September 1, 2020

Relinquish hope, surrender desire, scatter plans, rout all expectations, rescind promises, wake from dreams, run from fantasies, call it out, declare the impossible. (Somethings don’t work, because they can’t, because they oughtn’t. Better to despair than be deceived.) Move on!

Saturday, August 29 to Monday, August 31:

Yesterday afternoon, we sent off our eldest son at the station. He’d spent a glorious week with us. The melancholy of the train’s departure was so much more poignant than in former times:

Signs of the time:

Tuesday, September 1. WFH: DAY 125. 8.15 am: A communion. 8.45 am: review of the day and week ahead. Over the past few days, a debate has emerged regarding both the appropriateness of university campuses opening in a few week’s time and the risks to students and staff of face-to-face teaching. I do wonder whether the countdown to recommencement will be aborted, NASA style, ten seconds before lift off. The university has really gone the second mile in making the campus and our provision ‘Covid-safe’. However, it’s folly to assume that bringing ten thousand mostly young people from all over the country and the world won’t pose a significant risk to the university and the wider community.

I ploughed-on with postgraduate admissions, a review of module submissions, and ruminating on how messy and unresolvable life can be, sometimes. 12.00 pm: A postponed MA fine art tutorial. 12.30 pm: I reviewed the documentation related to the afternoon’s interviews for a temporary teaching post at the School.

2.00 pm:

Three very good candidates. It was a long afternoon and a thorough ‘inquisition’. 5.00 pm: Post-interview admin.

7.30 pm: I completed the admin. If our trio of applicants were in any sense typical of the new generation of art school teachers, then, the future business is in good hands. Me, I felt outmoded and worn out. I sense that there is among the younger students today a need for teachers who can relate to their age, culture, and interests more immediately. The mature tutor’s sagacity can only get them so far.

She was a ‘Mother’ and its imperfect rhyme:

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