Work in Progress

I really appal myself. I do. But I get all my energy from appalling itself. I amaze myself by how appalling I am.

 

Self-loathing is so productive.

 

My stupidity is so mesmerising. It amazes me so. It really does.

 

My prose is so terrible. Someone told me that you should learn Latin if you want to improve your prose style. Makes it all clipped and orderly, apparently … If I spent half the time learn Latin as I do writing about how much I hate my work, I might actually get somewhere, though I probably wouldn’t.

 

I might publish it under the title, Why I am So Stupid. You know, an inversion of Nietzsche’s chapter titles in Ecce Homo. That might redeem it.

They’ll just think you’re a tosser – some with a Russell University job writing about what an idiot he is. Pure self indulgence.

 

I think you’re getting lost in your idiocy.

I think I am.

 

If only we could be put on trial for crimes against scholarship.

 

I don’t think it’s very healthy to be appalled at yourself. Unless you’re genuinely appalling, and I think I might be.

Later. In bed.

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.

I really wouldn’t recall, Priya says.

What about with Alan? 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 was a humdrum period. Then there was 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.

You’re what they would call an attractive couple, I say.

Oh I’m sure we are, Priya says. But I really don’t want to think about it.

You must be comfortably off, I say. Your joint salary …

We’re the bourgeois you no doubt despise, philosopher, Priya says. Upon whom you’re getting your revenge right now.

Is this what this is about?

You’re sticking it to the Man. Or rather, the Man’s wife.

It’s not that.

What was it like the first time you did it? Share your memories, philosopher.

I’m not saying a thing.

Really? Not a thing? It would help me feel close to you. And you want me to feel close to you, don’t you? Didn’t it go well? Didn’t you perform? Is that the trouble?

Not saying.

I lost it at uni. To some poor fool. Some fumbler. I felt I was dissociating. I felt I was miles away and that it was being done to me. Very common experience. It wasn’t a trauma, or anything. It didn’t fuck me up. And what about you, philosopher? What was your formative experience?

I told you. I’m keeping stumm.

You’re essentially a masturbator: I can see that. It’s been all about the masturbation. How many relationships have you actually had? I want numbers. How many lovers have you had? One-night-stands? Aren’t you going to tell me?

One-night-stands are nihilism.

I’ll bet you think relationships are nihilism. Well, aren’t they? They probably get in the way of your work. Come on, philosopher. You’re a man like anyone else. You have needs, like anyone else.

I’ll bet you’d see prostitutes, if you could afford them. I’ll bet you’d go for the girlfriend experience if you could pay for it on an academic salary. Well, wouldn’t you? Someone to be nice to you. To say all kinds of nice things. Who’d think you were just the thing? Would that be what you want?

Would you pay for us, philosopher? Wouldn’t that make it simpler? Make it all a transaction? What would you pay for? What would you like done to you? What services could I render? What do you want? I just want to find out what you want. Don’t you like me being sexual?

All this talking …

You’d just like to get down to it, would you? Do you think that’s how it works?

It’s too easy, your talk … This is all … play for you. It’s a … toying. Some … distraction.

From what – the serious business of life? Of thinking? Of writing magnum opuses?

This is part of some peculiar psych-game with your husband, isn’t it? Some negotiation …

I like my body when it’s with your body. That’s the thing. I like your body. I like what it does. I like how it does it. I like all these things.

You’re a luxuriator. A cat, purring. This is an idyll in life for you. It’s a treat. It’s an indulgence. But it will pass. Your real life is elsewhere.

Would you rather it were here? That I left Alan. Move in with you. Do you think we’d get on? Do you think we could make a life together – me, you and your magnum opus?

Actually, I don’t know if I could live here. It’s a bit cramped. I couldn’t fit in my stuff. I’ve got a lot of stuff …

You’d like a silent, enigmatic mistress, wouldn’t you?  Come on – who would you rather I be? Who should I be for you?

I like you.

I don’t believe you. Do you like being a lover – my lover?

I like it.

Look, I’m trying to work out how to be with you – don’t you see? I want to know who I am for you. What I mean to you – if I mean anything.

You mean something.

I think we might need some sex toys. We need some variety.

Do you think?

So non-committal. Is this what it’s like to be a philosopher? Never involved. Never real. Never physical … I miss you even when I’m with you. You’re not really here, are you? You’re not … listening.

I’m listening.

I’d like to know your entire sexual history, philosopher. When it began, who with, and what happened after. Were you ever with a man? It might suit you, being with a man. Would you prefer it? Ever tempted? I’ve been with a woman.

Of course you have. On your bucket list, was it: losing your gay virginity?

Maybe it shouldn’t be just the two of us. It’s very intense, isn’t it – just the two of us. Always the two of us. No one to bounce off. No one to set us off in new directions. No one to talk about. No other couples, or anything. It’s very … self-devouring …

You think we need a third person?

Do you?  

Isn’t this enough?

I want to do it again, philosopher. Are you wishing I’d shut up? Maybe I’m wishing I’d shut up …

My flat.

Here I am in your most private sanctuary. Your thought-refuge. Here’s where it all takes place.

You’re taking the piss.

You must think what you’re doing is really worthwhile. That must be your motivation.

I’ve got nothing better to do, that’s all.

Is that it?

I just wanted to find things to do alone in a room. Other than masturbate.

