March 30, 2015

5.45 am. I made an early start in preparation for a trip by train to Glasgow with my younger son, in order to at attend Glasgow University’s Applicants’ Visiting Day. 7.30 am. En route, I revised and commented upon a number of undergraduate exhibition statements. It’s hard to condense a year’s endeavour into 100 words. Still harder to avoid silliness and verbosity – as though the student must of necessity be other than themselves and make unsupportable claims about their work. That done, I wrote out a list of projects that I want to complete by 2019. Finally, I’m catching up with myself. Saturday’s conception of a ‘sonic culture of religion’ was taken one small step further in notes towards a notional book on the topic. These days, publishers want broad based discussions. My preference is for a focused account. Somehow, a compromise has to be reached.

10.40 am. On the slightly delayed train from Wolverhampton to Carlisle, I began notes towards the currently titled ‘NoisePROJECTion1’ – an extension to The Noises of Art conference (2013), in the form of a one-day symposium inspired by the 17th century Welsh alchemist and clergyman, Vaughan Thomas.  Arrived at Carlisle nine minutes late; but so did the connection for Glasgow:

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1.30 pm. Lockerbie. My eyes instinctively trace a path from the sky to the earth:

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There’s nothing special about places associated with tragedy until they become such.

On with drafts and conspectuses of ideas as we trundle through the Lowlands. Dark clouds gather. There’s snow on the hillside:

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The train had made up for the ‘time deficit’, as it was referred to over the loudspeaker, and arrived at Glasgow Central around 2.30 pm. The interior reminds me of the stern of a magnificent eighteenth century frigate. It has been very sensitively modernised. One passes through it too quickly:

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Every time I’ve been to Glasgow, it has rained. Against hope, today proved to be no exception. We arrived at the Premier Inn for one of those uncanny PI, déjà vu experiences:

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It didn’t stop raining all day. We duck an dived in and out of bookshops and coffee shops, and walked up and down, left and right, of the main shopping precinct for the remainder of the afternoon, finally resting at the Drum and Monkey. The quality of a pub can be measured by the standard of its bangers and mash; (I believe Aristotle was of the same mind). This pub is good. (But only good.):

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6.30 pm. Back to hotel to kick off our shoes, plan tomorrow’s itinerary, and dry out. A little email pruning before a cuppa and a shower and an early night.

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