Departmental Seminar II
While I have yet to hand over any cash to the University, it looks like I'll be presenting the proposal in a Departmental Seminar on the 25th at 2:15pm. That is, if I can get time off work. Or, if I call in sick. Or, if I finally make that great anarchistic purchase.
Here's the deal: There's a poorly lit room, me, some handouts, various members of the philosophy and politics departments and whomever else could be pressganged into attending; imagine roving parties of dons, stumbling around a campus of concrete and steel and the occasional green patch, thrusting smudged photocopies of posters that vainly hype the economic value of a liberal arts education into the hands of confused engineers, threatening first year students with expulsion for non-attendance, laying hands on pretty girls in miniskirts....
I will be expected to speak for about twenty minutes, during which time 30% of the audience will doze off, 30% will have adopted the vacant stare survival mechanism, 20% will be thinking about mundane things (Did I take out the trash? Do we need bread? Did I clean up the blood?), 10% will be lost in (hopefully) internal fantasies about latex, barbwire and Eskimo hookers, and the last 10% will be taking notes, hoping to slip me a googly during the question time, which could drag like a parade in Sydney.
After which, I hope, I can get it on in a motherfucking major way. Get down and start writing the thesis, which I'm rather excited about. I've got serious about this; using a pencil to make notes in the margins of my many books. Huh, several years ago the first sentence of this paragraph would have led to a variety of scenarios that would have A) involved another person, B) illicit and/or addictive substances, C) ridiculously loud but very hardcore music, and D) a time worth every cent of the bail money hidden in a crack in the fireplace that was last used in 1962.
Domestication changes everything. Kids, do not become domesticated, and always hide your bail money. Who knows when your porn-addicted, drug-addled other self will waste it on something as utterly useless as a municipal demand note.
Here's the deal: There's a poorly lit room, me, some handouts, various members of the philosophy and politics departments and whomever else could be pressganged into attending; imagine roving parties of dons, stumbling around a campus of concrete and steel and the occasional green patch, thrusting smudged photocopies of posters that vainly hype the economic value of a liberal arts education into the hands of confused engineers, threatening first year students with expulsion for non-attendance, laying hands on pretty girls in miniskirts....
I will be expected to speak for about twenty minutes, during which time 30% of the audience will doze off, 30% will have adopted the vacant stare survival mechanism, 20% will be thinking about mundane things (Did I take out the trash? Do we need bread? Did I clean up the blood?), 10% will be lost in (hopefully) internal fantasies about latex, barbwire and Eskimo hookers, and the last 10% will be taking notes, hoping to slip me a googly during the question time, which could drag like a parade in Sydney.
After which, I hope, I can get it on in a motherfucking major way. Get down and start writing the thesis, which I'm rather excited about. I've got serious about this; using a pencil to make notes in the margins of my many books. Huh, several years ago the first sentence of this paragraph would have led to a variety of scenarios that would have A) involved another person, B) illicit and/or addictive substances, C) ridiculously loud but very hardcore music, and D) a time worth every cent of the bail money hidden in a crack in the fireplace that was last used in 1962.
Domestication changes everything. Kids, do not become domesticated, and always hide your bail money. Who knows when your porn-addicted, drug-addled other self will waste it on something as utterly useless as a municipal demand note.
Labels: Philosophy
posted by Tristen at
3:00 pm
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