Don’t try and be funny. Don’t try to pass it off.

I don’t know what to do except write. Read and write. Even if I’m not very good at either. I think it’s because my life is essentially empty.

Or perhaps you want it empty – so you can do this. Whatever this is ….

I like staying in. I’m doing this because I don’t like it out there. Because I don’t like … what everyone else likes. Life, or whatever.

So this is a consolation.

You’re a consolation.

Do you mind me being here? Am I a distraction? Do I get in the way of your work? Ha – I quite like getting in the way of your work. What do you think about all day?

I think about you.

All of the time.

A lot of the time.

Do you fantasise?

Sure I fantasise.

What would like to do to me?

I’d like to fuck you.

That’s funny, because I fantasise about being fucked by you. I think about you all day. I’ve been waiting for this all day. It’s what I think about when I was fucking him.

Nice.

It’s true.

I want you. I wish you were around all the time.

Do you, though? I’d get on your nerves. I’d distract you from your important philosophical work. And, who knows, you’d distract me from my important organisational management work. Actually, I don’t actually do much organisational management work. Don’t tell anyone.

Your study. Your studio. And all your stuff. These are your books. These are your notebooks. Can I read your notebooks?

If you must.

I must. I want to get to know you, philosopher. Your mind …

Reading.

Silence.

Do you take advice, philosopher? Do you like it? Do you welcome feedback? Are you receptive to the thoughts of lesser philosophical mortals?

Do I have any choice?

You put a lot into this. Too much, maybe. Isn’t it a bit laboured? I mean, what are you trying to do? Who are you trying to be?

You should write something that’s closer to the way you speak. You don’t speak like this, do you? Just capture some of our tos and fros, for example. Everyday talk.

And there’s so much of it. So you write every day? Every – single – day? So you have that much to write?

I write anyway.

You must believe in yourself, in some fundamental way. You take yourself seriously. Someone, at some time, must have told you that you were great. That great things were expected of you. God, you have such confidence. Like the world wants to know your thoughts …

I wrote it for myself.

You wrote it for posterity. I can tell, and I’m merely a humble organisational manager. These aren’t just notes. You actually think you’re great – or could be. That all this is worth preserving. Like Francis Bacon’s studio, or whatever … I’m lucky to be here. To be admitted into the studio of a genius …

Face it, I’m just the interrupter of great work. A regular villainess. You’re so profound, so melancholic, so romantic … And I’m just shallow, selfish and full of basic needs.

And you, meanwhile are holding out for someone who’ll be perfectly fascinated by you. Be in awe of you and think you’re a real genius. Someone who doesn’t just want you for your body, like I do. But for your – mind. For what’s in your head.

I thought you just said you wanted to know what’s in my mind.

But I can’t understand it, can I? I’m not worthy of it. Whereas she – she’d be quite in awe of you. She wouldn’t disturb you when the Muse visited. When you needed to be alone to think. She’d be fascinated by your literariness. By your philosophicalness. She’d tiptoe around you. Of course, she’d have to be very young. Terribly young. With stars in her eyes. Are there girls like that anymore? I don’t think there are, unfortunately for you … Of course, the other unfortunate thing is that you probably aren’t a genius.

I’m definitely not a genius.

Which is very sad when what you want – what you need – is to be taken very, very seriously. For there to be, like, documentaries about you. Special editions of journals on your work. Conferences to be held in your honour.

But you know I think all that stuff is bullshit!

I can see it now, your vanity – which would pose as anti-vanity, of course. In a refusal to appear on camera. In keeping your head bowed at all times, like one of those monks who never looks up to the ceiling of his cell. You’d play all humble. Refuse all the accolades … Shake your head at the encomiums … But all the while secretly enjoying the attention …

You want to be some European throwback. A throwback to some culture you weren’t even part of. Philosophy’s something you’d like to be good at, but are never really sure you’re good at. What are you going to have to show for your life? Your notebooks. Your would-be poetic philosophy. The ruins of your magnum opus. It’s not much, is it?

I … I always wanted to write the perfect book, and then kill myself. The Work, I called it. Everything was about the Work.

The Work … a very plain title. So plain, that’s it’s the opposite of plain. That it’s pure melodrama …

And did you ever write it?

Maybe I’m writing it now.

So I read a few pages of the work. Isn’t that an honour? And are you going to kill yourself?

That’ll never happen. Because I’ll never write anything perfect. Or even any good.

And you’d like some young beauty to save you from your fate. Of course you do. Not me – I’m too cynical. And too old.

You’re not so old.

Old enough to see through all this. And to see through you.

What’s your study like? Do you have, like, a home office?

We actually have his and her studies. Not quite side by side.

How bourgeois. Mr and Mrs academic … And what do you get up to in your study?

We don’t fuck, if that’s what you mean. We used to. Once upon a time. Long, long ago. But actually, in my study, I devote myself to … learning German.

Is that right?

I’m rather good at it, actually. I’m going to become fluent. I’ll bet you think German’s wasted on me … All the Germanic things I could be reading … I’ll bet you don’t even speak German.

I read it.

But you don’t speak it, and that’s the difference …

You know what: I like you up here. I like you being here. This is where the real drama of your life is. You and your magnum opus. Wrestling with its very possibility. Or impossibility. That’s your drama. That’s what’s keeping you occupied.

