Trampling through mush

"You can see a million miles tonight, but you can't get very far" - Counting Crows (Mrs Potter's Lullaby)

OK, so I've found another thing about academics that I'm envious of (for the first, see this post) - their purity of vision.  Now I'm not talking about some small scale vision of finishing a piece of work or writing a seminal research paper, I'm meaning epic utopian vision - whether it's a world without social inequality or a massive increase in life expectancy for people with a particular health issue. But the amazing thing is not the vision itself but the single minded focus and conviction that it is achievable. Everything that is between the researcher and the vision is incidental, even though there may be the occasional distraction where they worry about where the next bit of funding is coming from or how their field is going to fare in the REF.

Us public engagement practitioners (or professional services or research administrators or whatever the hell we are called) also have our own visions. One of the great privileges of stepping up into the role of Head of the Centre for Public Engagement was the chance to see a broader vista and imagine how I would like it to look in, say, a decade's time. But we are continually brought down to Earth by having to deal with complexities and nuances. A project that I'm involved in was recently described by an academic colleague as a bit mushy. This is a project involving our team, several academics from different disciplines and a host of external partners. The project manager has to handle competing agendas, a range of egos and a bunch of people who are enthusiastic about the project but don't have the time and resources to dedicate sufficiently to it. Is it any wonder that the project appears a bit mushy? That's reality at work.

I'm not wanting to foster the (really unhelpful) two tribes mentality. But it seems to me that both academics and non-academics in higher education are looking up at the stars. The academics are mentally already amongst them, a million miles away where the journey doesn't appear to be so bad from their view.  Whilst the rest of us are stuck on the ground, trying to work out how to build a rocket to get us even a fraction of the way there.  And it's galling to see a vision in the distance but not be able to get very far.

What's in a game?

If you look at my bookshelves (or have seen the reviews I write for Books we Like), you'll know that I'm quite partial to near future science fiction. I wouldn't go so far as to call them dystopian novels, although they're not often glowing depictions of the future (but that would probably make for a boring narrative). So it's not surprising that I'm writing about another story in this theme. Set twenty years in the future, The Last of Us describes an America where the human population has been ravaged by a fungal parasite that overwhelms the brain, driving all infected to attack and kill anyone they come across. Most of the uninfected people live in quarantine zones in the remnants of cities, where their lives are tightly controlled by the military. Outside of these zones, pockets of survivors attempt to develop their own communities whilst defending themselves from the infected and the dangers of a lawless society. The story follows Joel, a smuggler, as he unwillingly escorts teenage Ellie across the country in search of an organisation called the Fireflies.

So far so good, but there's one major difference with this story - it's actually a computer game, not a book. The Last of Us was created by the incomparable Naughty Dog studio who developed the brilliant Uncharted series; as such they're no strangers to games which focus on the narrative as much as the technology. But The Last of Us takes the depth of engagement to a whole new level. Uncharted is like watching an action movie starring your favourite hero - it's entertaining but you watch it at a distance. In contrast, The Last of Us is like reading a book that you can't put down - you are completely drawn into that world.

Some of that is the outstanding visuals. From cities where nature is slowly reclaiming its territory to makeshift hideouts where people have made a desperate last stand - the post-apocalypse has never looked so beautiful and yet so bleak. But mostly, it's through engaging with the characters. Both Joel and Ellie have painful histories which colour both their attitude to and interaction with each other. Neither are saints though, nor figures of pity, and it's this complexity that brings them to life. For all the computer gaming that I've done I can honestly say that I've never felt emotionally invested in what is fundamentally a bunch of pixels. And the ending, when it came, was heart-wrenchingly painful. It probably breaks all the rules in how to finish a game but is perfectly imperfect, and hence believable. So, if asked what my favourite story of 2013 is, I might have to admit that it's not a book at all. But what a game...

