“Question postcards” flickr photo by NomadWarMachine shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA) license
I’m a Scot (now), but I’m English (born) I’m PhD Education, but I’m a Philosopher at heart (20 years teaching, I miss it at times) I’m on a professional services contract, but I feel like an academic (developer) I’m a reluctant, grieving matriarch with two cats (who I adore)
I’m an awful uke player, a lapsed pianist, an ex-coloratura soprano I’m an avid knitter, an intermittent gardener I’m a remixer, a tinkerer, a bricoleur I’m a would-be poet who doodles in meetings
And I’m counting down to retirement, because I am tired to my bones.
And used a N+ generator to remix it. Here’s the N+8 version:
Shall I competition thee to a summer’s deadline?
Thou artist more lovely and more temperate:
Routine windpipes do shampoo the date buffers of May,
And summer’s lectureship hath all too short a daze;
Sometime too hot the eyepiece of heed shines,
And often is his goner composition dimm’d;
And every falcon from falcon sometime deductions,
By chant or nature’s changing courtyard untrimm’d;
But thy eternal sunbeam shall not fade,
Nor lose postcode of that falcon thou ow’st;
Nor shall debt branch thou wander’st in his shallot,
When in eternal linguists to tin thou grow’st:
So long as mandolins can breathe or eyepieces can see,
So long lives this, and this gives lift to thee.
Where do some ideas go to? Yesterday I walked up the road to Uni, my head filled with an idea for a blog post. I remember that it was something I’d been thinking about for a while without having a firm idea of how to approach it, and as I walked I found my angle. I crafted sentences as I walked in the sun, watching the world as I walked and enjoying the autumn day. No need to write this all down, I thought – it was such a familiar topic that it would be clear to me later.
Then a meeting, and another, and then some news that held my attention for the rest of the day. When I sat down later to write I realised that my idea had gone – it had softly and silently vanished away. Was it a Boojum, or will my Snark return?
Lewis Carroll (author), Henry Holiday (illustrator), Macmillan (publishers), Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
“Thesis word cloud” flickr photo by NomadWarMachine shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA) license
I used to write here regularly, and at some point I stopped. Maybe it was the pandemic, maybe it was the pressure of writing up my PhD, maybe it was a lack of inspiration. Recently I have been posting a #SilentSunday image here every weekend, but somewhere along the way I stopped using this as a place to write. I don’t know why, but I know that lately I’ve been realising how much I miss it. So the session ‘Blog or Die’ at the DS106RadioSummerCamp was just what I needed to get my motivation back. I won’t summarise it here – you can listen to it yourself or read the transcript, but it got me thinking about why I blog – and how difficult I was finding it to get back into the habit after a while away. And when I thought about why I blogged, I remembered about discovering Lauren Richardson, and writing about it in my thesis:
As I struggled to find my voice and articulate my thoughts, a friend from my community suggested that I look at Laurel Richardson’s writings, and sent me some suggestions. I had no time to read, no time to change my methodology, no time to reframe this research – I felt under pressure to have this thesis submitted so that I could take back my evenings and weekends and relax. Yet, as I read her words, I knew that I had found the approach that I needed. Richardson suggests that writing can itself be a method of enquiry: that as well as telling you what I think, I can write to find out for myself what I think:
“Writing is also a way of “knowing” – a method of discovery and analysis. By writing in different ways, we discover new aspects of our topic and our relationship to it. Form and content are inseparable”(Richardson, 2000, p.923).
So, that’s it in a nutshell — that’s why I blog, and why I have missed the practice of regular blogging. I write not to tell others what I think, but to find out for myself what I think. And if others read what I write and respond, then that’s a bonus.
Richardson, L. (2000) ‘Writing: A method of inquiry’, in Denzin, N. K. and Lincoln, Y. S. (eds) Handbook of qualitative research. 2nd edn. Thousand Oaks, Calif: Sage Publications.
n the heart of winter, a tale unfolded—a journey from the frost-kissed village of Icemeet to the coastal haven of Runswick. A trio of travelers set forth on this expedition: Elara, a young scholar with a penchant for adventure; Thorne, a seasoned tracker with eyes that mirrored the forest; and Einar, a jovial bard whose songs could thaw even the iciest of hearts.
The trek commenced under a sky draped in the hues of the Aurora Borealis, casting a mystical aura over the snow-laden landscape. Elara led the way, her map clutched tightly, guiding them through valleys blanketed in powdery snow. Thorne’s keen instincts ensured they stayed clear of treacherous paths, while Einar regaled them with lively tunes, lifting their spirits amidst the biting cold.
As they ventured deeper, the scenery transformed—the icy plains gradually gave way to towering pines and frozen rivers that shimmered like glass under the sun. Yet, the journey was not without its perils. A sudden blizzard swept through, testing their resilience. With Thorne’s guidance and Elara’s unwavering determination, they weathered the storm, finding solace in each other’s strength.
