Work in Progress

Our lectures.

All our lives in what we said. Our misspent lives! Our derailed lives! Our displaced lives! Our humiliated lives! Our resentful lives! Our lives outside!

 

Our lectures.

Delivered from a life lived. Suffered. From hopelessness – long misery.

And from the joy of being allowed to speak. Unleashed. From the joy of being employed and away from the dreadful world out there!

What we’d waited to say. What we’d always wanted to say.

Our whole lives, offered up. Spoken.

 

Our lectures.

From a lectern – from on high? No! From the pit. From the pit of our lives. From our desperation. From our cast-off-ness. From our being outside. Words that could only be speaking by those who’d been Outside.

 

Our lectures.

Our suicidalism, carried over from our years of whoring. Barely concealing it.

 

Our lectures.

Proving to ourselves that we actually knew things. That we’d actually absorbed something. That we weren’t no marks. That we weren’t the idiots we’d been, pre-PhDs. That we’d picked up things along the way.

All those years of reading! All those evenings, all those weekends! All that reading on commutes!

Our lectures, proving that we knew stuff. That we weren’t idiots. That we knew more than they did, the students.

Now we could be wing-spreaders. Soarers. High altituders. Looking out over all. Seeing all. Surveying all.

We had the big picture. We knew the topography. The mountains. The valleys. The history of thought wasn’t unknown to us. It wasn’t actually terra incognita.

 

That the lectures were a seeking. All of them. It wasn’t about what we knew, what we’d found, but what we sought.

Our lectures were Desire, spoke Desire. Spoke yearning. Held themselves out into Yearning. Spread vast sails …

 

All we had to say – and more. Because the real lectures began after we’d said what we had to say. Only then … only after we’d said everything we thought we could, could we begin.

Our lectures.

At long last! After so many years of service teaching! Of seminar teaching for other people’s lectures. Of paid-by-the-hour teaching. Of holding ourselves back. Of never speaking our own minds. Of never giving our own takes on things. And now …

Our years of never being allowed to speak, and now being allowed to speak. Our sense of never having had the floor, and now having the floor.

Let off the leash. Unmanacled. Muzzles taken off – now what? What were we going to say?

 

Our lectures.

What happens when the subaltern speaks? When our kind found ourselves at the lectern? When the differend was suspended? When we had people to listen? An audience! For the first time!

What happens when we were allowed to pace the stage? To wield marker pen on whiteboard? To turn on and off the visualiser? To flick from PowerPoint slide to slide? To turn the house lights off and on?

 

Our lectures.

What now, when been let loose in a Russell group university? With Russell Group students! Who actually showed basic literacy. Who could sit at a desk.

What was to happen now we were to lecture. To profess. We were being trusted with the students of the wealthy. With our positions. Our lectureships. What a marvel!

What could we do? What would we do with our freedom?

 

Our lectures.

Surfacing. Coming up from our years of obscurity. Stepping into daylight after years in the darkness. Stepping up to the podium.

To be listened to. To be heard. Isn’t this always what we wanted? To put our view of things across. To do it better than the lecturers we’d seen over the years. Than all the lecturers we’d lectured for! That we’d provided seminars for!

Our chance at last: to be in charge of a room of students. To be guiding them, a room of students. To be lifting them up, a room of students.

 

Our lectures.

Now we had people to listen to us. Students who had to listen to us.

We had an audience. Students were listening. Notetaking!

And Cicero, herself listening. Cicero pacing up and down outside the lecture room, listening in.

This wasn’t to be just another European philosophy department, Cicero said. It wasn’t just to be about expounding the thoughts of thinkers much greater than we were. About passing on the tradition. It wasn’t about being representatives of the European thought, in our way, however worthy or unworthy we felt ourselves to be. It wasn’t about the honour of carrying forward the continental philosophy torch in the UK … That’s not why she recruited us!

There can no more philosophy, European or otherwise, Cicero said. No one can believe in philosophy, not anymore. Just like no one can believe in God.  Philosophy’s over. That way of reading and writing – no; no more. And we were the people who know it.

Apocalyptic hope – that’s the only thing available now: that’s our teaching, Cicero said. Hope for the apocalypse – and what passes through the apocalypse, including philosophy. Only hope for total change, preceded by total destruction – of philosophy. Where you can’t even hope for your own survival, let alone philosophy’s.

Apocalyptic energies – that’s what we had to harness in our teaching, Cicero said. Wild energies, unpredictable energies, impossible to contain. Horror and joy, mixed up. The fury of destruction that is also the fury of creation. The end and the beginning – both at once. Never ending. Never beginning.

We have to turn Gnostic – fully Gnostic, Cicero said. We have to be unsparing. Teach the students to hate everything. And that self-hatred is part of everything. Teach them the hatred of all things for themselves. Their shame. Their self-disgust. For existing, just that. For the very fact that they are.

The hatred of air for air, Cicero said. Of earth for earth. Of water for water. That’s what we were to teach our students. The atheism of air, of water, of the earth. And their own atheism, which is the heart of their mediocrity.

Teach them to hate their own nihilism, just as the universe hates its own nihilism, Cicero said. Teach them that they’re lost in the coils of their evil, just as the universe is lost in the coiling of its evil.

We had an instinct for escape – for exodus, Cicero said. We shared an instinctive horror at the world – of the conditions of our lives. Of the conditions that produced us – our kind. We have a desire for self-sabotage. For negative freedom.

We knew the importance of tactical failure, Cicero said. Of ineffectiveness. We were living examples of deliberate delinquency. Of self-decompletion. Of the displacing of ends from means, of the decoupling of potentiality from act. Strategic weakness was our forte.

That’s what Cicero saw in us. Which she couldn’t see in herself! Which she didn’t have herself! Which is why she scoured the world to find us. Which is why she combed the conferences. Visited lesser universities. Former polytechnic-universities. Looking, always looking, for the right look of desperation. Of total world-despair.

We learnt the syllabus, Cicero’s syllabus. Her war machine syllabus – that’s what she called it. We’re equipping our students to understand the new wars – the invisible wars, she said. The electromagnetic wars. The psychotronic weaponry wars – the applied behavioural science wars, the neuro-linguistic programming wars.

We’re teaching them about techniques of cognitive infiltration, Cicero said. About neuroweaponry. About existential weaponry – about the deliberate collapse of meaning, culture and social bonds. About the deliberate inculcation of free floating anxiety. About the conditions for mass hypnosis.

We’re helping our students to grasp the general technocratic agenda, Cicero said. The implantation of a global, full spectrum dominance control system. Of the seizure of the global commons: of food, water, energy, supply chain, money, mobility, private property.

We’re teaching them about politocracy and corporatism, Cicero said. About the transition from government to governance. About pathocracy, kleptocracy, cryptocracy, managerialism, corporate concentration, public/ private partnerships, about regulatory agency capture.

We’re helping them trace all the coercion cascades, from the Bank of International Settlements down, through NGOs, through state governments: Cicero said. And we’re helping them see the war between the giants, the war in the clouds between the central banks and the commercial banks.

We’re instructing them about strategic financial collapse, Cicero said. About the controlled economic takedown. About the end of mercantilism and the rise of techno-feudalism. About the new monetary system, and the destruction of independent business.

We’re trying to make see what’s happening all around them, Cicero said. The depopulation agendas. Iatrocide. Stealth sterilization. Kill-boxing and Skinner-boxing. The great poisoning of rood and water.

We’re showing them how to live in this brave new world, Cicero insisted. Which is why we were doing the opposite of normalisation – of compliance tests and behavioural training. It’s why we were struggling against the dimunition of critical thought, of the curtailment of the thinking process. Let alone moral debasement! Let alone compulsory positivity!

We’re turning them into anarchists, Cicero said. Subversives. Free thinkers. We teach whole modules on counterlogic. On guerrilla ontology. On practical surrealism. On the systematic derangement of the senses. On microdosing. On the uses of hardcore pornography. On UFOlogy as a science.

They’re to become Investigators, Cicero said. Researchers. Taking nothing for granted. Seeing through the lies. We’re liberating our students from years of so-called learning. Setting them free. Countering years of indoctrination. We’re counter-processing.

Philosophy isn’t a dead subject for our students, Cicero told us when we first arrived in Newcastle. It doesn’t sit idly on the page. It’s not about ancestor worship. It’s not about getting Spinoza right. It’s about putting Spinoza to work.

And there was work to be done! Cicero said. But there was also the opposite of work. And that was our role: to embody the opposite of work. To unleash our secret ardency! Our hatreds! Loathings! Our leaps of horror! Our screams in the head! Our abyssal thoughts. Our musings of caged beasts born of caged beasts! Of rats in the maze, begotten by rats in the maze!

