overnight bag on my back, otherwise I would have been right in the moshpit. Anyhow, the band were excellent and I got to see Drenge also. The night ended after flat “pre-drinks” (a somewhat alien concept for me admittedly) in the Glasgow University Union, which is an entirely different animal from EUSA’s offerings. I have two words – Topless Balcony.

This may seem rather rambling and lacking in any perceivable connecting thread so I’m just going to wrap up in this following paragraph.

After two weeks in Edinburgh I’m slowly beginning to think that I may have made the right choice coming here. Though I won’t admit to having anything like the seemingly instantaneous camaraderie expected of a Fresher during their first couple of weeks, I feel the origins and roots of deeper things emerging. Intellectual bonds and meetings of the mind. I’ve met people whose, although I may not agree with them entirely, views and passions will help me to see the world more clearly and develop as person. I think of philosophy, and of seemingly useless anecdotes suddenly becoming relevant. On my visit to the anarchist society, my knowledge of communism suddenly finding forums for informed discussion. Even in these early days the theory of university as a scholastic community and a place of people who care about ideas is proving to be true. P.S. The city is totes beaut also.