And I like it in you, your determination. I even admire it. I like your intellect. There, I’ve said it. But I do. I like your dedication. I like the fact that you really want to do something. Even if I also like the idea of distracting you from doing anything.

I like your ambition, philosopher. I like your modesty. Because you are modest. I find comical. And charming. And admirable. I like that there might be Important Thoughts in that dome of yours. Which I, no doubt, will never understand.

And you know what else I like? Taking you in hand, philosopher. Touching you. I like taking you in my mouth. Like this. I like the fact that I can make you think of nothing else but fucking. It turns me on. And I like to be turned on …

Here I am in your most private sanctuary. Your thought-refuge. Here’s where it all takes place.

You’re taking the piss.

You must think what you’re doing is really worthwhile. That must be your motivation.

I’ve got nothing better to do, that’s all.

Is that it?

I just wanted to find things to do alone in a room. Other than masturbate.

Don’t try and be funny. Don’t try to pass it off.

I don’t know what to do except write. Read and write. Even if I’m not very good at either. I think it’s because my life is essentially empty.

Or perhaps you want it empty – so you can do this. Whatever this is ….

I like staying in. I’m doing this because I don’t like it out there. Because I don’t like … what everyone else likes. Life, or whatever.

So this is a consolation.

You’re a consolation.

Do you mind me being here? Am I a distraction? Do I get in the way of your work? Ha – I quite like getting in the way of your work. What do you think about all day?

I think about you.

All of the time.

A lot of the time.

Do you fantasise?

Sure I fantasise.

What would like to do to me?

I’d like to fuck you.

That’s funny, because I fantasise about being fucked by you. I think about you all day. I’ve been waiting for this all day. It’s what I think about when I was fucking him.

Nice.

It’s true.

I want you. I wish you were around all the time.

Do you, though? I’d get on your nerves. I’d distract you from your important philosophical work. And, who knows, you’d distract me from my important organisational management work. Actually, I don’t actually do much organisational management work. Don’t tell anyone.

Your study. Your studio. And all your stuff. These are your books. These are your notebooks. Can I read your notebooks?

If you must.

I must. I want to get to know you, philosopher. Your mind …

Reading.

Silence.

Do you take advice, philosopher? Do you like it? Do you welcome feedback? Are you receptive to the thoughts of lesser philosophical mortals?

Do I have any choice?

You put a lot into this. Too much, maybe. Isn’t it a bit laboured? I mean, what are you trying to do? Who are you trying to be?

You should write something that’s closer to the way you speak. You don’t speak like this, do you? Just capture some of our tos and fros, for example. Everyday talk.

And there’s so much of it. So you write every day? Every – single – day? So you have that much to write?

I write anyway.

You must believe in yourself, in some fundamental way. You take yourself seriously. Someone, at some time, must have told you that you were great. That great things were expected of you. God, you have such confidence. Like the world wants to know your thoughts …

I wrote it for myself.

You wrote it for posterity. I can tell, and I’m merely a humble organisational manager. These aren’t just notes. You actually think you’re great – or could be. That all this is worth preserving. Like Francis Bacon’s studio, or whatever … I’m lucky to be here. To be admitted into the studio of a genius …

Face it, I’m just the interrupter of great work. A regular villainess. You’re so profound, so melancholic, so romantic … And I’m just shallow, selfish and full of basic needs.

And you, meanwhile are holding out for someone who’ll be perfectly fascinated by you. Be in awe of you and think you’re a real genius. Someone who doesn’t just want you for your body, like I do. But for your – mind. For what’s in your head.

I thought you just said you wanted to know what’s in my mind.

But I can’t understand it, can I? I’m not worthy of it. Whereas she – she’d be quite in awe of you. She wouldn’t disturb you when the Muse visited. When you needed to be alone to think. She’d be fascinated by your literariness. By your philosophicalness. She’d tiptoe around you. Of course, she’d have to be very young. Terribly young. With stars in her eyes. Are there girls like that anymore? I don’t think there are, unfortunately for you … Of course, the other unfortunate thing is that you probably aren’t a genius.

I’m definitely not a genius.

Which is very sad when what you want – what you need – is to be taken very, very seriously. For there to be, like, documentaries about you. Special editions of journals on your work. Conferences to be held in your honour.

But you know I think all that stuff is bullshit!

I can see it now, your vanity – which would pose as anti-vanity, of course. In a refusal to appear on camera. In keeping your head bowed at all times, like one of those monks who never looks up to the ceiling of his cell. You’d play all humble. Refuse all the accolades … Shake your head at the encomiums … But all the while secretly enjoying the attention …

You want to be some European throwback. A throwback to some culture you weren’t even part of. Philosophy’s something you’d like to be good at, but are never really sure you’re good at. What are you going to have to show for your life? Your notebooks. Your would-be poetic philosophy. The ruins of your magnum opus. It’s not much, is it?

I … I always wanted to write the perfect book, and then kill myself. The Work, I called it. Everything was about the Work.

The Work … a very plain title. So plain, that’s it’s the opposite of plain. That it’s pure melodrama …

And did you ever write it?

Maybe I’m writing it now.

So I read a few pages of the work. Isn’t that an honour? And are you going to kill yourself?

That’ll never happen. Because I’ll never write anything perfect. Or even any good.

And you’d like some young beauty to save you from your fate. Of course you do. Not me – I’m too cynical. And too old.

You’re not so old.

