My (asshole) philosophy professor - he wears all black, everyday. Black, wrinkled silk blend blazer. Faded black jeans. Black shirt - with some kind of white pattern if he's feeling particularly adventurous - tucked ever so carefully but casually into his belt. Is the metaphysical weight of existence so heavy that he has to proclaim its darkness through his Kenneth Cole undershirt? Do his black shoes also have to solemnly groan "God is dead"?
Slicked back hair, glasses which have been carefully crafted to give the impression of scholarly preoccupation. In short, a man painfully, but ashamedly, concerned with appearance. He sweeps throughout the room, sighs with exasperation, looks at the class with watery, blank eyes. His writing, even his comments on papers, are slick with superiority and pomposity, but it is obvious that he attempts come off as "you and me". Like Sartre's waiter, he's playing a role and becomes absurd because of it - a symbol, a caricature, not a person.
And he gave me a B+ on my paper, thus solidifying himself forever in my mind as the progeny of an unforgivable sin.
In the library (working, in the most open sense), my asshole professor and Halloween on my mind. The weight of my assignments, the weight of the future that I push to the corner of my mind. "The half-moons, the shadows, the the desert between this life and dreams as yet undreamt." Elaine and "penumbra". Pumpkin pie, jello shots, and wanting independence without the trouble of responsibility. Lying to myself, unshelved books, and minimizing the page when I hear footsteps. Footsteps, lines in the sand, the unseen.
It's all so hollow, so absurd - and yet I am an actor in this illusion just as everyone else. I am not exempt from this theatre. Yet how freeing the knowledge of this absurdity! It comforts me like Christ comforts others, like the promise of redemption comforts sinners. To laugh - the greatest comfort of all.
If I only had more time. That is my ghost - that perhaps time could give me purpose. The cold truth is that it might not, or too late, and I have waited all that time for only the barest wraith of meaning. My consolation - I have the rest of my life.
Slicked back hair, glasses which have been carefully crafted to give the impression of scholarly preoccupation. In short, a man painfully, but ashamedly, concerned with appearance. He sweeps throughout the room, sighs with exasperation, looks at the class with watery, blank eyes. His writing, even his comments on papers, are slick with superiority and pomposity, but it is obvious that he attempts come off as "you and me". Like Sartre's waiter, he's playing a role and becomes absurd because of it - a symbol, a caricature, not a person.
And he gave me a B+ on my paper, thus solidifying himself forever in my mind as the progeny of an unforgivable sin.
In the library (working, in the most open sense), my asshole professor and Halloween on my mind. The weight of my assignments, the weight of the future that I push to the corner of my mind. "The half-moons, the shadows, the the desert between this life and dreams as yet undreamt." Elaine and "penumbra". Pumpkin pie, jello shots, and wanting independence without the trouble of responsibility. Lying to myself, unshelved books, and minimizing the page when I hear footsteps. Footsteps, lines in the sand, the unseen.
It's all so hollow, so absurd - and yet I am an actor in this illusion just as everyone else. I am not exempt from this theatre. Yet how freeing the knowledge of this absurdity! It comforts me like Christ comforts others, like the promise of redemption comforts sinners. To laugh - the greatest comfort of all.
If I only had more time. That is my ghost - that perhaps time could give me purpose. The cold truth is that it might not, or too late, and I have waited all that time for only the barest wraith of meaning. My consolation - I have the rest of my life.
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