We were to draw on our transcendental hatred, Cicero said. Our hatred for the conditions that produced us. That made us. That allowed our kind.

What was needed was a total pathos of teaching, Cicero said. That’s what we embodied

It was like the Magnificent Seven. Like the Seven Samurai. Cicero wanted to recruit a posse. She wanted a gang. So she went out and found us.

And who were we? Doomers. Losers. Off the rails.

All of us, teaching part time. Magellan, business ethics at Bangor University. Ava, the ethics of chemical engineering at Teeside University, for God’s sake. Little Hans and Big Hans, busy with applied ethics at various London universities.

Sven, part-time in the most doomed of the doomed universities. That was closing all its humanities departments. Sven, seeing the last few students through now the full time staff had left. As the university reinvented itself around him as a new media hub …

Barbarossa, practically shaking when Cicero found her. Barbarossa, plagued by academic bullying. By concocted charges of something or other. Because she refused the advances of an older academic. Who swore he’d make sure Barbarossa never worked again in academia.

Barbarossa, now with a stammer. A stutter. But Cicero saw beyond that.

Cecil, teaching TEFL somewhere, Cecil, forgetting he ever did a PhD. Forgetting the papers he spun out so effortlessly from his PhD. Forgetting his legendary early promise. But Cecil saw the advert, by chance. Cecil applied …

And there I’d been, busy with pregnancy cover in Hatfield. Hatfield! Living in Hatfield! A nowhere place! A nothing place! The most dead-ended of dead end unis. In the London suburbs. In the nowhere suburbs.

And Cicero, coming to find us. Cicero,  doing the conferences. Cicero, asking questions: Who should she employ? Who are the best? The brightest? And avoiding the most obviously bright. The most obviously best. Cicero, showing up at obscure symposia at obscure universities, keeping her eye out. Cicero, ready with other criteria. Cicero, encouraging us to apply. Writing to us to apply.

And she employed all of us – the whole shortlist! The whole gamut, who were invited to interview. They gave jobs to the whole shortlist. How did she persuade Newcastle University of that? All of us, in a magnificent swoop. All of us, borne up. Who could have expected that?

And we came to Newcastle, still  full of a desperate intensity! A life-or-death intensity! A desperation! A craving! We came, still in some manic state. After years of living in extremity. After years of part-time teaching. Grinning strangely. Our eyes … The look in our eyes … We were all but frothing at the mouth …

After years of humiliation! Years of privation! On the part time philosophy job market! Paid per course. A pittance per course! And on benefits, otherwise. On the dole, through the summer, through the Easter break, through Christmas. Rolling up to the benefits office to sign on, through summer, through Easter, through Christmas.

On permanent tenterhooks about the teaching we’d be offered. Or whether we’d be offered any teaching at all. And we’d accept anything. Regardless of expertise. Out of sheer desperation! Advanced logic? Sure. Metaphysics, – Analytic Philosophy style. Of course. Advanced Epistemology. Bring it on! We’d wing it. We’d work twenty hours per lecture. Pull al- nighters.

And knowing nothing of rest in busy term time. Of a night’s sleep. Of deep sleep. Of unpanicked REM. Knowing nothing of peace. Of time off. Of empty, open hours. Of wandering. Of contemplation … Of simple sitting … Of just being ….

Every minute, crammed with work. Stuffed with projects. And all at once! Stacked on top of one another! Doing this thing when you were supposed to be doing that thing. And neglecting those things whilst doing that thing.

Productivity – so-called productivity! A whole life, geared to nothing else! Being productive, or feeling guilty about not being productive!

And no romance allowed. No fun allowed. No days off allowed. No staring at the sky allowed. No rest allowed. No unworking hours allowed. Only broken hours, ruined hours, where you can’t work and can’t do anything. Only ill hours, where you only feel guilty about not working.

Hardly the circumstances in which to produce your best work! Hardly the times to turn your dissertation into some magnum opus! Submitting a conference abstract here, hoping to get accepted. Submitting a paper there, a revision of another paper there. Sending our speculative job applications, knowing you hadn’t got a chance.

And a swirling in the head. And a swarm in the head. And a panic in the head.

Opening an email. We’re sorry, but your work isn’t suitable … We regret to say your article doesn’t fit … Best of luck with your publication plans …

Opening an email. We’re not looking for work on this topic at this time. I’m afraid we’re overwhelmed with articles at present … I hope you will be able to find a suitable place to publish your work elsewhere …

That is, if they even bothered sending emails. If there wasn’t just an eerie silence …

And hating the system, and the unfairness of the system. Despising our dependency upon it, the system. Despising what supposed successes we had in the system. And loathing ourselves and what the system made us. Loathing who we’d become in the system. Work horses. Houseboys. Maids of all work.

And hating the system that forced us to try to succeed on its terms, and only on its terms. Loathing their measures of success and the conditions of success. And loathing the so-called fruits of success.

Loathing the utter mediocrity of full time staff. The utter averageness of them all, the full-time staff. Hating their blitheness, the properly employed academics. For talking about holiday plans. About different kinds of wine. Hating them for their houses and families and being to make their way …

And out for drinks with the full time staff. And being unable to afford a round at drinks with full time staff. And offering to buy a round at drinks with full time staff. Having to save for a week for drinks with full time staff. All the while to become better known by full time staff. To get our faces known by full time staff. To become well-liked by full time staff. To become part of the gang of full time staff. So that they might be able to make a case for our continued appointment, the full time staff.

Which is why we learnt to laugh with full time staff! At their jokes! At their academic anecdotes! Which is why we learnt to feign sympathy with them, the full time staff, when they tell us their minor woes. Of internecine warfare. Of perceived slights, perceived grievances. Of departmental politics. Of subject group politics.

And all the while despising them, the full time staff. All the while, fuelled with despair because they’d be rewarded, and you hadn’t! Drowning in resentment that they had proper jobs and we hadn’t! Sick with resentment that they could think of anything but desperation, which we couldn’t!

And meanwhile, our secret ardency! Our negativism. Our revolutionary dreams. Our craving for a Year Zero that could burn up the world! Our desire for revenge! Our glee for apocalypse! For the destruction of the world and the academic world!

Magnificent hatreds! Loathings! Leaps of horror! Screams in the head! Aabyssal thoughts! Thoughts of caged beasts born of caged beasts! Of rats in the maze, begotten by rats in the maze. Ferocious thoughts! Flarings-up! Fireworks! Blastings and explosions from hatred! Inner skies lit up!

Transcendental hatred. Hating the conditions that produced us. That made us. That allowed our kind. That gave us a so-called chance … Hating the so-called meritocracy. Hating the rigging of the system. The ranking of unis that placed your alma mater at the bottom. That placed all the true continental philosophy departments at the bottom. The ranking of journals that means that nowhere you published would get you a job.

That sense of humiliation. Of being dependent on tossers. Of having to appease wankers with power. Of begging for work. Losing all dignity, all independence. Having to go to moron heads of department, begging bowl in hand …

But Cicero swept us up in her angel’s wings. We were saved, lifted, when we didn’t expect to be. We’d escaped, when we never expected to escape …

Condemned, we thought, to a life on the margins. To scraping by. To a job in the crappiest of former polys at best. In some nowhere town … In some no-place place … To scraping by in Further Education, or something. Wherever. Whatever. At best!

And at worst? … Years passing. Bobbing along the bottom. Scraping by for life … Paid teaching falling away. Dreams of publication, falling away. University affiliation, falling away. Wandering by day, lost in the day. On lonelier and lonelier orbits. Friends, falling away. Peers tired of us, ashamed of us.

On the dole. On benefits. A charity case! A ward of the state! Cut off from all social ties. Turning in on ourselves. Turning in our small circles. Making ourselves ill.

Barely able to assemble our thoughts. Barely able to speak in full sentences. Unable to hold ourselves together. Half catatonic, from disgust. Almost wholly withdrawn, out of horror.

Aliens on this earth. Just turning and turning in despair. Just turning on the axis of despair. Just rotating in despair.

With no one to talk to. No one to communicate with. No one understanding us. No one getting us. No one with our outlook. With our sense of humour.

And if we met someone with whom we had something in common, we’d overwhelmed them with intensity. If we found someone with whom we might share a few things, we’d overburdening them with our despair. Scare them. Say things that scared ourselves. Howl out of the depths of your world-alienation. From the depths of absolute suicidal despair.

