post academic rant…

(skip to last paragraph if you just want to read the few lines of fiction/thought)

Something I wrote ( last paragraph) at the start of my last philosophy class for a course I have failed if I can not claim mitigation for another entire semester of neighbour induced stress, sleep deprivation, daily paralysis and despondency. We discussed institutions and I sit between two women – one rationally opposing the others cocaine-like ranting on the future of civilisation. The latter can only attack her points and I wish the lecturer had electronic buzzers attached to our seats. I sit like a glum child trapped at the dinner table while their parents argue. Come on Sas, press a button and zap her arse of ‘everyone must be localised (to my order) and exist autonomously (to my dictatorship). Actually no, in the imaginary world of buzzers under our arses zap mine: at the point of her spurting that there are too many people in the world, those in desert communities will die or the rest will get cancer and aids (like she really hopes we all do then the worlds all hers to reorder)…zap my butt, open the trapdoor under my desk let the crowd boo and me drop out the room when I so miss actually being applauded and told by audiences that I inspired them to dance. I’m not an Academic Get Me Out of Here! I try to catch his eye to communicate in a nano second that I actually do live in an institution for the disabled that screws our rights that will be sold to profit the ‘charity’s’ directors, that life should be full of wonder not politics… ranter activist bangs on that if another tribe disliked hers thay could just go emigrate somewhere else. I can’t even emigrate to Oxford and write stories, no philosophy just simpleton storytelling…

I can not catch his eye. It is all quite amusing in its horror on my tired brain that feels like that moment you drop bread dough onto a work top of flour from lack or sleep. Shit metaphor I know but I have a bread dough brain.

…this debate is brilliant but can you just do it in whispers and maybe smiling? My eye balls ache….

One more class to go on teansgender narratives than I have finished the University of Westminster. Mitigation would mean submitting in July next year. No fresh new year but uncertainty of disability benefits having to be reapplied for, uncertainty of home, urologists, cyptotoxic drugs and burning drops in my eyes wires to my brains activity (toast or bagel results?).

Another six months the reincarnation of Vivien Eliot (Tom’s preferred spelling). The more I read of her remaining words the more I find another affliction we share: eyes, brain, skin, no sleep, poor writing, failed dancing, I got flu sniffing over her leather notebooks with my leather notebooks and our faint pencils. Could Vivien read her own writing back as difficult as I do in pencil? Students are doing dissertations on linguistics and colonialism in philosophy- I am trying to resurrect some importance in a woman who just wrote for a while and felt sick a lot and the literati disregard. I am trying to point out that writers like Vivien are buried under too many intellects.

I want to walk into a book shop and buy the slim volume of the writing of Vivienne Eliot (with my own foreword and no typos would be my version of wearing Cartier). Vivien would have snapped at the class debate as beastly (she probably would have written her own headache with it too).

‘A clamour of inanities…’ (F.M/V Eliot  The Criterion)

Anyway here’s what I wrote in class while everyone chatted about what bar to go to…

I’m distracted by a window lit outside across the block. It is like that moment in Nadja when she says the window will turn red. Do you ever stare into windows at night in the hope you will see something no one else is noticing because you are the only one who hasn’t the mind to be here in class. And those inside the window will never know: something obscure or a melodramatic, Hitchcock style moment- anything other than discussing Derrida and Kant everyone pronounces as cunt….I’ve already written all I dislike on Kant for a frail pass grade on whether life should be found through action not thinking about thinking