A touch of the green eyed monster

Most of the time I'm happy with my position in the university. I get an insight into the breadth of research and teaching, I get to talk to people from archaeology to zoology, from undergraduate to senior management. I get to explore all the nooks and crannies of the place (and if you've ever tried to wander from one end of the Faculty of Arts to the other you'll know that there are a lot of nooks).

But every now and then I feel a twinge of jealousy that I'm no longer an academic. It's not that I miss the long hours in the lab, nor the feeling of frustration when yet another experiment goes wrong or another hypothesis of mine proves to be incorrect. I don't even really miss believing that, as a researcher, you might be a world expert on this minuscule area of knowledge (although it was a comforting thought). No, I just have a bad case of academic office envy.

Despite the range of research areas, not to mention personalities, academic offices share many of the same features. Firstly, there are the bookcases; piled floor to ceiling with books, these invariably take up at least a wall, and often more. And rather than the glossy new bestsellers in a book store, these all look well loved and well thumbed. You could spend a whole afternoon here, slowly browsing the titles and breathing in the heady, nutmeg smell of old paper. Then there's the mismatched furniture - antique tables jostling for space with what passed for office furniture in the 1970s. Armchairs with an impressive range of colours and degrees of comfort. And finally, to truly stamp the inhabitant's character on the room, a range of items lying around or artfully arranged on the wall.  It could be a set of guitars, antique glass bottles or tiny replicas of medieval farming equipment. It could even be an extensive collection of teas or a bowl that is always full of chocolate for the casual visitor*.

All of these imbue the offices with an ambience that reflects each academic's personality.  I have no idea what my academic office would look like, apart from the knowledge that tidiness would not be a feature. I don't know how I would fill it with books related to my expertise, or even what my expertise would be nowadays. But I do know that every time I go into an academic office I am struck by the same thought: I want one of those.

* These are all genuine example from offices here.

Taking the long way around

"Tenir la main qui connaît le chemin sur cette terre" - Le Petit Prince*

Some people have their lives mapped out. I don't mean that everything works out for them (that'd be the subject for a whole other post) but that they know where are and where they want to be. And in some cases they've even worked out how to get there.

I'm not like that. When Maggie (my boss) asked me in my annual review where I wanted to be in five years time, I was a bit stumped. Of course I can look at my role now and think about things I'd like to be doing in the future but it's not like I actually plan any of this. I was not one of those kids who knew that they were going to be a doctor, a lawyer, an actor. I picked my undergraduate degree on a whim, based on something my chemistry teacher said. I fell into my PhD because it was offered to me on a plate and I couldn't think of any reason to say no. And I fell out of research because of a particular set of circumstances (which, because this is a reflective piece and not a rant I won't be going into!).

So do I need a hand to show me the way? The crux of it is that I like where I am. I may not have predicted I'd be where I am today but I certainly don't regret it. And who knows, if I'd have planned a particular route I may have ended up here anyway. Which I'd why my blog is named as it is, not because I think that all options are open to me but more that I don't think there's only one linear path through life. Which is a relief, because indecisiveness is one of my major flaws. If I had to think through the repercussions of every decision I made I'd probably still be stuck at the crossroads** on the beginning of the journey.

* Or at least the musical.  I don't have the original book to hand to check whether it's in there.
** Those of you who are aficionados of Don McLean will realise that's a deliberate pun since the song my blog is named after is in fact Crossroads.

In praise of daydreaming

"If you've never stared off into the distance then your life is a shame" - Counting Crows (Mrs Potter's Lullaby)

I've always had a commute to work, whether it's a 15 minute walk or a two hour train journey. But rather than resent these periods of enforced idleness, I've come to appreciate and treasure them. I've knitted several items of clothing (not whilst walking obviously) and surfed countless webpages; I've even written the odd blog post.  But the really valuable moments have been those when I've allowed my mind to drift off in any direction it chooses.