Old enough to see through all this. And to see through you.

What’s your study like? Do you have, like, a home office?

We actually have his and her studies. Not quite side by side.

How bourgeois. Mr and Mrs academic … And what do you get up to in your study?

We don’t fuck, if that’s what you mean. We used to. Once upon a time. Long, long ago. But actually … I learn German.

Is that right?

I’m rather good at it, actually. I’m going to become fluent. I’ll bet you think German’s wasted on me … All the Germanic things I could be reading … I’ll bet you don’t even speak German.

I read it.

But you don’t speak it, and that’s the difference …

You know what: I like you up here. I like you being here. This is where the real drama of your life is. You and your magnum opus. Wrestling with its very possibility. Or impossibility. That’s your drama. That’s what’s keeping you occupied.

And I like it in you, your determination. I even admire it. I like your intellect. There, I’ve said it. But I do. I like your dedication. I like the fact that you really want to do something. Even if I also like the idea of distracting you from doing anything.

I like your ambition, philosopher. I find comical. And charming. And admirable. I like that there might be Important Thoughts in that dome of yours. Which I, no doubt, will never understand.

And you know what else I like? Taking you in hand, philosopher. Touching you. I like taking you in my mouth. Like this. I like the fact that I can make you think of nothing else but fucking. It turns me on. And I like to be turned on …

My flat.

Bed

Look at my cheeks – I’m blushing, Priya says.

That’s a post-orgasmic glow, I say. Do you think your husband will notice?

I think my husband might be out with a lover of his own, Priya says.

Do you think? I ask.

It would make things easier, wouldn’t it? Priya says.

Priya, in my dressing gown.

All the things we talk about. All the questions we ask … No one’s going to answer, are they? No one’s interested.

Maybe they aren’t questions, but prayers, I say. Maybe they’re ways of praying.

To who? Priya asks. To what?

God, maybe, I say. The sky, maybe. The light, maybe.

I’ll miss our talks, Priya says. I’ll miss talking like this.

It isn’t over yet, I say. We’ve only just begun, as the Carpenters sang …

It is though, really, Priya says. It was always and already over. It’s like we’ve outlived ourselves. We’re already dead. It’s like we’ve been dead for the longest time. We’re just waiting for death to catch up with us.

Death has other things to do, I think, I say. Death’s fucking busy …

What do we add up to, we two? Priya says. What do we add to the universe? Sharing our nothings. Our… insignificances. Contemplating the nothingness of the day and our nothingness and our obscurity and … and … what … what, philosopher?

These are the skylight dialogues, I say. A erotic merger between organisational management and philosophy.

It feels like philosophy’s winning, Priya says.

Priya, examining my bookshelves. All your books are written in revenge, philosopher, she says. They’re written by people who didn’t know how to live. So they wrote books instead.

Is that the secret? I ask.

Our tastes diverge, philosopher. I ever read a Stephen King book. On holiday. That’s right: I took a Stephen King book on holiday. Under the Dome. Have you ever read Under the Dome?

I read every Stephen King up until Tommyknockers, which was shit.

I don’t believe you.

And I’ve read shit-tons of science-fiction.

Read in the past tense. In your misspent youth. Before you got all serious and high European. Last night, do you know what, I watched an episode of Morse. I watched Morse. An old episode of Morse. Even Alan was disgusted by Morse. Even Alan got up to do something else. But I was perfectly happy with Morse. Does that disturb you? It does, doesn’t it?

You think we should all be improving ourselves. You think it should always be a matter of edification. I watched Morse, philosopher! That’s the kind of person you’re with: someone who watches Morse.

Morse is about people, philosopher. And it’s very melancholy. And there are murders. And there’s a plot. Plots are for stupid people – I’ll bet that’s what you think. You probably like talky arthouse. No – slow cinema. Where nothing happens, solemnly. And no one laughs. I like to laugh, philosopher.

And you actually read the London Review of Books, philosopher. People like you really exist. You’re not just made up. People actually read the London Review of Books – imagine that.

… And classical music, philosopher. You actually listen to classical music. Or rather, you only buy classical music CDs. You only put your classical music on display, on your bookshelves. Alongside your arthouse Blu-rays.  Your Angelopolous collection. Who the fuck is Angelopolous? God. You’re a dinosaur. Listen to me: the voice of the common person, philosopher!

You should stick with others of your kind. You should stick, loves high culture, in your dating profile. How many are of there of your kind, up here in the northeast?

Priya, opening a book. Rainer Maria Rilke: I’ve heard of him, I know the name; don’t think I’m totally ignorant. The Dunio Elegies. Is the kind of thing you read – really? … It’s like intruding on something, opening these pages. On some old European dream … What’s wrong with us? Why can’t we be reached by this stuff? Why aren’t we touched by this?

Speak for yourself, I say.

This just zooms over your head, too, Priya says. Don’t pretend. This doesn’t mean anything to you either. Except as some talisman. As something to worship from afar. When Rilke wants to open us … to God, or whatever. To the sky, or whatever. To death, or whatever. All those things. All those things our grandparents might have understood, back in India …

Once upon a time … once people would have set themselves to learn it by heart, Priya says. To be able to quote this. To remember it all, line by line …

All your books, philosopher … These old books, Priya says. They’re from a different time and about a different time, only you haven’t understood that yet … They’re outdated … they’ve been left behind. Haven’t you realised that yet?

