Work in Progress

The whole campus revolves around this. Everyone will have their own personal Pulse one day. Their own virtual reality studio. When reality becomes unbearable, there’s always VR, right?

 

It’s like lucid dreaming, or something. It makes you dream. Only it’s not your dream. It’s, like, the dreaming. That’s an aboriginal thing, isn’t it? What the world is: a dreaming. A dreaming of the gods.

 

The Pulse lets Organisational Management dream. It’s what O.M. dreams of. The secret is that O.M. doesn’t want to be itself. And that’s what the Pulse allows. A release for the organisational manager. A space that you don’t have to organise, or manage. That disorganises you. And unmanages you. From the pressure of being so utterly O.M.

We weren’t complete idiots, after all. We weren’t utter fools. We wanted something – craved something.

We knew something was Wrong, capital W. Vastly wrong. Magnificently Wrong. And that we were here to … to what?

 

We knew. And it was enough that we Knew. Enough that we held the knowledge in our feeling of utter doom. It was enough that we felt it. That we knew the Disaster.

 

We knew the Death. The Horror. We knew, somehow.

Was it intellect? Some instinct? Some temperament? Something indistinguishable from our severe personal problems? From the extent of our fuckedupness? From the depths of our twistedness? Of our convolutions? Twisted and bent into … whatever it is we were.

 

We’re the ones who Know. Even as Cicero only half knew.

Only stupidity could know. Only we could know, in our stupidity.

Stupidity’s an attunement. It’s a way we were disposed to experience things.

Somehow, stupidity plus philosophy. Stupidity multiplied by philosophy. Shot us ahead of Cicero in our knowledge of the world. We were prodigies, of a sort. Savants.

 

The endless end. The apocalypse forever. We lived it. We Knew it. In what we were. As what we were. In our very way of being. In everything we said and did.

We understood the Conditions. The Limits. We knew how it had to be, how it was going to be.

 

We Saw. We Felt. Even Io, who came to believe in God because of it. Even Sophia, who didn’t want to Know anything at all.

 

What Cicero could only approach from the outside. What she could only experience at a remove.

And you, Shiva, wanted to find a literary form for this. A way it could be written down.

 

Who else Knew? Who else Knew? Ian Curtis, maybe. Jandek, maybe.

Who Knows what we know? No one. Who else knows the full extent of the Destruction? Of the Disaster? No one but us. We’re the only ones. That’s what we’re for. That’s our role. To Know all this.

Descent descends through us. The Nothing has come to know itself in us. The void weeps for itself though us.

 

Nihilism knows itself through us. Nihilism awakens to itself. These are nihilism’s tears. Absence’s tears. These are the tears of the empty sky.

Emptiness weeps for itself because it’s empty. Prayers pray for themselves – to be possible.

 

We’re a way the void knows itself. That absence speaks of itself. The way that God is not.

That’s what the humanities are about. Giving a voice to the abyss.

Thinkers who don’t want to think for themselves. Who don’t want to keep what they find. Who are content just to have thought pass through them. By them.

To be brushed by thought. To be touched by it. To become a threshold, nothing more.

Awaiting thought. Waiting for thought. A thought of waiting. Like, a yearning. Being stretched out into yearning. Strewn along yearning.

It’s about what you can’t help being. About how you show what you really are. How do you give yourself away, philosopher. Your … mannerisms. Your gestures. Your quirks. Your idiosyncrasies. All those things about you that are most you. Inconsequential things, maybe. That are just your way of being you. No one but you.

 

I’d like to be with you. Be around you, when you’re just being. Being with you when you’re most who you are.

It’s just like … detachment I’m infinitely detached. That’s my problem. I’m not attached to anything. Not even Organisational Management. I don’t even believe in O.M. And if I don’t believe in O.M, what then?

 

Like I’m dreaming. Like I’m meditating on something. No: like, I’m being meditated. Or dreamed.

 

Do you ever feel unreal? I feel unreal, all the time. That’s my secret. I feel unreal and I feel dead.

I’m not … part of this. My husband knows it. Everyone knows it. They sense it about me. I’m not real enough. I don’t believe in myself enough. Or I don’t believe in myself as this.

I can’t pay their games. Or my game. Or any game.

Am I less real than everyone else, or more real, philosopher?

 

People think I’m weird. I think, anyway. Alan’s a-bit-weird wife. Alan’s growing-weirder wife.

People don’t get me. They don’t understand me. That’s okay, because I don’t get them. I don’t get anyone.