So what do I think about at those times? I'll admit a significant proportion of the time is taken up by practicalities, from shopping lists to what I need to do at work. But other times it's not so prosaic.  Do I stare off into the distance in sadness at what hasn't been? In hoping for what might be? Or in constructing a whole different picture of life? (the answer to this is all three).  In my head I can be whoever and wherever I want to be and traverse worlds far beyond my reality. As such, I do think it's a shame to be so caught up in the everyday that you don't have the chance to daydream.  Which means that if you see me gazing out the window or lost in my own thoughts, don't feel you have to interrupt me. I may just be planning tonight's dinner. But equally I may be somewhere else entirely.

Food for thought

"Before you jump
Tell me what you find when you read my mind" - The Killers (Read my Mind)

If I were to ever choose a superpower the ability to read minds would not be top of my list*. But sometimes it's quite helpful to know what's going on in the brain, or potentially what's going wrong. So as part of my ongoing exploration of the Bristol hospital system, the other week I went to Frenchay hospital to have an electroencephalogram (EEG). An EEG measures the voltage fluctuations along the scalp caused by ionic current flows in the brain and detected through a series of electrodes plastered over your head.  As such, the first task was was to attach an impressive number of electrodes to my scalp using a conductive gel.

I was then asked to lie back and open and close my eyes upon request while a strobe light flashed with increasing frequency. Despite the flashes and the fact that I must have looked like something from a sci-fi film, it was actually quite restful at times. So much so that I even nearly fell asleep at one point during an eyes closed period.

Part of the scan - I'm not sure what it means other than that I must have at least some thoughts!

Sadly the data they get from such a scan isn't as visually appealing as some of the imaging techniques I've come across. Once again I got the technician to show me what came up on his computer screen but it would need an expert to understand what any of it meant. Apparently the bit where I nodded off was detected as an electrical impulse (because your eyes start to roll when you fall asleep) but thankfully it didn't invalidate any of the data.

Another part of the scan, where I'm clearly more vacant (and apparently the blip is where I dozed off)

So the EEG read my mind, in a way, but it's not entirely clear what this means for the future. Nothing anomalous was found during the scan, but the drugs I'm currently on may be suppressing any changes which is why my brain appears normal. So only time will tell whether I'm fine or my brain will continue to sporadically do the human equivalent of the Blue Screen of Death.

* For the record, teleportation would be the clear winner - I mean, who wouldn't want to be able to flit around the world, not to mention all the time you'd save on the daily commute?  Telekinesis might be a close second.

The heart of the matter

Losing love is like a window in your heart, as the song goes.  But the other week I was given the opportunity to have another (and much less painful) glimpse into my heart.  This view was made possible by an echocardiogram, courtesy of the Bristol Royal Infirmary.  Having never had something like that before I was unsure of what the experience would be like.  As it turns out, it’s rather like having an ultrasound during pregnancy or at least how I imagine it would be...but about a foot higher up.

Once the specialist had found the right spots for getting a good image (and that’s not easy considering what’s in the way, if you catch my drift), the aim was then to find out how the blood was flowing through my heart and if the flow murmur that was detected a few years ago was anything more sinister or potentially dangerous.  For a former chemical engineer, investigating turbulent fluid flow and valves was an uncanny reminder of the career I left behind and, to be honest, exactly how much I have forgotten in the intervening years.  So the standard black and white images on the screen were enhanced by a continually changing spectrum of colour indicating direction of fluid flow.  This was also accompanied by the amplified sound of my heart beating or at least the sound that the beats generate in the ultrasound machine.  Apparently, despite the romanticism that surrounds the idea of a heartbeat, my beating heart sounds remarkably close to sheet metal being waved around.  Not very attractive I have to admit.

But the result is all that matters, so what was the final diagnosis?  Well, thankfully there’s nothing much wrong.  As the specialist said, nothing is leaking or flowing in the wrong direction, which can only be good news for plumbing – albeit of the internal variety.  So I was allowed to go on my merry way – with my slightly noisy, but otherwise undamaged, heart.  Next stop, the brain...

A rather blurry photo of the screen with the ultrasound – I think the specialist was rather bemused by my interest in the images. Needless to say they don’t print them out for you to take home.