Days turned to nights filled with stories by the campfire, laughter echoing in the quiet wilderness. With each passing mile, Runswick’s allure beckoned, promising respite from their arduous odyssey. Finally, the distant sight of the sea and the salty breeze signaled journey’s end. The quaint harbor of Runswick greeted them with open arms, a picturesque haven bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.
Their expedition, fraught with challenges, culminated in triumph and camaraderie. As they stood by the shore, watching waves dance against the rocks, they knew that the memories forged on this unforgettable voyage would forever warm their hearts, even in the coldest of winters.
“Postcard Prep” flickr photo by NomadWarMachine shared under a Creative Commons (BY-NC-SA) license
It’s been far too long since I got out my supplies and decided on a theme for a round of postcards, but this week we’ve set things in motion. Inspired by a MOOC type thing that some of us are dabbling in, we’ve embarked on a new round of postcard sending.
I am writing to invite you for a collaborative paper on ChatGPT and AI…The planned paper will adopt a speculative future design methodology.
Each of us was invited to write two short stories, one positive and one negative, and then we were invited into a collaborative Google Doc. Over the next few weeks I watched the paper evolve as we wrote and edited together. The final paper was published yesterday and, as Jon Dron says, the stories themselves make great reading.
It’s amazing how quickly things can happen with the right catalyst. Thanks Aras!
Bozkurt, A., Xiao, J., Lambert, S., Pazurek, A., Crompton, H., Koseoglu, S., Farrow, R., Bond, M., Nerantzi, C., Honeychurch, S., Bali, M., Dron, J., Mir, K., Stewart, B., Costello, E., Mason, J., Stracke, C. M., Romero-Hall, E., Koutropoulos, A., Toquero, C. M., Singh, L Tlili, A., Lee, K., Nichols, M., Ossiannilsson, E., Brown, M., Irvine, V., Raffaghelli, J. E., Santos-Hermosa, G Farrell, O., Adam, T., Thong, Y. L., Sani-Bozkurt, S., Sharma, R. C., Hrastinski, S., & Jandrić, P. (2023). Speculative futures on ChatGPT and generative artificial intelligence (AI): A collective reflection from the educational landscape. Asian Journal of Distance Education, 18(1), 53-130. https://doi.org/10.5281/zenodo.7636568
I haven’t written much here recently. I used to write at least one post a month, but once I started posting my Silent Sunday photo posts time has passed my by without me noticing that has been all I’ve been posting. I love my daily and weekly challenges, but I miss the peace that reflective writing brings to me.
As time passes, it gets harder to get back into the habit. It’s easy to press publish on an imperfect post when it’s written quickly – but when posts become irregular it’s somehow harder to release them into the world, and I hesitate to write unless I have something polished.
I should know better – I do know better. A strand of my PhD thesis was about being ‘good enough’ rather than ‘perfect’, and I have learnt to let go of my makes and remixes and not to worry that they are rough around the edges. I know it too, really, when I write – but somehow I have got out of the habit of talking out loud.
So now, with only minutes before I need to go and cook tea, I am going to hit publish in this post and promise myself to remember to talk out loud here, sometimes.
Some people walk around talking to themselves, the world at large, or anyone who might listen. Others of us blog. I often use this space to work out what I am thinking by writing out my thoughts – as Laurel Richardson says, writing can itself be a method of enquiry. Other times I write out the words that have been occupying my thoughts because they keep repeating themselves to me until I allow them to trickle out into the world. But for the last month I have found myself with sort of writer’s block – whenever I sit down to write, I find I cannot. It seems that my mind will not allow me the space to write until I have said this.
My father died on December 2nd, 2022. On January 3rd, 2023 we go through the final rites of passage. I feel very lucky that I had time near the end to sit by his bed and tell him how much he meant to me, and how much I will miss him. But this end was a long time coming – vascular dementia is a cruel disease that takes people away a little bit at a time.
Father was always a talker – we could, and did, spend many hours talking about philosophy. He loved talking about the books I was reading for my studies, and bought many of them for himself. When I was away I’d ring him on a Sunday at 10pm and we’d talk for an hour, hang up and he would ring me back so we could talk for another hour. But as his dementia progressed he stopped having anything to say, and he would hand the phone over to mother instead. Gradually, I realised, dad was slipping away.
And then he broke his hip, and never walked again. Instead of coming home, he moved to a care home. Then lockdown happened, and … he kept slipping gradually away.
The picture at the top of this post is of father giving a speech at my wedding – you can see from my face that he has just told some sort of dad joke. This is how I remember him – proud of his family and happy to tell the world how proud he was.
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