You know what I think about your book-filled bedroom? Priya asks. About your life up here? You’re playing at being a philosopher and I’m playing at having an affair with a philosopher. You’re following your blind alley, as I’m no doubt following mine.

What’s your blind alley? I ask.

Romance, maybe, Priya says. This romance … Which will only last for a while – that’s what I tell myself. It will last for a while and burn itself out, and then you’ll forget me, and I’ll forget you, and that’s how it should be.

And you’ll still be with hubbie? I ask.

That is my fate, I’m sure, Priya says. I’ll be with him forever … It’ll just go on and on …

One day, a long time from now,  you’ll tell your husband all about our affair, I say. One day, when you’re feeling particularly close. On your fiftieth wedding anniversary, or something. On his birthday, or yours … You’ll tell him about your love affair – that’s what you’ll call it. About reading Rilke with your philosopher lover. Reading Rilke in bed, the pair of us! The Dunio Elegies! 

But we’re not even reading Rilke, she says. We’re talking about reading Rilke.

That’ll teach him not to take you for granted, I say. To show him that you could have lead an entirely different life had you chosen to. That would add an unexpected twist to your anniversary dinner, wouldn’t it? That would make him sit up and listen …

You know, if you met someone else, I’d be terribly jealous, Priya says. Which makes me think you should be more jealous of my husband than you are. Unbearably so. Tormentedly so.

I am jealous, I say.

Don’t feign, Priya says. I know when you’re lying. See, I’d like to matter. Like everyone wants to matter. I want to be someone for whom someone else would live or die.

Your husband, I say.

Maybe him, though probably not, Priya says. Okay – I want you to want me. Desperately. Seriously.

I do want you, anyway, I say.

I want you to want me more, Priya says. Not to be able to go on without me.

You’re actually married, I say. Which makes you very greedy.

Maybe I don’t want to be married to him, Priya says. Maybe I’d leave him for you. Which I might do, if it wasn’t for … your work. Your life or death work which comes between you and me.

See, you think you’re exceptional …, Priya says. That you’re better than the rest of us … to stay up here in your eerie and write your stuff … You and your philosophical muse.

Maybe you’re my muse, I say. My new muse.

Maybe you’ll have to court me – properly, Priya. You have to make some effort. Everything just comes to you. I just drive out here.

I’ll write you a love letter, I say. I’ll send it right to your door. Rilke wrote a lot of love letters, you know. He wandered round Europe writing to various women. Who he never actually wanted to see.

It’s easy to love people when they’re absent, right? Priya says. You can imagine me exactly as you like. A philosophical me. A profound me. Who could join you in revering these old books. Rainer Maria Rilke, or whoever …

Priya, getting dressed.

What if I left Alan?

Idle thoughts.

Not so idle. What if?

We’d get a dog, have children. Get a house.

In that order? And then what?

Live, like everybody else.

Is that the life you want?

Is that the life you want?

See you soon, philosopher.

My flat.

In bed.

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.

I really wouldn’t recall, Priya says.

What about with Alan? 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 was a humdrum period. Then there was 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.

You’re what they would call an attractive couple, I say.

Oh I’m sure we are, Priya says. But I really don’t want to think about it.

You must be comfortably off, I say. Your joint salary …

We’re the bourgeois you no doubt despise, philosopher, Priya says. Upon whom you’re getting your revenge right now.

Is this what this is about?

This is your banal affair. Your normcore affair. Before you meet some hot and fabulous European. Some Italian, or whatever. Some fellow philosopher. Some continentalist. Who’d actually understand you and your terribly complex thoughts.

Priya, flicking through a notebook.

What’s your theory of the everything, philosopher? Priya asks. Do you have one? What’s the use of philosophy if it doesn’t give you a theory of the universe? Fuck. Okay, a more friendly question: what do you actually write about?

The tohu vavohu, I say.

The tohu … what? Priya asks.

It’s from the Bible, I say. Chaos is the best word for it. Or evil. In the beginning God created the heavens and earth. And the earth was without form and void. That’s how the tohu vavohu is translated in the Bible: without form and void.

So God made chaos? Priya asks.

There’s a whole rabbinical tradition that argues that God made the world from chaos – by shaping the tohu vavohu,  I say.

Who cares? Priya says. Sell it to me, philosophy-boy.

It means God didn’t create the universe from nothing, I say.

So? Priya says.

And that God isn’t omnipotent, either, I say. Because the tohu vavohu couldn’t be definitely ordered. Chaos always threatens to break back in. That’s what happens with Noah’s flood and Jeremiah’s prophecies …

Didn’t God, like, send Noah’s flood to punish him? Priya asks?

Sure, he unleashed the chaos, I say. He unlocked the doors and portals, and let it flood in.

So God was still in charge, Priya says. It was just a matter of creative destruction, or whatever

But maybe God isn’t always in charge, I say. The order of the world – God’s order in the Bible – can’t hold back chaos.

Back to your apocalypse, right? Back for your desire for it all to end. Self-loathing, basically.

World-loathing. This world-loathing.

How did you get like this? Priya asks. How did you get so extreme?

You said you’re a madwoman. You said you were dead. That’s pretty extreme …

Yes … dead …

Does Alan know you’re dead?

I’ve tried to tell him. I’ve – tried – to – tell – him. But he didn’t understand. Do you understand?

Maybe I do.