I don’t feel superior to them. I’m just … something else, right?

 

I’m like a ghost who’s left her body. I don’t want to inhabit my body I don’t want to go back in. I’m outside, and happy outside.

A ghost of O.M., philosopher. A ghost of the machine, who isn’t a machine.

 

In another world, who would I have been? In a more meaningful world. In a world that made more sense?

 

Alan asks me where I am, when I’m right there. And I ask myself the same question.

It’s like I’m too vague. I’m not even tuned in, really. I don’t come into focus. Not even for myself. Except when I talk sometimes. Like now. But I never really talk like this.

 

But it’s not I want to say so much as … giving in. Giving myself up to … this speaking, this talking … As if it came before me. As if it had nothing to do with me. As if just passed through me.

I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know what I mean. I’m not saying what I mean. But what’s better than saying what I mean.

There are floors and floors, right? There’s room for everyone and everything … You could put the whole of the humanities on one floor of this building. And maybe you will. Put history here, literature there. They could all have a place …

All of the humanities on tap. To offer optional modules to Organisational Management students. Make their CVs a little more lively. Demonstrate an interest in the arts. In classic films. Casablanca and so on. The Seventh Seal. That might impress a future employer.

 

It’s a kind of nursery down here. For the up and comers. Research fellows and the like. There are a lot of Organisational Management research fellows. O.M. sprouts – that’s what we call them. This is the sprouts corridor. The future of O.M.

And there are all these break out rooms for them. Places for them to encounter. To spark ideas.

 

Lecturers’ corridors. Things are more serious up here. Altogether sterner. These guys are going places. They’ve left the frivolities of youth behind them. They’re on the Organisational Management career path. Dreaming only of moving a floor up, to the senior lecturer’s corridor.

 

Hotshot row. We’ve snagged all kinds of hotshots. A lot of new blood. We’ve got some major hires. Major coups. Big names. I've not met everyone yet.

They only passing through, really. They’ll only be here a couple of years. They just jet-set around the place. 

 

The amazing powers of my Organisational Management colleagues. The future of the subject is being decided here.

What future?

The future of the world. Because its all going to be like this. Like these corridors. Until there’s nothing left to organise. Or manage. I’ll bet.

 

So many Organisational Management colleagues to meet. Are you excited, philosopher? Such a variety of viewpoints. So much in common. I'm so glad you're moving into the O.M .family. So glad you’re being embraced. With all your differences. And idiosyncrasies. Philosophy will fit right in … 

Can an organisational manager say these things? Is an organisational manager allowed? Now that we’ve taken over the world, I guess we can say what we like.  

 

I’m discovering my philosophical side. Saying things that are probably terribly gauche in the humanities. Philosophically naïve …

 

You guys have been angsting away for decades. You’re experts at this. And I think I can just talk into the air. Just say these things. Like confide in you. Or confide into the air. Just talk to no one and nothing.

 

And these empty corridors. And this general nothingness. And this void. And this emptiness. Speaking out into it. Trying to fill it. Trying to say something … When all I’m saying is that I can say things. And that I’m surprised I can say things.

 

I can talk Organisational Management very convincingly. But that doesn’t mean I’m actually Organisational Management.

Walking and talking. Let’s never stop. I don’t want to stop. I want to live a whole life with you, tonight, walking and talking. Walking everywhere, and talking about everything.

Like in Lost in Translation. A special time. That we’re not supposed to have. In suspended time. The usual rules don’t apply. It’s a state of exception, philosopher.

 

Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else. Something intimate.

 

We’re allowed to do whatever we like, tonight. An exception has been made. We’re off piste. We’re not where we’re supposed to be, doing what we’re supposed to be. Do you feel free? I do.

 

Do you think it’d be possible to live a whole life like this? Just being like this? Talking and walking and talking?

 

We’ve walked and talked ourselves into eternity. Did you know that could happen? We walked and talked ourselves out of the regular universe. And I was very tired of the regular universe.

Have you escaped too, philosopher – or is it just me? Am I the only one who got out? Who escaped? This is probably how you live all the time.

 

We found a way out, philosopher. We escaped. But how long will we escape for?

Just a night, maybe.

 

We found a trajectory. A line of flight. We got out. In, like, Organisational Management central. Out. It’s grounds for hope, philosopher. They haven’t actually taken over the world.

You mean you haven’t taken over the world.

 

Walking and talking. Is it that simple? We’ve cast a spell, philosopher. Or someone’s cast a spell. We’ve found the key. Turned it in the lock. Got out.