Until what? We went mad? We’d hear voices? We’d be infested, or whatever? Until the voices came? Until we were diagnosed. Sectioned. Medicated. Until we became dayroom zombies?

Until we move back to our home towns? Back to our parents’ houses? To our childhood bedrooms?  

We’d got away! And now we were back. We’d grown wings! Flown off! Left it all behind! And now, back again. Now walking by your childhood school! Back to where you played as a child …

So educated! So well read! Who’d read so many clever things! Who was so ‘booky’! All that potential! Intelligence! Who did so well as a children! What went wrong? People talking about us … People worried about us as a problem … Back to the parental home … back to be looked after …

Our childhood friends, baffled at what happened. At what went wrong. The parents of our childhood friends, seeing you passing by on the streets, whispering, What happened to X? What went wrong? To think, Y’s back at home with their parents.

How many years did we put into academia! Into the academic dream? What malinvestment! Bad investment! What did we think we’d be? Did we really think we’d find your way in? Didn’t we understand that academia was not for you?  Didn’t we see where it would lead?

Should have trained in IT instead. Should have worked in biotech, or something. And what do you have to show for all our years of study? What’s the result of our years of graft? A bound copy of our PhD dissertation. On the shelf! There it is! The non-magnum-opus!

Letters on the front: Awarded for completion of the degree of doctorate of philosophy. From the university of crapness. Our dissertation! Bound! That was it! That’s what we produced! Three hundred pages of … what? And why?

Some melange of trendy contemporary philosophical issues. Sovereignty. Biopolitics, etc. The usual! The usual usual! More of it! More continental philosophy landfill! More readings of readings of readings! More marginalia in the great works!

Closely printed type. Read only by our supervisors and our examiners. And by no one else! With our dedication page. To my parents, with gratitude. For their support then and now! As they put you up!

And now we can put the word, doctor, before our names: what a joke! I studied for years and all I got was a lousy dissertation and doctor on my debit card. And a clutch of book reviews in the electronic aether. Is that it?

Years of study in a subject that interests no one. That you can barely explain. That no one wants you to explain. That has no part in UK intellectual culture. That qualifies us for nothing – except teaching European philosophy, and where could we do that?

But Cicero saved us. From certain mental illness! Certain suicide! Certain soul death! Certain life murder! Certain fuck up! Certain doom!  

But Cicero swept us up. Cicero scooped up the philosophical undesirables. The philosophical no ones. The seven … what? Seven idiots. Seven mediocres. Seven fuck ups. Seven failures …

What did she see in us, the philosophical world asked itself, and scratched its head. What’s going on at Newcastle? It had a shock and awe element. It had a baffle-the-enemy dimension. It confused everyone.

What’s going on up there? What’s happening? What was Cicero building? What was her game?

Hadn’t Cicero won some respect from the hard to please philosophical community? Hadn’t she shown her philosophical chops, her philosophy acumen, her speculative abilities?

For all that, she was an unknown, an outsider. Who knew that she wanted to build, apparently from scratch, a philosophy department all of her own. Where had Cicero come from? She appeared, seemingly full formed. Fully armed.

There she was, at Newcastle. There she was, willing to put in the committee work, to fill out the forms, to found a new department. What a marvel. A philosophy department, growing from nothing. Growing from nowhere.

Creatio ex nihilo! How was that possible!? Turning the tide in favour of the humanities!? A Newcastle miracle! In the face of everything!?

Cicero came to save us, and save us she did.

Philosophy Subject Group Meeting.

The new term’s looming! We have to think about our teaching. Our post-Cicero teaching. How are we to deliver our courses in the wake of Cicero. Our aims and objectives. The syllabus we’ve specified. We have to remember the mission of the course. Fuck …

Come on, Tom, you’re the leader. You’re the one Cicero chose! Tell us what we’re to do, leader! Lead us, leader! Steer the ship of fools! What’s your strategy? What’s your plan? Give us a sense of direction!

We’ve a whole academic year ahead of us! A whole academic autumn term! All the way to Christmas! Anything might happen!

But this is still the summer, right?

The late summer …

God, this is like a parody of a real academic meeting. A chimp’s fucking tea party …

Contemplating the purple walls.

Why purple? Why's our new accommodation purple? Did anyone ask for them to be painted purple?

Not me.

Was Cicero consulted? Did she have a say in this? 

Who knows?

Someone’s attached to purple, anyway. And all the shades of purple!

Maybe it’s some psychological warfare thing. Some demoralising thing. Maybe purple’s a uniquely depressing colour.

Googling psychological effects of purple.

A blend of a high energy colour, red, and a calming colour, blue. So it can be energising or relaxing, depending.

What about depressing? Does it say anything about depressing?

Toned down hues like lavender are soft and feminine, but darker hues can lead to impatience, frustration and irritability.

Well it's very fucking dark. They're clearly trying to provoke us.

Shades of purple: amethyst, lavender, lilac, mulberry, orchid, plum, puce, pomegranate, wine. And there’s royal purple … Associated with royalty, extravagance and aristocracy … King bloody Charles wore the Purple Robe of Estate after his coronation, apparently …

Would you call this royal purple?

It’s just, like, too much purple. Totally saturated purple. Like, deep purple.

And there’s the Prince connection. He associated purple with the end times, apparently. The pouring of red blood from the heaven, mixed with the sky’s natural blue …

I think purple’s the colour of the endless end times.

Are the purple walls on our side?: that's the question. Is the purple with us or against us? What powers does it represent? Who does it answer to?

The purple … if you pressed your hand against it … if you placed your forehead on it … would you think what it thinks? Would you think with it?

It’s as if the purple was listening. As if the purple was covered in sensors. Purple walls, listening to us as we teach. Absorbing our thoughts. Is it some new smart colour. Some new kind of uni surveillance. Like that stuff they’re putting into fabric.

I don’t believe it. The purple is its own thing.

Really!? Should we should regard the purple as an ally? As on our side? Is it in league with us?

It’s as if the purple itself were thinking. Were counterthinking. It’s as if the purple had its own thoughts: purple thoughts. Glowering thoughts. Purple-in-purple thoughts.

As if the purple were sentient somehow. As if it were philosophising, in its own way. About what? Its purple thoughts. Its deep purple thoughts. Its thoughts of purple-in-purple …

Our purple, so very different to organisational management cream. So different to organisation management magnolia. The organisational management walls don’t think. Or think only organisational management thoughts.

You know what I think: these are anti-smart walls. This is anti-smart purple. Maybe we have allies somewhere. People helping us in secret. Who approve of Philosophy, from afar. In Estates, or something. In Organisational Management itself!

Maybe there’s a counter institution within the intuition. A uni resistance.

But who in Organisational Management would be on our side?

Magellan, looking at the website.

There they all are. A dubious crowd. Professor Sophia Van Leyden. Reading her profile. Probably not her. She looks like a Nazi. Professor Klaus Tugendhat – probably not him.

He looks cool, though.

He looks like an East German terrorist. Like he could be part of Baader Meinhoff. Or star in some Fassbinder film.

It’s the leather jacket. The shades.

He should be called Helmut Omelette. To start a revolution you gave to crack some eggs.

Here’s your beau, Tom. She’s hot. There’s Priya Desai, in her business suit. She has something. Who else?

Fuck looking for supposed allies. Haven’t we got anything better to do? This is supposed to be our Subject Group Meeting. Impose some discipline, Tom! This meeting should have structure! An agenda! There should be bullet points! We need official minutes to send to the uni.

Come on, the uni shouldn’t get to know what we’re thinking about.

Maybe they can hear anyway. Through sensors. Through the purple.

Maybe there’s a mole! Is it you , Tom? Are you sharing our secret with Priya?

Magellan, still on the website.

This guy looks like he’s already homo sapiens 2.0 or whatever.

They’re not homo sapiens anymore. They’re homo borg genesis.

Homo borg what?

It’s a whole new thing. Synths – that’s what they’re called. Synthetic humans. Drawing on the latest advances in synthetic biology. Androids, basically. They’re building them now. There are loads of synths in these deep underground military bases.

Why?

They’re pretty useful. Totally compliant. They’ll do what you tell them – no questioning of orders. With no need for philosophy … for our kind of thought.

Maybe all the organisational managers are synths. Maybe Organisational Management itself is some kind of School of Androids. Like, a university infiltration thing …

Their PhD students look very synth-y. These guys look like clones.

They’re actually wearing Organisational Management uniforms.

They are not!

It’s completely technocratic.

Techno-what?

It was a big thing in the 30s. It’s what Brave New World’s all about. Total control.

So Organisational Management is technocracy?

