Ruins

We see the campus through European eyes. We see the ruination, which the university calls world-beating success. We see the disaster, which the university calls triumph. We see the voiding, the emptying out, which the university thinks of as productivity.

We see the shadow of the university. The non-university, the un-university. We see the disastered university. Voided of itself. Of its history.


The ruination changes everything, but leaves it all intact. It’s all exactly the same as it was, but changed, utterly.


The ruins only appear as ruins when you know that they do not matter. That they’re passing away. That the form of life to which they belong, which gave them sense, is disappearing.

They’re not ruins to anyone else – true. They’re barely seen. They’re incidental. Everyone looks past them.

They’re revealed in its uselessness. Which is to say, in their ignorability. In the way that they don’t matter to anyone. Which is part of their ruination.


And our voices echoing amongst the ruins. Our stupid voices, crying out. Because we’re the children who play in the ruins. In their ruins.

Because we’ve been admitted like children into an old folk’s home – to cheer them up with our life. Our liveliness. Our stupidity. Our antics. We’re here as the entertainment. And we’re not even that entertaining anymore.