'And time's not poison but once you drink it all, you'll die...'

I'm really too tired to write a usual-sized entry, and not enough has happened in the past few days to warrant one of those anyway, but I just know this will be one regardless:

Early on Friday afternoon, I had to whiz back and forth from campus in order to get some bureaucracy out of the way before meeting the CWS in the Union Bar in preparation for our journey to St. Greg's for the evening. Soon enough, Jodie, David and some attendees of our latest feedback workshop spilled out; others arrived just before the group left for the bus stop. A few people, including Daniel and Jennifer, two of our more enthusiastic new members, were in fancy dress, ready for the occasion. For most of the night, we didn't dare to stand near the former out of fear that his syrup blood would find its way onto our clothes.

I cycled home to drop off my bike before walking into the city while Jodie led the expedition on the bus. Somehow, I still managed to arrive at Pottergate first after everyone else bizarrely decided that getting off early at Chapelfield was a quicker option than waiting until Castle Meadow. Eventually, the ragtag group reappeared and we sat drinking in the Birdcage for a while as Amy and the rest of her Soapbox friends set up. (Soapbox is the name of Amy's 'performance collective'.)

Upon entering the old church, we were greeted by an intriguing array of objects - on either side of the great hall, beneath two canopies, were collections of board games and books, with a small café positioned in the left hand corner. Straight ahead, past a fountain for sale, was the stage covered in red lights, with rows of chairs laid out in front and a projection screen showing Corpse Bride behind. Amy spent all night dressed in that very persona.

We kicked off the night with our own miniature open mic before most other entertainers turned up. David had been a little off and had headed for home before we left the Union Bar; having left me with his work, Jeni manically read his rather sharp gothic piece about a man slowly being choked to death by an enormous clock. The zombified Dan gave us a chapter of a H.P. Lovecraft story in a similarly eerie vein. In between each performer, I introduced the next (strangely at ease in front of the microphone), and read my two new bird poems with Maudlin sandwiched in between.

Following our set first was a comedy musician who interspersed his act with so-bad-they-were-good jokes while he remembered the next song, then a hilariously disgusting yet incredibly intelligent performance poet who lamented that all his work relied on the taboo. A satirist quietened proceedings down slightly before an acoustic band, complete with xylophonist, concluded the night. When everybody scattered, those of us that remained in the group walked down to the Cinema City bar for a chat. Dan, a brilliant dramatician, graced us all with more awful jokes. I wandered back to Gloucester Street with Tom Walker and Will to eat pizza and watch Air Force One (always an enjoyable film) before returning home to sleep.

I've had a good feeling about Daniel and Jennifer since their contribution to our first workshop of the year six weeks ago. They've been with us regularly since and I was excited at finally being able to speak with them outside of that more formal setting, with them being perhaps the most dynamic of our fresher members this year. I already have hope that they'll keep the society ticking come next autumn, but it's still very early.


I struggled to write poetry for most of the weekend (not helped by my laptop crashing for the third time on Saturday evening; I had Tom Shanks get it working again this afternoon) before finally teasing a sonnet out early this morning before another meeting with George. It was initially like shovelling through mud before I thankfully hit the gold at the volta; with some shrewd edition, it should be a diamond of an end to Orientation. I've been fluctuating wildly between confidence and a complete lack of it several times in the space of a day recently. Over the next fortnight I plan on working on a sestina, a form I've never fully approached before. It should be an interesting challenge.

On Saturday night, my mum was upset about my mindbogglingly poor decision to inform her, nonchalantly by text message when she and Dad were driving back from a wedding, that I will be facing a day in hospital for an operation. She is, as ever, concerned about my work. I assured her that I'm keeping up. Her sciatica has been much better in recent months with the help of physiotherapy, as an aside.

This afternoon, I met Jodie in the city to organise our workshop structure for the next few weeks, along with starting to plan some of the workshops themselves. My last poetry workshop was an introduction, approaching prose poetry before leaning towards smaller forms like the haiku, cinquain and the tanka. (I thought it would be helpful for the prose-writing majority of our members to contemplate what poetry actually is before I expected them to write it.) I think the next one will be on meter, rhythm and rhyme. If only I could make a living purely on teaching poetry. That said, I'd hardly say that I'm an expert yet.

I haven't started working on my Dark Times essay yet. That will take up the next few days before Charlotte arrives. ...I should also stop listening to pre-Cassadaga Bright Eyes for the time being. It makes college seem relatively simple, which I'm sure it wasn't. (2.04am)