Reckon.

Run by synths?

Run by academics allied to the synth makers, anyway.

So why do they want Philosophy in their School?

To integrate us, of course. To join the hivemind. They want to hollow out philosophy.

They want to hollow out all the humanities, probably. The entire arts …

But they're starting with us. We're the test case. 

To think: the last free outpost of thought, captured. All the Schools of the university, being taken over, one by one.

But we’re not captured, that’s the thing. Philosophy is like the Nebuchadnezzar in the Matrix. We’re still free. We’re still puttering about, even though we’re in the heart of the beast.

So who’s Neo, if this is the Matrix? Who’s the One?

Cicero was Morpheus, right?

But Cicero fucked off …

Is it you, Tom? Are you the One? Are you the last best hope of humanity?

News: they’re moving the Philosophy department into Organisational Management.

General shock. Can they do this sort of thing? Without consultation? Is it allowed?

Apparently.

Walking. Longsands.

Is there a rationale? we wonder. Have they explained themselves?

They don’t have to explain themselves, Hans says. They just act.

But it’s so absurd! It makes no sense …, Ava says.

Of course it makes no sense, Hans says. That’s the point …

It’s mockery – in plain view, Magellan says. They’re laughing at us.

It’s self-mockery, I say. The uni’s laughing at itself … At everything a university once was …

But do they really know what they’re doing? Magellan asks. Can’t they sense the nihilism – even if they’ve never heard the word, nihilism?

They did it because of the nihilism, I say. It’s to deepen the nihilism.

It’s just some random thing, Ava says. Some stupidity. Some manager or another wanted to make their stamp on the uni. Some idiot–

– They’re all idiots –, Hans says.

– Wanted to launch some interdisciplinary initiative, or something, Ava says. Wanted to shake things up …

What about Organisational Management? Hans asks. What’s in it for them?

Our student numbers, maybe, I say. 

Laughter.

Our international reputation, Magellan says.

Laughter.

Our general sanity and well-adjustedness, Ava says.

More laughter. 

Why couldn’t they just have left us alone? Ava asks. Why couldn’t we be allowed to go on as we were? It’s cruel … it’s needless.

Discussion.

Because they’ve declared war on philosophy, we agree. They know that it’s philosophy they have to go after. Not history! Not the fine arts! Not music! Not English literature! But philosophy, alone among the humanities …

It’s because they sense something about philosophy, we agree. They feel a kind of awe of philosophy, despite everything. They know us as a threat – unconsciously. They experience us as an enemy, in some recess of their minds.

It’s a matter of unavowed revenge on philosophy, we agrees. On the humanities in general. There’s a whole institutional unconscious at work. A desire for revenge. On humanities expansiveness. On humanities freedom of thought …

And that’s why the closure of philosophy would never be enough, Magellan says. The humiliation of philosophy: that’s the aim.

This is a shock and awe move, we agree. This is a cow-the-humanities move. This is a watch it or you’re next move.

It’s like parking a tank on your front law, we agree. It’s to prove that they can do exactly as they please, no matter how mad. That they can simply bend reality to their will.

The uni can do what it likes: that’s what this says, we agree. Anything could happen! The greatest absurdity! Who would be crazy enough to move philosophy to organisational management? The uni would! Because the uni can!

The madness of the world is showing itself, I say. The madness behind the world. A deluge of madness! A mad flood of insanity! It’s quite sublime in its way …

You shouldn’t examine it too closely, Magellan says. Don’t think about it too much. Ponder the logic of the Organisational Management move and you’ll go mad, too.

Maybe we should go mad, I say. Maybe that's what it'll take. But it has to be our madness, not theirs – not the madness of humiliation, but … but, like, cultivate-your-own-legitimate-madness madness, as Cicero used to say. Which is to say, the madness of philosophy …

*

If only Cicero were still with us.

Cicero, our erstwhile organ grinder! Cicero, the old head of the philosophy dept … Cicero, who handpicked us–us–to work here … Cicero, who plucked us–us–from our provincial universities … Cicero, who scouted the conferences for … what? Not the up-and-coming, we were never that … The desperate! The put-upon! The cornered!: That’s who we were …  

Cicero sought out the prospectless! The defeated – spiritually! Financially! Psychologically! Cicero looked for the lower class! The skint! The disturbed! The personality-disordered! Who’d never normally be given a lectureship at a Russell Group university! Us, in other words.

Cicero actually wanted our kind around her. The end times will see a parade of deformities and grotesques, she used to say. Mental deformities, she said, not physical ones. Mental sports! The psychically twisted! The cognitively contorted! The equivalent of Hieronymous Bosch’s Hell, but in thought …

Only freaks of thought could philosophise from the end times, Cicero said. Only thinkers of deformity could philosophise out of the experience of the coming collapse. Which was quite impossible for Cicero herself, with her deep philosophical culture, with dozens of keynote speeches behind her, with decades of immersion in the great works of philosophy.

She wanted to surround herself with the genuinely doomed. The authentically prospectless. She wanted Hopelessness incarnate … Philosophical wreckage … She wanted to be the captain of a ship of fools, and she got her wish.

We were to be the doom speakers of the end times. We were to voice disgust’s disgust. Horror’s horror. We were to speak the truth of our times: the mad truth. Which is why Cicero brought us here. Why she combed the conferences to find our kind.

My God, do you remember who we were? What we were? The humiliations visited upon us. The years of rejection, post PhD. Living hand to mouth. Barely getting by on benefits and scraps of part-time teaching. We were whores! Academic whores, begging for work, trying to publish. Living from foodbanks and charity shops …

Cicero saved us! She gave us jobs! Brought us to Newcastle! She wanted to let us be ourselves in thought.

I wouldn’t say that, exactly, Ava says. She could be pretty insulting …

But it was a kind insulting, Magellan says. It was meant to spur us on.

It was meant to crush us –, Ava says.

It was, like, a Jedi training, I say. She was our Yoda. She wanted to deepen our sense of disgust. To rise from our ashes. It was a use-the-force-Luke kinda thing.

– I’m still crushed –, Ava says.

Philosophers you must be! Magellan says, in his best Yoda voice. Think for yourselves, you must!

It was a bootcamp, I say. She wanted to toughen us up. Particular you, Hans. She could tell you were a soy boy.

And then Cicero … disappeared. She went travelling or whatever. Took her career break.

Do you think that was a coincidence? I ask. Come on, Ava, you were actually going out with her …

Briefly, Ava says.

What was she like in private? I ask.

Drunk, Ava says. She was a drunk.

Sure Cicero drank. How she drank! She emptied whole bars! And we emptied them with her! There was a whole discipline of drinking, we remember. We had to watch over our nights of drinking. Less they slip into complacency. Less they fall into pubism. Drinking mustn’t be consolation, Cicero always said. Mustn’t allow our reconciliation to the way things are.

The pub is not a place for petty moaning! Cicero used to say. For sharing problems. There was to be no huddling together to cry into our beer. No whisky lamentations about the state of our lives.

The pub was not to be a retreat, but a launchpad … A space capsule … We were looking to flare upwards. To burn upwards.

And yet: Cicero’s sadness, in the face of the attacks of the university. Cicero’s defeat, in battling the university. Even as she insisted that adversity helped her. Even as she said that that’s where her best thoughts were coming from. How else would she have been able to develop her insights into political ponerology, except from repeated attempts to close philosophy down? Into psychic warfare techniques and conditioning tactics, except from her tussles with deans? How else would she have been able to diagnose the determinative value of the technological system – of systematisation, schematisation, tabulation, qualification, rationalisation, mechanisation, standardisation – were it not for her experience of the instinctive academic hostility to philosophy?

The way Cicero used to speak about escape, as we drank … About the significance of the exodic act! About the effort to snatch a little transcendence from the day. About not wanting to be buried with her defeats. About her desire to roll away her stone. About resurrection! About wanting a last chance to redeem her sufferings!

There we were, drinking at Jilly’s with Cicero. Affirming our right to drunken assembly at Jilly’s … Jilly’s, where we’d drink ourselves out of the lowlands. Out of the valleys. Jilly’s, where we approached, with Cicero, a promontory of drinking. Where we’d discuss the big picture and the very picture.

