How many wonders either come and go, out-of-sight, or take place beyond reach? Our role as artists is to distract ourselves sufficiently, so as to catch what otherwise would be either missed or ignored on the periphery of human experience (Diary, September 29, 2017). The downside of academic specialisation is a consequent narrowing of the field of vision. Thus I make an effort to consciously look to my left and right, and at what’s behind me, just in case I miss something of interest and worthwhile (March 19, 2018).
Thursday, June 3. 7.15 am: Proof of presence:
7.45 am: A bout of early-morning sourcing for ideas for things for others to buy for me. At Christmas, I’ve always found it much easier to think of ideas for presents that I’d like to purchase for myself rather than for others. But when someone asks me to list the gifts I want to receive, I’m left scratching my head. 8.45 am: I looked-out over the landscape of the day. While I couldn’t yet see the light at the end of the tunnel, I could now sense the down-draft. 9.30 am: Mrs H returned from her hunter-gathering expedition to the supermarket. The local Morrisons operates an unfathomable policy of item substitution regarding things for which you’ve placed a prior order online but are no longer available when you arrive. Thus, for example (and hypothetically), they offer you Smarties instead of Maltesers. I was reminded of that biblical verse: ‘Which of you fathers, if your son asks for a fish, will give him a snake instead?’ (Luke 11.11).
I was now firmly in PhD assessment territory, while looking over the parapet towards lining-up MA and research postgraduates for the recommencement of teaching, next week. On with email. The most testing problems to deal with are those over which you don’t have full control (and, therefore, responsibility). Computer-app malfunctions come under this category. 12.00 pm: A postgraduate advisory tutorial.
1.00 pm: Flowers came, unexpectedly. And, with them, joy. 1.30 pm: Computery-problems solved, I sent out a bevvy of emails related to PhD research monitoring, and planned the first phase of my return to postgraduate teaching, next week. From the beginning of August, I’ll be employed by the university for only two days a week. Therefore, I’m constraining my teaching activities to that measure until that time, in preparation. 4.00 pm: I needed to escape:
6.30 pm: Practise session. 7.30 pm: An evening revising posts while listening to rubbishy YouTube videos about UFOs and the Pentagon Report, and the last twenty-four hours in the life of Keith Moon. (It was junk food for my brain — of little nutritional value, and yet comforting in its own way.)
Friday, June 4. 7.30 am: Walking. Sharp light, saturated colour, cool air, emptiness, quietness, stillness:
8.30 am: I took hold upon the inbox in order to assess its priorities, before launching back into the review of posts. I’ve nine pages to go. I hoped to reach the conclusion before the close of tomorrow, at the latest. It’s the sheer complexity and busyness of the past seven years that strikes me most forcibly. So often I was running from pillar to post, on empty, against the clock, from teaching to admin to research and back again (with sandwich in hand), from morning to afternoon to evening to night and (often) morning again, day-in and day-out. The diaries helped me to both contain, give shape to, comprehend, and disentangle my experience, as well as slow-down my perception of that fast-flowing stream of events. In short, they encouraged me to find time to reflect upon, and make sense of, it all. 10.00 am: Email confrontation.
1.00 pm: Mrs H’s order of Chinese food arrived from Manchester. In the past, we’ve filled the car to the roof with staples and exotic goodies bought from the supermarket in Chinatown, when visiting our younger son in the city. This was a treat:
1.45 pm: Throughout the day and into the evening I engaged a cocktail of assessment admin, student correspondence, posts revision, and problems that arrived on my desk from out-of-blue. These days, I’m unphased; the problems were irritating, time-consuming, not of my making, and soluble. In respect to the posts, I’d forgotten about this possible spectral encounter, which took place on the first floor of the School, in the area between the two main studios, and just outside the Head of School’s office:
I walked briskly passed the chair as I moved from one studio to another, and thought I saw, in the corner of my eye, a young man sat slouched, wearing a short blue-black jacket and trousers, t-shirt, and light-coloured trainers, with his right foot resting on on his left knee. He vanished as soon as I turned around (Diary May 17, 2018).