You can leave the world from within the world – that's what we've learnt. There’s a way outside even if you’re inside.

 

We’ve walked and talked the world away. We’ve disappeared it, the world. We’ve destroyed the world.

Have we? It’s still there.

We’ve destroyed it for us, in us. We’ve fled the world … we were inflight from the world.

 

It’s like this is what we’ve been doing for our entire lives. Like this is what we’ve been doing forever.

We can just talk about stuff, can’t we? You’re probably used to it. But there’s a gratifying ease to this, for me. It’s simple. It’s easy, saying these things. And not being thought mad, or anything. Not being thought of as an idiot.

 

There’ll be a before and there’ll be an after. Because of this night. This night is the pivot. This is the hub. It all turns around this. Around us. There’s something fateful about tonight, don’t you think?

Like there’s something hovering at the heart of the night. This night. The secret’s here. The secret’s tonight – it’s in this night. It’s hidden here. it’s showing itself here. At the heart oft his.

What do you want from tonight? What do you want to happen?

I want the destiny of the world to change tonight. I want everything fundamentally altered. I want the world to change. I want everything to change.

A big hope.

 

I want you to notice me, philosopher… I’d like some attention. Me. Here. Now. Look at me. Look me in the eyes.

You don’t like looking at people in the eyes, do you? You’d rather walk and talk. Just walk along and talk …

 

I’d like to see you again.

Like this? Nights like this don’t happen very often. It’s like Lost in Translation. Did you ever see that? They shared a night. They were both married. It was a fleeting thing. Happened once and that was it. And then pfft – it disappears.

 

It’s like The Breakfast Club. Those guys spend the day together, get all teary and confessional and then what? They never met again. That’s what this is.

Will we never meet again?

We can nod hello in meetings, and that’ll be it. Does it make you sad? You should enjoy what we had. What we have right now. Everything is precarious, philosopher. Nothing lasts. Except for marriage, apparently. And my career. There are strong bonds, philosopher. And there are weak bonds.

 

One more night before the end of the world. One night snatched back. For ourselves. Isn’t it enough: nights like this. Nights that are ours. Our whole lives should be ours.

The world as we know it is over, philosopher. The world …

Why did you say that?

I don’t know. I just wanted to. I wanted to see the effect …

 

We picked the wrong time to get born, clearly.

 

What kind of life did you expect to live, philosopher? How did you think it was going to go?

 

What are you going to remember of any of this? Are you going to write it down? Do you keep a diary? A blog? Do you write things about life?

 

See into me, philosopher. X-ray me with your mind. What do you see, that no one else has? How do you read me, philosopher? What kind of person am I, to a philosopher? To someone philosophically qualified?

 

I’ll bet we’re being watched by a hundred cameras.

Sure we’re being watched. But no one’s actually watching. It’s all algorithms. It’s algorithms watching.

What are they watching out for?

Unusual behaviour. Suspicious behaviour.

 

How do we know we aren’t being watched?

Of course we’re being watched. The question is, is my husband watching us?

Well, is he?

Of course not. Is God watching us, philosopher? Do you believe in God?

I don’t know.

There’s a God higher than all things, that’s what I believe. The most fucking high.

Higher than … technocracy?

 

Are you able to forget yourself, philosopher? Are you able to lose yourself? It’s a gift.

 

Is there a rehab you go to if you have philosophical problems, not drug problems? Philosophical issues?

 

I wish there were an earthquake, or something. That can happen.

How? Are we on a fault line? We’re far from a faultline.

There’s the bore.

Sure, the bore.

Maybe it’ll make the buildings fall over.

 

Have you ever seen flat rainbows? I saw one the other day. Actually, I saw a bunch of them: flattened rainbows. Must be the stuff they’re spraying us with.

 

Dare me.

Dare you what?

 

Why is your heart beating so fast, philosopher?

 

Are you highly strung, philosopher? Do you have an up and down thing? Do you go wildly up and wildly down?

 

So are you a brainiac?

No. Are you?

But I’ll bet you’re cultured. Deeply so. I’ll bet you’ve read things. European things.

Not as much as I should.

Have you read … I don’t know … Sophocles? Tolstoy?

Yes.

I haven’t. Too late now. It’s not a literary culture anymore.

 

Were you a gifted child? I could imagine you being a prodigy.

Far from it.

What are your principal intellectual gifts? Where do your intellectual strengths lie? I want to work out where you’ll fit on the team.

There’s a team?

The Organisational Management team.

Oh God.