Summon it up inside you, postgraduates: the memory of summer. Let it warm you now, the summer that seems never to quite happen. That seems forever to come.
Dream of it now – the coming summer. Great summer. The summer where you’d lay claim to it: your potentiality. Your youth! Your faith! Where you’d seize it back from everything that tried to put it to work.
Your perpetual beginning, postgraduates – forever ahead. Your hidden childhood, that hasn’t happened yet. The Ursprung. The Originary. That hadn’t been crushed in you. That hadn’t been lost in you. The summer of hope, that still breathes inside of you.
Think of the warm, wide summer when you could catch up with yourselves at last. Take account. Lookback through your notebooks. Let your thoughts assemble. Let them come calmly together, as light poured through them. As warmth buoyed them, lifted them.
Summer thoughts. Summer ideas! That seem to float upwards. That seem to rise into the sky, like fire balloons. Summer thoughts, rising. Summer ideas, rising. But casually. Neglectfully. Without paying any attention to themselves. Without trying. Without sweat.
Idled summer, with idled work. Work without work – which was more of an unworking than work. Non-work, where the non– was not privative. Where the non– was an opening.
Not work, but the contemplation of work. Not work, but contemplation – work detached from work, fallen out of step with work. That was out of phase with anything productive.
Summer, postgraduates! The opposite of our Organisational Management winter! The opposite of our White-Witch winter. Our Moominland-in-November winter.
Let it burn in your hearts, postgraduates! Let it warm your hearts! The coming summer. The summer that still hasn’t arrived. The summer condition – that is without beginning and without end.
Work in Progress 