God, what does all this add up to? Priya asks. Our afternoon together. The beginning of 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? What are we doing? 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.

But should we be allowed to do what we like?: that’s my question, Priya says.

Who’s stopping us? I ask.

The light on the floor, Priya says. That beams through the skylight … The parallelogram of 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 Alan’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.

Me, quoting: Is God unknown? Is he manifest as the sky? This, rather, I believe.

Don’t say you’re an atheist – I’m bored of atheists, Priya says. Atheism is so dull a position, especially if you are an atheist. You should always be interesting about God.

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 … why not anything? Priya says. God, I feel afternoon-drunk. Drunk on the afternoon. I feel like I’m falling, just falling. And you, too – you’re falling, too. Because we’re both unanchored. We’ve got no … responsibilities. There’s nothing for us to do, except … this. Whatever this is.

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. What the fuck am I saying? What is this room doing to me?

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 … We’ve been disarmed. We’ve been placed out of service. We’re not needed anywhere. We’re surplus to requirements. We were ordered by mistake, or whatever, and just stockpiled …

I’m falling, philosopher, Priya says. Not falling in love, just falling. When I close my eyes, I get vertigo … Why do I come out here? Why do I feel these things? Does this flat do this to everyone? … It’s like you’ve cast some spell over me. Like you want to keep me here forever.

If I fell asleep now, what would happen? Priya asks. If I feel asleep and woke up and fell asleep and just …

So fall asleep, I say.

I have to get home … Alan will … will …, Priya says. I can’t even finish a sentence. It’s being drunk without being drunk. Fuck, I can’t think a single clear thing … I feel so fucked. God, how will I ever get up? How will I ever do anything again?

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 …

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? What’s anything? Why anything? I don’t know what I used to know. And what I know now … isn’t good for anything. And I’m not good for anything. And nor are you, but you know that.

We’re falling into the question.

Is this what it is like? Is this what philosophy’s like?

Summer, the time of the river of work – the river of reading, the river of writing.

 

The work of summer, between the exam boards and Fresher’s Week.

 

Summer the time of true work, deep work. Summer, the time of Writing – deep writing. And Reading – the deepest reading. When we opened the Great Books. When we bent over them in study.

Summer, the time of wide reading. Of broad writing. Sunlight on our pages, as we read. Birdsong in our ears.

 

Summer’s time. The opening of summer. The unfolding of summer.

Summer’s broadening. Summer’s open doors.

The deep weeks. The hidden valleys of summer. Its secret places.

 

Summer work: it’s happiness. The happiness of having Time before us. Of throwing up our sails into the summer. Piloting our work like a sand-yacht. Catching great summer breaths. Across the open sands.

 

Tone-poem summer. Delius and Roedelius summer.

The work, ascending. The work, rising.

 

The opening of summer, when every academic can swoon back into the arms of Potential. Can believe that they, too, might be capable of Greatness.

The beginning of summer, when every academic can believe their work is World-Historical. When every academic believes they might be a Genius.

The start of summer, when every academic remembers again what they became an academic for. When every academic can put aside distraction. All that teaching! All that admin!

 

When every academic can dream of catching a summer wind. A summer breeze.

 

End of summer deadlines, far off. The annual conference, far off.

 

Summer work. Reaching eternal summer. Reaching the summer perpetuum. Propitious summer – that we knew for the first time. The full time academic’s summer, entirely different from the hourly pai academic’s summer.

Not the summer of panic. Not the summer of food banks. Not the summer of signing on. Not the summer of humiliation. The summer of going cap in hand to your parents, when you were too old to go cap in hand to your parents.

 

We remember it well: when summer used to be about poverty. Skint summers. Penniless summers. Signing-on summers. Compulsory jobsearch summers. Panic-attacks-thinking-about-our-future-life summers.

When summer used to be about building up to the big British Society  for Continental Philosophy conference. Writing our papers, in between everything else. In between panic attacks.

 

Is it a writing a paper for a conference summer? A chapter for an anthology summer? A working on your book summer? Or all three?

 

Summer’s abandoned itself to summer. Summer’s slipped into summer. And it’s lifted you in its splistream.

 

Lifting your academic’s eyes from the business of term. From teaching and marking and the pettiness of administration. Lifting your gaze into summer skies.

Summer, the time when we busied ourselves with our great projects, our dream projects.

 

Our notetaking. What we write on summer pages.

Weeks, reading. Every day, more deeply. Weeks, looking. Weeks, finding.

 

The fragrant breath of summer, over the work. The trance of summer, over the work.

 

Sounding summer’s depths.

 

A few weeks. Throwing up our sails into the summer. Piloting our work like a sand-yacht. Catching great summer breaths. Across the open sands.

 

Even they can’t destroy the summer. Even they can’t dim this sun.

 

Lying on a summer hammock. Looking upwards.

 

Your encompassing summer love. For all things. Viewing it all with Summer Equanimity.

 

The great Lifting. The great Lightening.

 

Academics afloat in the lidos of summer. Academics sunning themselves in inflatables. Academics poolside. Academics reading in the shade.

It’s the Water of Life ceremony. Outsiders aren’t usually invited to this.

Water of what?

It’s this … poison or potion harvested from … I don’t know what.

Ground-up bug chitin, I heard.

Postgraduate adrenochrome, that’s what I heard.