Things, it is true, would devolve into chaos. Hans, invariably taking his trousers off. Ava and Magellan, singing duets. Me, lying on the sofa. Everyone at the bar, in the final hours, doing shots together. Even Klaus the barman. Especially him! Klaus, pulling out his guitar. All of us at the bar, singing Roy Orbison’s Crying. And all of us crying, tears running down our drunken cheeks …

Cicero enjoying the spectacle. Hans, loudly demanding DISCO! Music he could DANCE TO! Magellan, regressing to childhood. Ava, doing a solo Rhinestone Cowboy. Great work with the microphone stand. Me, in some drunken debate about who would win in a fight: Gnostics or nihilists …

Cicero, seemingly happy in her cups as we were happy in ours. Cicero, like us, in the last redoubt, taking a last drunken stand. Against what? Against technics! Against nihilism! Against managerial evil! Against the all-seeing eye, never sleeping, always watchful! Against technocracy!

And afterwards, back to Cicero’s place. Afterwards, ascent to her flat, overlooking the Tyne. Overlooking the North Sea. There, in the living room of her flat, in the Sir James Knott Memorial complex. In the pre-dawn, the sun just about to rise. There, and at that moment, Cicero would begin to Talk, hushedly at first. Quietly. Almost tentatively, to begin with.

Cicero, sharing … hypotheses. Personal opinions. It could be this … My conclusion is … I’m led to speculate that … This is how it seems to me … If we consider the matter carefully, then … Hushedly. Tentatively. And yet, a kind of Certainty in her voice. That there was something True here. In the very fact of her Talking …

Cicero, voice lowered. Cicero, speaking quietly, but with great intensity. As though she’d waited the whole night to tell us this. As though she’d waited her whole life to tell us this. And that we were the only ones she could tell it to. We thought-freaks who could take what she said and weave it into a new philosophy …

And we, sitting round. Eager to listen, eager to learn. But tired, tired, lacking her stamina! Cicero, speaking as our eyelids drooped. Until we, her audience, fell asleep one by one, and who knows that she didn’t go on talking as we slept … Cicero, talking to the air when the last of us fell asleep in her living room … Talking to no one in particular as she lay soft blankets over us … Murmuring as much to herself as to anyone as she rolled down her Roman blinds to shield us from the rising sun …

If only we’d written it down: Cicero’s theory (her anti-theory), Cicero’s mythology! But we could never remember it, after. Even freshly awoken … Even on the Metro back to home … We could never quite bring it to mind, never recall the essential details, never reassemble the logic that led Cicero from one thought to the other …

Only a few words from the great wave of her words. Stuff about the theogenic process, we remember. About blind increate formlessness. About the aboriginal nonground. About banished fundamentals. Stuff about politocracy … iatrocide … directed evolution … biometric control. Stuff about stealth sterilization … psycho-neural captivity … homo borg genesis …

Only memory of the great stillness of Cicero’s words, that accompanied them. The calm background of her speech. As though what was said bore within it another speech, a speech without words, a murmuring speech, a susurrating speech, a speech without words and without syllables.

Only recollection of an endlessness. A movement of dispersion. A threshold, spreading out to include all things … To weave everything into its vast web. Encompassing the entire horizon. All things comprehended, all things thought. All things included. All things woven in, all history …

Cicero, queen of infinite speech. Cicero, sovereign of the hours between the dog and wolf. Cicero, ruler of the pre-dawn, of the end of the night, where the river of speech opened out and out, like the Tyne itself outside her flat, but wider than the Tyne, braiding into distributaries, fanning into a delta, spreading and wide.

Cicero, who resigned nonetheless. Cicero, who handed in her notice. Who left Philosophy, which she had done so much to defend. Who turned it over to us, her idiots. Her imbeciles. And left her flat in the Sir James Knott Memorial block. And set of travelling, who knows where. Who knows how (a lottery win? An inheritance? Some deal with the university?) …

My flat.

You have an optimistic and trusting nose, Priya says.

How can you tell? I ask. What have noses got to do with anything?

You can see everything in the nose, Priya says. And the chin. And in the shape of the eyes. And you have such kind fingers, though your thumb looks rather stubborn.

Is this how lovers talk? I ask.

It’s been too long, Priya says.

What about with your husband? I ask.

That was years ago, Priya says. I’m not sure I want to remember.

Was there a honeymoon period? I ask.

There’s always a honeymoon period, Priya says. Then there’s a humdrum period. Then there’s a blue period – a fifteen-years-together-and-what-for? period.

And what period are you in now? I ask.

The illicit period, Priya says.

Priya, examining herself in the mirror. I’m the sort of person you ought to loathe, philosopher, she says. So why don’t you? You’ve invited the enemy in. You’re betraying yourself. And your people. And philosophy. And everything.

Maybe it’s my revenge, I say.

On what? On organisational management? Priya asks. Because I’m the head of department’s wife … I see it … This is your way of lobbing a grenade into the enemy camp … Well, maybe.

He doesn’t seem like a bad guy, your husband, I say. I like way he dresses – his three piece suit. It gives him some distinction. Is that why you went for him?

The question is why I went for you, Priya says.

I suppose you’ve had a series of lovers, I say. I suppose he likes it.

No, actually, Priya says. Nothing like that.

And his northern accent, I say. And his easy going manner. He seems very affable.

He is affable, Priya says. He’s really very nice.

And there’s the management style of your husband, I say. The organisational management style …

My husband thought it was a good idea, bringing philosophy into organisation management …, Priya says. Exploring synergies …

And you can say that with a straight face? I say. You can repeat those things? Anyway, they made him do it.

They did make him do it, Priya says. But he has a good attitude, unlike you. I know you’re sneering.

Where are you going to tell him you were this afternoon? I ask. How are you going to account for yourself?

I’ll say I was at the gym, as usual, Priya says. At exercise class.

Does he suspect? I ask. Surely he must suspect. He must have some sense that your mind’s elsewhere. And your body …

My body’s not elsewhere, Priya says. I fuck him too.

You’re so shameless, I say.

I am, aren’t I? Priya says. How can she do this to her husband?: that’s what you’re thinking. But I like doing this to my husband. It feels right to be doing this to my husband.

Why do you never call him by name? I ask.

Because he’s essentially anonymous, Priya says. Because he’s a force. Because he’s a collection of husband drives. Anyway, I don’t want to think about him …

Silence.

But there’s a reason we’re here, isn’t there? Priya says. Are you waiting to get down to it? For the real business to start? You’ll have to court me first. Compliment me on what I’m wearing. Tell me I have … sparkling eyes. Notice my new hairstyle. I haven’t actually got a new hairstyle, but you get the idea. I want to hear some sweet nothings. Some sweet philosophical nothings, if necessary. I want to be re-seduced. I want to be seduced all over again.

Win me. Win my heart, philosopher, Priya says. I want to feel like the most important girl in the world. Make it all about me. That no one matters to you but me. Come on, complement me on my outfit. On what I’m wearing. On my earrings, for fuck’s sake. I’m wearing pearl earrings …

I do think you’re beautiful, I say.

Beautiful, philosopher? Priya says. What do you mean by beauty?

You today. Your face touched with light, I say. The fascination of your eyes. Of my being looked at, by those eyes. Of those eyes, turning towards me.

That’s more like it, Priya says. Continue.

You can make things happen – just by your presence, I say. People are shaken out of themselves. Reminded …

Of what? Priya says.

Of the fact that beauty is alive, I say. Of the fact that beauty can pass through the earth. The fact that beauty can arrive here, in this town, on these streets. The fact that miracles are possible and the world really can be overturned.

Oh, you’re good at this, Priya says.

Beauty: is proof that God exists, after all, I say. That we’re not all doomed, after all. That we’re not all destroyable, replaceable, murderable, strangleable, chokeable, shootable, stabbable.

Now you’re going dark, Priya says.

You like it dark, I say. It’s a relief from all that organisational management optimism. All that can do. All that manage-the-world bullshit.

And philosophy’s unmanageable, I suppose, Priya says. Philosophy’s totally exceptional. Philosophy’s a tiger …

When did Organisational Managers become a thing? I ask. Where did this subject area come from? Isn’t it just business studies?

It’s part of business studies, Priya says. Or business studies is a part of it, depending on your perspective.

And what does it think it can organise? I ask. What’s the latest in organisational management?

My husband’s into decentralised managerialism, Priya says. That’s the cutting edge.

Wow, I say.

Like self-organising stuff, Priya says.

And are there organisational managers in real life, or just in the academy? I ask.

Sure, people wo run companies …, Priya says.

And do real organisational managers read academic organisational managers? I ask. Seriously. I want to know.

Just because your subject’s ancient and prestigious and totally useless, Priya says. I’ll have you know that my husband’s quite the consultant. He flies back and forth to Albania, to advise them on the latest managerial theories …

Lucky Albania, I say.

So snobbish, Priya says.. Just because your subject’s ancient and prestigious and totally useless …

Who are the organisational managers organisational managers? Who are the big names? I ask.

