After two years of my trusty K700i in JC, and then another two years of camera-less antique phones, I finally changed my handset yesterday, and now I'm the proud owner of a K800i. Not really a quantum leap, in terms of phone capabilities; it's more like an enhancement of existing features. But anyway, it came free of charge because it was the perk for renewing my mum's phone plan, so I took it. And, on an off-chance, it also means that the new phone has allowed me, for the first time since I got the K700i, to export the pictures I took with the old phone into the computer, via Bluetooth and the data cable that came with the new device.
So here's a sample of the odds and ends that ended up in my phone over the course of JC and in the period just following ORD, which includes the Southeastern Coast Australian sojourn. The one above is the first photo I ever took with a camera phone - it's the present that Young gave me at the end of Texprog. The one below is the last photo I took with the K700i - the beach at Surfers Paradise by dawn. The rest of them I've posted on Facebook, so do take a gander if you're interested!
How remarkable it is, then, to be able to salvage these photos; that they have remained intact for four years on the memory of the old phone. It's like having a part of my neglected memory coloured in again; it reminds me that there were many, many things that happened in JC that I don't have a real pictorial record of, and never really thought about again, subsumed as these memories were under the slough of new experiences. Some of the pictures, though, make me pause in surprise; I did not remember that I had taken these pictures, and now that they have resurfaced, it feels like I've received a coded message from my past self. It's a time bomb of meaning, set to go off in your mind only at the perfect time, to make you draw connections that are poignant in their seeming prescience, that reveal meanings that are clearly coincidental and retrospective, but that are also so evocative that their power arouses suspicions of a deeper, unperceived pattern behind all this that is evidence of an obscure self exercising a will over my consciousness that I had not even been aware of.
Who can unravel the deeper convolutions of meaning and memory, to say why sometimes time runs backwards and loops around to bring something from the past into the present, and thereby to portray the present in a new, stunning light? Winterson discussed this problem before, in Gut Symmetries, of people trying to outrun their past, only to find themselves, bewilderingly, running into signs of the past again and again. I think there is some meaning underlying these enigmatic patterns, though I'm not sure that I should read so much into them. They have such compelling things to say; but to listen to them too closely is to go down the road of sentimental nostalgia - which, with so many things to look forward to - is distracting and even inhibiting, don't you think?
But those were good times, nevertheless, good times indeed...
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Going to teach political philosophy on Wednesday in a 2-hour lesson with a new class. It's a daunting prospect; not only is the duration going to make this the longest class I have ever taught, and not only am I facing a new set of students that I will have to get to know from scratch, but the content matter is intimidatingly dense. And whoever planned the schedule only gave 2 weeks to cover this field that can occupy academics with years of study on end. How, then, within the limitations of time and ability, to give an overview of this topic without offending it by being too shallow and simplistic?
This will, after all, remain an English class, and for me it will always be more important that they write well, rather than what they write per se. However, writing well also has to do with how well you grasp the content matter and its myriad convolutions and implications, and how well you take the facts and are able to craft a pattern and meaning out of them that trounces others' interpretations of the same facts. It's about the quality of critical thinking, and if I am to assess them fairly for this, I will need to master those facts myself first. And so I face the uphill task of priming myself over two days in a subject that I am not really interested in, and have not really been exposed to.
Went with Joel to Suntec today to run over the materials. Over coffee and tea in Starbucks, sitting next to the plate glass windows with people coming and going outside, and others discussing business and studies around us, we pored over our respective lesson materials. As he said, it felt somewhat like pre-A Levels studying again, with, of course, the exception that this time round, we were doing it wholly voluntarily, or if not, then out of an acknowledged moral obligation from within to do justice to our kids, rather than because of any external pressure. I wonder, too, if undergraduate life will be like this. Some patterns are inescapable, and when I read dispatches from abroad, studying anywhere else sounds eerily like studying here. But surely a change in setting will make some difference? If you don't wrap yourself too tightly in the familiar rituals of studying, and have the time and presence of mind to be surprised by what you may encounter, then the place you are at will matter to you. If not, then I guess it is true; studying is studying, to paraphrase a realist mantra.
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I realise I haven't been keeping up in this journal as often as I would like to. It's a mixture of a pressing workload (it's the 9th week, and it's marks submission season!) and a delight in daily humdrum. It's not that nothing is happening; it's just that the things that are happening, though delightful to me, may be too far removed from your experience to be meaningful to you as a reader. So I have tried my best to meet you halfway with an entertaining rendition of things that are really unremarkable, and, failing to do so, have ended several entries with the "Delete" button.
Forgive me for this, and rest assured that life is still grand nowadays. And thank you for reading, as always.
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