It’s lethal, potentially. Unless that lethality is neutralised. The drinker has to enter into a coma-like trance. Then covert the toxic elements on a molecular level. If you fail, you die. You’re poisoned. But if you succeed …

Then what?

You unlock the entirety of supervisorial memory. And along with it, all the secrets of philosophy.

I don’t understand.

It’s a kind of PhD regression, that takes you back through PhD past lives, kinda. Look, we all had PhD supervisors, right? And they had supervisors?

Sure.

This is a way of accessing their memories, their experiences. Going all the way back.

All the way back to where?

Look, postgraduates are always in the line of the philosophical equivalent of apostolic succession. Take Io. She was supervised by …?

Professor Ron Flowers, at Essex.

The guy forced into retirement?

Fucked too many students or something …

And who supervised him?

Someone quiet famous, actually: Eloise Springer.

And who supervised her?

That’s going pretty far back. She was American. I think it was …

Hannah Arendt. It was Hannah Arendt.

Fuck off. Look it up.

Eloise Springer … supervised by Curt Broadstairs … supervised by HANNAH ARENDT. It’s fucking her!

See, a direct apostolic line to Hannah Arendt. To old Europe. Pretty fucking cool.

Well, the water of life is supposed to release the accumulated wisdom of the chain of supervisors. To let your supervisor through you. And then your supervisor’s supervisor and so on, all the way back.

And Hannah Ardent was supervised by Heidegger, right? And Heidegger was supervised by … Someone dead clever.

The water of life – if it actually exists – means that the postgraduate student becomes legion. Becomes multiple. The whole tradition speaks through them …

And has it happened? Has any postgraduate actually become legion?

I’m not sure. There are dangers, I know that. Things can go wrong. You can channel other forces.

Dark ones. There are all kinds of entities out there.

The Bug right?

It’s like taking ayahusca. The whole process needs careful supervision.

Yeah, but there’s more to it. Sure, they’re looking for a way to unlock the memory of all supervisees. And supervisors. As a way of bridging space and time. But there’s more.

There’s been a deliberate programme, that’s lasted hundreds, if not thousands of years. A careful matching up of certain supervisors with certain supervisees. The Golden Path, it’s called. A secret supervisorial pathway.

Steered by who?

I’m not sure … I don’t know who’s doing it. Anyway, the aim is to produce the postgraduate to come, who will not need supervision. Who will recall all the lessons of previous supervisions, all the cycles of PhD study, going all the way back. To wherever there was a teacher and pupil. Wherever there was instruction. A postgraduate who will be able to … see into the future. Escape the wheel of postgraduate supervisions. Experience time in a new way. And save the humanities …

The K'fitzat ha-Derekh.

The what?

They borrowed the name from the Zohar. The K'fitzat ha-Derekh will lead the all the humanities postgraduates to liberation.

So who’s going to drink the water of life tonight?

I’m not sure. Only the PhD student at the brink of submission can endure it. You need at least an MA and three years of full time PhD study. You’re at your strongest when you’re just about to submit your dissertation …

And if it goes wrong?

Shrugging.

Studying’s for retards. You can just take these thoughts.

Check it out: Difference and Repetition in pill form. So you don’t have to read it.

And there’s a Hegel suppository. Science of Logic. To be inserted anally.

Only place for it.

Who synthesised these?

Some former PhD student.

Enterprising.

They sell them under the counter at all the European philosophy conferences. And Theory conferences.

This is the Deleuze pill?

Sure – Line of Flight.

Let’s fllyyyy ….

Where to?

Let’s get very far out. Very far. No limits, motherfucker. No more finitude. No more lack. This is Desire, Deleuze style. We’re desiring machines, baby.

Is that what we are?

It fucks, it drinks, it … smokes … it looks up the sky. And we’re it.

Damn right.

I’ve got some old school stuff. The Levinas tab. Makes you all responsible. And tortured. And guilty.

Fuck that.

Take some Blanchot – that’s deep, man.

Stay away from Blanchot pills – fucking addictive. I’m a long term Blanchot addict.

And there’s some Heideggerian weed, man. Potent. Sends you down the forest paths. Puts you right in the fucking Lichtung.

That’s a Heidegger tab, too.

What, like Nazi Heidegger?

No – it’s later Heidegger. All Gelassenheit. Just fucking releasement.

Beautiful.

Only a God can save us now, right?

Beautiful but doomy.

And this is a Simondon bandana. The active ingredient is actually soaked into the bandana. So it enters the bloodstream via the forehead.

Handy.

The meeting room.

Our Board of Studies.

It’s just us. The lunatics really have taken over the asylum. The chimps have taken over.

Let’s have a chimp meeting. What would be on the chimp agenda?

Bananas. Inter chimp rivalry. Mating. Eating their own shit.

They only do that in zoos.

Colourful assholes.

That’s mandrills, not chimps.

Why are you lying down, Shiva?

I’m assuming my position on the floor of dread.

Get up off the fucking floor of dread!

Driss, lying on the floor of dread. Barbarossa, lying on the floor of dread. Fiver, lying on the floor of dread.

What is this, some kind of yoga?

Yeah, doom yoga.

Get up! You’re supposed to be chairing this meeting, Shiva. You’re supposed to be in charge. This is the Board of Studies, for fuck’s sake. What have you got to report to us from the Executive Committee? What’s coming down from on high.