Stop being so sarcastic, Priya says. It’s not all about top-down taking charge, you know. It’s about … managerialism, old style … It’s about fostering a self-starting culture. Entrepreneurship …

What happens to organisational management, in the bedroom – that’s the question, I say. Does organisational management ever allow a bit of disorganisation? Does organisational management ever permit a bit of slack? Does organisational management know its limits? When to hold itself back? Is it like, For everything else, there’s organisational management …?

There’s a whole branch of organisational management concerned with leisure, Priya says.

Sure – for quality time, I say. Which leave you refreshed for workplace. Which help make you a productive worker … But work’s the thing, isn’t it? Productivity?

So? Priya says.

Work used to be understood negatively, I say. As negotium, where the ‘ne’ means not. Otium was the thing: contemplation.

Wow, listen to Etymology Boy, Priya says.

Contemplation came first, I say. Work just meant suspending contemplation.

So people just, like, contemplated all day? Priya says. Sounds dreary.

People thought, maybe, I say. People wondered about things. Asked questions without obvious answers. A bit like us, maybe.

What about philosophy in the bedroom?: that’s what I want to know, Priya says.

Me, pulling Philosophy in the Bedroom from the bookshelf.

The Marquis de Sade, Priya says. Oh this is going to be porn …

It’s mostly just discussion about freedom, I say.

And porn! Priya says. This is filthy … you philosophers are perverts … There’s not much contemplation here. But there’s a lot of ejaculation …

Silence.

What’s the rest of the world doing, while we’re doing this? Priya asks.

The rest of the world’s busy, I say.

I’m tired of … busy, Priya says.

Later.

Time doesn’t seem to matter here, does it? Priya says. It doesn’t flow at the usual speed. It doesn’t flow at all, really. Isn’t it supposed to whizz by when you’re having fun?

Aren’t you having fun? I ask.

I don’t think fun’s the word … , Priya says. It’s like we’ve got lost in the afternoon and we’ll never get out. Like we’re lost in the afternoon maze.

Are you looking for an exit? I ask.

I think I want to get more deeply lost, Priya says. God …

Silence.

What does all this add up to? Priya asks. Our days together. Our affair. What does it mean?

Why does it have to mean anything? I ask.

You’re the philosopher – you tell me, Priya says. I mean, what did we just do? In the middle of the day. In the middle of the universe … Look at us, lying around. In disarray. Are we allowed to be like this? Are we allowed to do this?

We can do what we like, I say.

Should we be allowed to do what we like: I suppose that’s what I’m asking, Priya says.

Who’s stopping us? I ask.

The light on the floor, Priya says. That beams through the skylight … The quivering light. What is it?

Light, just light, I say.

I think it’s God, Priya says.

God? I say.

I think it’s all we know of God, Priya says. A quality of light. A patch of light. Is God watching us?

No one’s watching, I say. Unless your husband’s on the roof.

God’s watching, Priya says. That’s the thing … I like using the word, God, philosopher. I feel like I’m allowed to use the word, God, here.

Do you believe in God? I ask.

I think God believes in me, Priya says. I think I’m a dream in the mind of God.

So God’s dreaming all this, I say. God’s dreaming you and dreaming me.

Maybe – why not? I say.

Why not anything? Priya says. We’re contemplating, aren’t we?

Sure – why not anything, I say. And we are contemplating. It's otium, baby.

Questions, philosopher, questions …, Priya says. I feel I’m just … falling. And you, too – you’re falling, too.

Falling in love? I ask.

Contemplating love, Priya says. We’re holding it at a distance, and looking at it. We’re far from love, just like we’re far from everything …

It’s like something’s taking place through us, Priya says. Despite us, almost. Against us, maybe. Some kind of event – or non-event. Something that’s not happening. That’s … subtracting happening from happening.

I feel so vague, Priya says. Do you feel vague? Are we supposed to feel like this? Like, we can’t think anything. Anything clear, anyway. Anything precise …

And you’re not going to save me – I know that, Priya says. You’re not going to break my fall. You’re not going to do anything.

You don’t need saving, I say.

What do I need? Priya asks. What do I want? What am I doing here? I’m falling, philosopher. When I close my eyes, I get vertigo … Why do I come here? Why do I feel these things? It’s like you’ve cast some spell over me. Like you want to keep me here forever. But I think a spell’s been cast over you, too.

If I fell asleep now, what would happen? Priya asks. If I fell asleep and woke up … If I … If I … I can’t even finish a sentence. It’s being drunk without being drunk. Fuck, I can’t think a single clear thing …

I kinda want to get dressed and go, Priya says. I kinda want to drive off home. I kinda want to actually go to the gym instead of pretending at the gym … Anything except this. But then I like this …

If I fell asleep now, what would happen? Priya asks. If I just stayed here forever … Are we meditating, or something? Are we praying or something? And to who? Who’s listening? Who’s watching?

Silence

God? Priya says. Is it God?

News: they’re moving the Philosophy department into Organisational Management.

General shock. Can they do this sort of thing? Without consultation? Is it allowed?

Apparently.

Walking at the coast.

Is there a rationale? we wonder. Have they explained themselves?

They don’t have to explain themselves, Hans says. They just act.

But it’s so absurd! It makes no sense …, Ava says.

Of course it makes no sense, Hans says. That’s the point …

It’s mockery–in plain view, Magellan says. They’re laughing at us.

It’s self-mockery, I say. The uni’s laughing at itself … At everything a university once was …

But do they really know what they’re doing? Magellan asks. Can’t they sense the nihilism–even if they’ve never heard the word, nihilism?

They did it because of the nihilism, I say. It’s to deepen the nihilism.

It’s just some random thing, Ava says. Some stupidity. Some manager or another wanted to make their stamp on the uni. Some idiot–

–They’re all idiots–, Hans says.

–Had some interdisciplinary initiative, or something, Ava says. Wanted to shake things up …

What about Organisational Management? Hans asks. What’s in it for them?

Our student numbers, maybe, I say. 

Laughter.

Our international reputation, Magellan says.

Laughter.

Our general sanity and well-adjustedness, Ava says.

More laughter. 

Why couldn’t they just have left us alone? Ava asks. Why couldn’t we be allowed to go on as we were? It’s cruel … it’s needless.

Because they’ve declared war on philosophy, Magellan says. They know that it’s philosophy they have to go after. Not history! Not the fine arts! Not music! Not English literature! But philosophy, alone among the humanities …

It’s because they sense something about philosophy, Magellan says. They feel a kind of awe of philosophy, despite everything. They know us as a threat–unconsciously. They experience us as an enemy, in some recess of their minds.

It’s a matter of unavowed revenge on philosophy, Magellan says. On the humanities in general. There’s a whole institutional unconscious at work. A desire for revenge. On humanities expansiveness. On humanities freedom of thought …

And that’s why the closure of philosophy would never be enough, Magellan says. The humiliation of philosophy: that’s the aim.

This is a shock and awe move, Hans says. This is a cow-the-humanities move. This is a watch it or you’re next move.

It’s a show of power–of utter power, Hans says. It’s like parking a tank on your front law. It’s to prove that they can do exactly as they please, no matter how mad. That they can simply bend reality to their will.

The uni can do what it likes: that’s what this says, Hans says. Anything could happen! The greatest absurdity! Who would be crazy enough to move philosophy to organisational management? The uni would! Because the uni can!

The madness of the world is showing itself, I say. The madness behind the world. A deluge of madness! A mad flood of insanity! It’s quite sublime in its way …

Don’t examine it too closely, Magellan says. Don’t think about it too much. Ponder the logic of the organisational management move and you’ll go mad, too.

Maybe we should go mad, I say. Maybe that's what it'll take. But it has to be our madness, not theirs–not the madness they want to drive us to. Not the madness of humiliation, but … but our cultivate-your-own-legitimate-madness madness, like Cicero used to say. Which is to say, the madness of philosophy – real philosophy.

*

If only Cicero were still with us.

Cicero, our erstwhile organ grinder! Cicero, the old head of the Philosophy Department … Cicero, who handpicked us–us–to work here … Cicero, who plucked us–us–from our provincial universities … Cicero, who scouted the conferences for … what? Not the up-and-coming, we were never that … The desperate! The put-upon! The cornered!: That’s who we were …  

Cicero sought out the prospectless! The defeated–spiritually! Financially! Psychologically! Cicero looked for the lower class! The skint! The disturbed! The personality-disordered! Who’d never normally be given a lectureship at a Russell Group university! Us, in other words.

Cicero actually wanted our kind around her. The end times will see a parade of deformities and grotesques, she used to say. Mental deformities, not physical ones. Mental sports! The psychically twisted! The cognitively contorted! The equivalent of Hieronymous Bosch’s Hell, but in thought …

Only thought-freaks could philosophise from the end times, Cicero said. Only thinkers of deformity could think out of the experience of the coming collapse. Which was quite impossible for Cicero herself, with her European education, with her deep philosophical culture, with dozens of keynote speeches behind her, with decades of immersion in the great works of philosophy.

She wanted to surround herself with the genuinely doomed. The authentically prospectless. She wanted Hopelessness in person. Philosophical wreckage. She wanted to be the captain of a ship of fools, and she got her wish. We were to be the doom speakers of the end times. We were to voice disgust’s disgust. Horror’s horror. We were to voice the truth of our times: the mad truth. Which is why Cicero brought us here. Why she combed the conferences to find our kind. She summoned us to Newcastle to let us be ourselves in thought.

I wouldn’t say that, exactly, Ava says. She could be pretty insulting …

But it was a kind insulting, Magellan says. It was meant to spur us on.

It was meant to crush us–, Ava says.

It was, like, a Jedi training, I say. She was our Yoda. She wanted to deepen our sense of disgust. To rise from our ashes. It was a use-the-force-Luke kinda thing.

–I’m still crushed–, Ava says.

Philosophers you must be! Magellan says, in his best Yoda voice. Think for yourselves, you must!

It was a bootcamp, I say. She wanted to toughen us up. Particular you, Hans. She could tell you were a soy boy.

And then Cicero … disappeared. She went travelling or whatever. Took her career break.

Do you think that was a coincidence? I ask.

She was tired, we remember. I can’t do this by myself, she’d say. I can’t keep Philosophy open … For years, I’ve done nothing but struggle! To keep the course open! To recruit you and the others!

How she drank! She emptied whole bars! And we emptied them with her! There was a whole discipline of drinking, we remember. We had to watch over our nights of drinking. Less they slip into complacency. Less they fall into pubism. Drinking mustn’t be consolation, Cicero always said. Mustn’t allow our reconciliation to the way things are.

The pub is not a place for petty moaning! Cicero said. For sharing grudges. There was to be no huddling together to share our problems. No crying into our beer. No whisky lamentations about the state of our lives.

Never a retreat to the pub, but an attempt to escape through it. The pub as launchpad … As space capsule … We were looking to flare upwards. To burn up.

And yet: Cicero’s sadness, in the face of the attacks of the university. Cicero’s defeat, in battling the university. Even as she insisted that adversity helped her. Even as she said that that’s where her best thoughts were coming from. How else would she have been able to develop her insights into political ponerology, except from dastardly academic ruses? Into psychic warfare techniques and conditioning tactics, except from her tussles with the deans? How else would she have been able to diagnose the determinative value of the technological system–of systematisation, schematisation, tabulation, qualification, rationalisation, mechanisation, standardisation–were it not for her experience of being continually crushed by the system?

The way Cicero used to speak about escape, as we drank … About the significance of the exodic act! About the effort to snatch a little transcendence from the day. About not being buried with her defeats. About rolling away her stone. About resurrection! About wanting a last chance to redeem her sufferings!

There we were, drinking at Jilly’s with Cicero. Affirming our right to assembly, at Jilly’s. Our right to drunken assembly. Jilly’s, where we’d drink ourselves out of the lowlands. Out of the valleys. Jilly’s, where we reached, with Cicero, a promontory of drinking. Where we’d discuss the big picture and the very picture.

Things, it is true, would devolve into chaos. Hans, invariably taking his trousers off. Ava and Magellan, singing duets. Me, lying on the sofa. everyone at the bar, in the final hours, doing shots together. Even Klaus the barman. Especially him! Klaus, pulling out his guitar. All of us at the bar, singing Roy Orbison’s Crying. And all of us crying, tears running down our drunken cheeks …

But Cicero enjoyed the spectacle. Hans, loudly demanding DISCO! Music he could DANCE TO! Magellan, regressing to childhood. Ava, doing a solo Rhinestone Cowboy. Great work with the microphone stand. Me, in some drunken half-fight about who would win in a fight: Gnostics or nihilists …

Cicero, seemingly happy in her cups as we were happy in ours. Cicero, like us, in the last redoubt, taking a last drunken stand. Against what? Against technics! Against nihilism! Against managerial evil! Against the all-seeing eye, never sleeping, always watchful! Against technocracy!

But Cicero resigned her post. She handed in her notice. Cicero turned Philosophy over to us. She gave the leadership to me. Cicero set off travelling. Who knows where. Who knows how (a lottery win? An inheritance?) …

And the Organisational Management move, as soon as Cicero left. As soon as there was no one of calibre to take the uni on …

Cicero’s darkest hours. Her drunkest hours, which were also her most lucid hours. When she reached the hour of desperation. The deepest hour. When she spoke in a whisper. Of Great Things. Of Terrifying Things.

Cicero’s half mad stuff. Her no-one-could-really-believe-in-this stuff. Her half madness stuff. Her half deranged stuff. The stuff in which no one believes except for a few fringe lunatics.

The stuff no self-respecting philosophy academic would touch. That we’d be drawn into for a few urgent minutes. That ensorcelled us, too, listening to Cicero.

How seriously she took it! How seriously we took her!

Cicero seemed to Know things. Cicero seemed to be privy to certain Information. Cicero seemed to be Sure. Cicero seemed to know someone on the Inside.

 

Cicero’s esotericism. Things she would only tell the inner inner circle. Cicero’s secrets. The stuff she’d tell you only if you were in the circle of trust. And there were only a handful of us in Cicero’s circle of trust.

The stuff Cicero would only share in the loneliest hours. In the deepest hours. Later than the hours of the Dog and Wolf.

Whiskey bottle emptied. Ashtrays full. Then, as the dawn came … As the light shone through the windows … Then: as we were all but burned out.

Cicero’s voice lowered. Cicero, speaking quietly, but with great intensity. As though she’d waited the whole night to tell us this. As though only now it was possible, at the end of the night, in the final hours. That this Knowledge was only available to the deepest Initiates and that the night, so far, was nothing but initiation.

The whole evening, the night … The pub, and after, when we went back to hers … Up in her flat, overlooking the Tyne. Overlooking the North Sea. There, in the living room of her flat. In the pre-dawn, the sun just about to rise. There, and at that moment, Cicero would begin to Talk, really Talk, and lay out great and intricate webs … interconnections … between all kinds of things …

What richness! What complexity! Was this real? Was this true? Was this some vast and elaborate fiction. But spoke with such sincerity. Absolute sincerity. This was absolute truth-telling. You could tell by her voice. Not just what she said. But in the Saying itself. In what bore what she said. As though what she said shone. Shone with its own light …

 

What Cicero said. Its intricacies. It’s lace-like complexity. The way she built it up, layer upon layer. The filigree. The delicacy. The weaving. Like in real time. Before us.

Speculative. In her hushed voice. Quietly. Almost tentatively, to begin with. Sharing … hypotheses. Personal opinions. It could be this … My conclusion is … I’m led to speculate that … This is how it seems to me … If we consider the matter carefully, then …

And yet, a kind of Certainty in her voice. That there was something True here. That she was approaching the Truth …

 

If only we’d written it down! But we could never remember it, after. Even after sleep. Even when we’d returned home, we could never quite bring it to mind, never recall the essential details, never reassemble the logic that led Cicero from one thought to the other.

 

Cicero, at her soberest. At her most measured. Cicero, at her most considered. Cicero, the calm. Cicero, the Lucid. And yet she was saying the wildest of things! And yet she bore the craziest of messages! And yet she was all but lunacy, all but paranoia in her calm, calm manner.

 

And we, sitting round. Eager to hear, eager to know. And she spoke until our eyelids drooped. Until we, her audience, fell asleep one by one, and who knew that she didn’t go on talking. That she just talked to the air after the last of us fell asleep in her living room. That she talked to no one in particular as she lay soft blankets over us. That she murmured as much to herself as to anyone as she rolled down her Roman blinds to shield us from the rising sun.

 

The generosity of Cicero. The largesse of Cicero. Her great and elaborate meals! That would take a whole day to prepare. That drew upon the finest fruits of the Fish Quay.

Such Hospitality!. She threw open her doors. She threw her doors wide and up we went. All those flights of stairs! As Cicero had climbed them before us! As Cicero had walked them before us! As Cicero had caried up bags and bags of goodies up from the Quay! And we bought our wine – our pathetic wine. And brought our bottles of wine, a little nervously.