I don’t know. I didn’t go to it. I said I was ill.

Ill?!

Mentally ill. Too full of dread.

You told them that?

No, I said I had flu.

You can’t keep giving excuses like that! Not to the Organisational Management Executive! Those guys are serious. They’re world conquerors. These guys are taking over the world. What do you think they’ll do to us if they think we can’t run our department?

Are you actually meditating, Driss?

I’m just closing my eyes.

Well, open them again! My God. And Fiver, leave off the visions for a few minutes. We need our departmental administrator alert! Focused! Writing minutes! Taking down our words of wisdom. The relevant action points.

There are decisions to be made! Things to be done. We have an agenda to work through. Points to address. Action points to tick off.

We’re in Organisational Management now, remember that. They’ll be scrutinising our minutes. Make sure our minutes are immaculate, Fiver. Don’t record anything we say about suicide. Or our drunkenness. Or about throwing ourselves out of the window. None of that! We need clean minutes. Don’t record the swearing. Or the panic. Or the threats of mutiny. We need to appear as a functioning department. And that’s half the battle, isn’t it?

But we’re not a functioning department. We’re not a functioning anything. Of course not! Everything’s wrong with us. My God, look our leader!

Get up off the floor, Shiva. Lead us. Show us the way! Lead by example. You have to be decisive, Shiva. That’s what you’re for. So decide! Cut through the red tape!

I think we should kill ourselves immediately, I say.

Let’s put this to the vote: should we kill ourselves immediately? Just fall on our swords?

We don’t have swords.

We need to be issued with swords! That’s an action point! So we can fall on them! Contact the department of metallurgy. Ask them to make some swords. Tell them our philosophical honour is at stake. The honour of philosophy falls to us.

Furio, plonking a bottle on the table and a pile of plastic cups.

Here’s my contribution.

What’s that?

Lindesfarne mead.

Who drinks Lindesfarne mead?

We do, now.

Pouring cups.

In wine is truth, not Lindesfarne mead. There’s a reason why everyone gave up drinking this in the Middle Ages.

Mead! What was going through your head? Like, ye olde bollocks. It’s rancid. No one actually drinks mead, you know.

I think monks do.

Monks sell it to tourists. Tourists who’ve never actually tasted mead. And never drink it again.

Next we’ll be singing madrigals. Fuck off with your mead.

It won Mead of the year in What Mead? magazine, apparently.

There is no What Mead? magazine. You made it up.

Sure I thought it would make a change. Broadening our alcoholic horizons.

They don’t need broadening.

I bought it at Bedeworld. The mead gift pack. Two bottles.

Did Bede even drink mead? I’ll bet he didn’t. Fuck off and buy some wine. We have to go classy for the Philosophy Board of Studies.

Uh … do we have to kill ourselves or not?

We’ll wait for the swords to be delivered.

Why do we need to wait for swords? We could just throw ourselves out of the window.

But the window doesn’t open wide enough. Have you noticed that?

It’s a deliberate anti suicide measure. Those bastards. It’s prejudice. Against the suicidal! It’s against the Equalities Act! We have rights!

We need an emergency meeting.

We’re already in a meeting.

We need a meeting inside the meeting.

Wow, a meta-meeting.

Press the panic button!

Is there a panic button? Why not?

Phone the police. There’s a crime in progress. An ontological crime. It’s all a crime. The university’s a crime. The university itself!

Calm down! Don’t get hysterical! Driss, slap him!

There’s a planetary crisis. There’s an emergency. Of being!

Is Antarctica on the agenda?

Why should Antarctica be on the agenda?

I want to know what’s been happening there. I have a lot of questions about Antarctica.

You’re no allowed to fly over it, you know. Or go there.

Dave Lee Roth went there. Slept out on the ice, next to the penguins. Said they kept him awake. He’s a great traveller. Motley Crue wanted to play a gig there. I don’t think they did, though.

Did you see that Werner Herzog film about Antarctica. With the penguin? I liked that bit: the penguin just wandering off on its own, in the opposite direction to the sea. Off into the heart of the frozen continent.

Shut up about Antarctica. We need to get back to the agenda. There are things to discuss!

How about pyramids – are they on the agenda? There are pyramids in Antarctica, you know. And on Mars. What does it all mean?

And I think we should have the Sphinx on the agenda. How old is it, really? Does it really show signs of rain erosion?

As Chair of Board of Studies, I forbid any discussion about the Sphinx at this meetings.

Or pyramids?

Fuck pyramids.

And Gopekle Tepe?

I forbid the discussion of Gopekle Tepe.

So what are we going to discuss?

What’s the most anti Board of Studies thing we can think of?

God. Let’s talk about God.

You start.

I think we should use the occasion to have group.

Group what?

Therapy. I think we have deep, deep issues. Especially you.

Philosophical issues? Personal issues?

Personal issues are philosophical issues. The personal is philosophical.

You mean political.

I mean philosophical, fucko.

What does it really say, in the real agenda?

We’re supposed to be rewriting our module descriptors to make their contents accessible to organisational management students.

Fuck off!

We’re not supposed to use the words, epistemology and ontology and metaphysics. We’re not supposed to use the words axiology and deontology and virtue ethics.

And so it begins: the Organisational Management taming of philosophy. The Organisational Management disciplining of philosophy. Making it biddable. Making it understandable to the university authorities.

The fall of philosophy!