Cicero introduced us to Expanse. To Generosity. To Largesse. To Excess. The fact that there was always food leftover. That she could serve up again with toast in the early hours. She’d put everything out on great trays. Lightly warmed. On toasted bread. Just what we needed. Fuel for the night ahead. Because the night was but young. Because there were hours to go. Because we needed energy.

There were other Acts to follow. There was to be more stuff happening. It was a journey to the end of night, as all meals at Ciceros were journeys to the end of the night. We’d blast through the evening and the night. Screaming with laughter. And then, refuelled, we’d settle down, calmer, for the last part of the evening. Around Cicero’s Italian ‘50s pisteroli lamp. In the midst of Cicero’s Scandi-style candles. Of tealights in lanterns.

And Cicero’s music. She was a great one for music. There were always musical surprises at Cicero’s. There was always an evening rag. And a night rag. And an early hours rag. And a dawn rag. And a morning rag, at the very end, as we ate leftovers for breakfast.

 

Cicero, presiding. It all revolving around her. As it should. She was in charge of hospitality. She was its origin. We put ourselves in her hands. We were ready to be looked after.

And the whole evening, leading somewhere. Like a river, first a rushing mountain stream, all excitement, all froth, then a wide meandering across its flood plain, before opening out and out, like the Tyne itself, but wider than the Tyne, braiding into distributaries, fanning into a delta, spreading and wide, before becoming some great brackish fan, with its own ecosystem. With its own brackish life. With its own thriving-in-salt-and-freshwater life.

The pre-dawn. Very still, very calm.

That’s when Cicero would really begin. When she’d gather her thoughts together. When she’d sit on her throne, as we called it. Deliver her truths. Her utterances, ex cathedra. Only they were never grand. Only she never proclaimed or declaimed. Only they were hushed, and you had to lean into listen. You had to sit close, in our circle around her. We were initiates. Intimates. It was all directed to us. We were to listen, and she was to speak. As though it was pre-ordained. As though this was the way it had to be.

 

Nights at Cicero’s.

Hours, passing. Hours, unfolding – opening. Blooming. Cicero, able to open a channel. To be spoken. To let speech happen. Through her. With her.

What was it about? Who knows? Where was she getting this from? It was as though she’d tuned into something. As though it came in from the aether. As though she were some kind of antenna who’d just piped it in from somewhere.

And we were her audience. Her sleepy audience. Leaning forward to listen at first. And then gradually falling back, leaning on our elbows. Then, heads to the floor. Gradually settling. Gradually falling asleep.

Her soothing words. The great waves of her words. The great calm of her words. The great stillness they brought with them, that accompanied them. The calm background of her speech. As though what was said bore within it another speech, a speech without words, a murmuring speech, a susurrating speech, a speech without words and without syllables.

As we fell slowly into sleep. As we dropped off one by one.

And I was invariably the last one awake, the last listener. I was the one keenest to follow the thread. To see where it took me. I always wanted to follow it to the end, even as it seemed that there was no end. Even as it seemed that things would continue forever.

An endlessness. A movement of dispersion. A threshold, spreading out to include all things… To weave everything into its vast web. Encompassing the entire horizon. All things comprehended, all things thought. All things included. All things woven in, all history.

Shimmerings. Apparitions. Pulsings. Reverberations. A shimmering mass. With cross-crossings. With cross strands. With braidings. With bifurcations. With tributaries and distributaries. With loopings back. With great cycles and returns. With wheelings. With wanderings. With forays. Gaining and losing urgency. Seeming to reach climax before dispersing again. Gathering energy, losing it, re-energising it.

And no Conclusion to be reached. No Point. That’s what revealed itself. No telos. Nothing leading anywhere in particular. A venturing. A wandering forth. Leading, seemingly, everywhere at once. In all directions. Catching up everything. Implicating everything. Including everything.

And great shapes emerged. As great patterns became visible … Echoing. Crossovers. One thing, resonating with another. Segueways … The beginningless. The endless.

 

Was Cicero presenting a theory – a theory of everything? An anti-theory, too. An assembling that was also a disassembling. A gathering that was also a falling apart.

 

Cicero’s story, deepening. Then lightening. Slowing. Then quickening. And these things both at once. Cicero’s theory (her anti theory?) containing all of life. All of everything. All of the all. Every historical event and non-event. Cicero’s mythology, presenting the story of all. The history of everything. The secret history of the world and what was greater than the world.

Cicero’s thousand-and-one-nights. Cicero’s epic. Impersonal speech. This speech of no one and of nothing. This dispersal, that was also finding. This loss that was a recovery. But a recovery within loss. A finding in dispersal.

Our teaching has to be part of the catastrophe. It has to embody the disaster. Don’t you see?

Disaster pedagogy: that’s what our students are paying for – and paying through the nose for. They want to be discouraged. They want their morale destroyed. They want to be plunged into the darkness. They want to dive down in their philosophical bathysphere to see the darkest, murkiest things.

 

We have to treat this as if it were the last year of our teaching. The last chance to impart what we know. We have to live this academic year as though the uni were going to be closed imminently. As though we weren’t going to live another year. This is the culmination of our teaching, or its bottoming out. We’re not sure which …

 

Philosophers are an endangered species – don’t forget that. This is a last chance. This last wave of students need to be told everything. We’ll have to give them what we can. Our diagnosis of it all! Our last wisdom! All we have to say!

 

We have to teach this way before we get found out! Before the organisational managers get on to us! Before we have to teach their students, too!

 

Our doom pedagogy. Our ashes pedagogy. We have to lead the students into the darkness. And through the darkness. To the light? Towards their light, perhaps, not ours. Towards their dawn, perhaps. Like Moses, we have to die in the desert before we reach the promised land, which is their promised land.

We’re the downgoing, the doomgoing. We’re leading the descent. So that they, in the end, can ascend. We’re following the negative path! So that they can take, when the time comes, the positive one!

 

We have only our failure to show them. We have only our stupidity.

But there's something’s given to us in failure! Something’s been vouchsafed in our stupidity!

We’re philosophical fools, if nothing else. We’re philosophical idiots. And there’s a place for idiots in philosophy.

 

There is such a thing as transcendental idiocy. That’s what we have to reach.

 

Philosophy can attain itself, become most purely philosophy, only in the final hour. Only now, when its threatened on all sides.

Philosophy’s coming into its own under the condition of its disappearance! It’s annihilation! In a sense, we needed the end of philosophy for philosophy to be philosophy. To emerge as philosophy.

And we ourselves, will we emerge as true philosophers, in the final hour? Will we become what we are, at last, in the final moments? At the moment of the greatest humiliation of philosophy?

 

The Organisational Management move.

We have to teach philosophy, but not as they know it.

They think philosophy’s only about applied ethics, nothing else. When really … it’s about the unapplied, the inapplicable. When really it’s about the unethical. The dis-ethical. The nothing-to-do-with-ethical.

 

The Organisational Management move.

We’re like dissidents in Stalin’s Russia! Undercover! Working in secret! Noble in our aims! Everything samizdat! Everything spoken with more than one voice!

Sure, someone will report us. There’ll be double agents among the students. Organisational managers in philosophers’ clothing. Turncoats!

 

Ascent: that’s what we’re about. We’re rising up, freedom against necessity, like tragic heroes. This is our protest! We’re attaining something! Reaching something! We will not be what we were! We’ll be changed! Under pressure, immense pressure! A sea change! We’ll be renewed! Raised up!

 

Philosophy in Organisational Management exile. Philosophy in the Organisational Management dungeon. Philosophy trapped – but hasn’t philosophy always been trapped? Hasn’t the point always been to realise it was trapped? Hemmed in! Surrounded on all sides! Embattled! Half-infiltrated! And isn’t that the condition for philosophy discovering itself, like Kung Fu Panda, or whatever? Of rising to its vocation?

 

We’ll speak words we’ll never understand! We’ll be Delphic pythia! We’ll be mantic maniacs! We’ll speak in philosophical tongues! We’ll be mediums! We’ll be conduits! We’ll have something to say! At last! Only we won’t understand what we’ll say. Only we’ll be clueless about what we say.

 

Glorious last words from philosophy. Glorious last testament. Last words, before philosophy’s led to the scaffold, like everyone else. We’ll sing on the scaffold! We’ll sing philosophical songs on our scaffold! We’ll sing and we’ll dance a philosophical dance on the scaffold! Is that possible? Are there philosophical dances? We’ll caper, at any rate. We’ll ape about …