The Vortex (Written on 30th October 2010)
'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked. 'Oh you can't help that' said the cat. 'We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.' 'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice. 'You must be,' said the cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.' (Lewis Carroll)
I once joined an online group for people who were studying for a Masters degree – people claiming they used to be completely sane individuals before beginning their postgraduate studies. I hadn’t yet applied for any postgraduate courses at that time, though I had every intention of doing so and held somewhat romantic views on madness. Two years later, I finally commence! I enter the vortex of floating cells that are beyond the reach of comprehension. I find myself gathering molecules and putting them in a basket, where they slowly gel and merge into facets of recognition.
According to Pierre Bourdieu, it all comes down to a matter of taste (or rather the perception of taste). Those who grow up exposed to the right names and appropriate interpretations are destined to possess high taste, purity of judgement, and less primitive desires. The rest of us are sensual, vulgar, and unable to defer pleasure. I can therefore put my initial lack of recognition down to my pleasure-seeking vulgarity. It was interesting to hear, however, that economic success is not synonymous with cultural success. One needs only to visit Monaco to make the point more blatant.
After the painful teething period of a few weeks, the cells are producing knowledge, if yet beyond my ability to verbally articulate. I realise my privilege at having seminars in Virginia Woolf’s Bloomsbury home, at being reinstated into the coffee shop environment while perusing texts, at sitting in the Senate House Library among the antique furniture, the gothic-like howling winds while reading texts about cyborgs being plugged into microwave cuisine. I enjoy being reacquainted with parody and paradox.
The whole idea of continuing with studies was to enter academia permanently. I’m no longer sure whether this will take the form of PhD’s and Doctor status (I may have to remain ms). It could equally lead to the title of critic or editor, or freelance writer. Somehow it has to involve sitting in the ivory tower – pensive, playing parody style, putting words to paper. Academics reside in the ivory tower too, of course (and I’m not yet sure which office I’ll be assigned). They simply have better taste.
I have an upcoming deadline. It is the perfect opportunity to play, since it carries no weight. The question is which topic to focus on? Gender parody, cyber feminism, or the carnivalesque? They are all linked to each other in one vital way – the lunar meltdown of a nice, safe, restricting reality.
The carnivalesque can be observed in the cramped staff room of my day job. As I sit trying to make the passive tense interesting with activities from “Taboos and Issues,” a teacher enters the stage: ‘Does anyone know of a good novel to recommend to a pre-intermediate student?’ ‘The Kama Sutra!’ Visuals are always helpful. We are just a few seedy songs short of a Moulin Rouge. The owner of this delightful scene lives in Monaco. She reaches into the pocket of her fur coat and throws us a few peanuts once in a while.
Never has the madness of my existence been so coherent with the chaos of my mind. Perhaps a quote by Sylvia Plath is a suitably resonant way to summarise: ‘Perhaps someday I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.’
An Afterword (Written on 13th February 2011)
Written four months ago, The Vortex is an emblematic follow-up to the previous entry on the London newcomer. From meeting an unpleasantly surreal woman in the confusing maze of Liverpool Street station to finding myself too large for an interview wardrobe, my early experiences of London had left me in a stomach-wrenching descent down the rabbit hole. When I landed in the classroom, I needed to drink the liquid of academia to reach the key that would unlock the basket cupboard. I then started to gather those cells of academic lingo. Some have all their eggs in one basket and share their wisdom willingly; others proceed with indecision whilst gazing at signs that seem to point in all directions. I am the latter.
Finally, the carnivalesque job in the school was the result of that surprise test in the wardrobe. As a reward for sweating out a reasonable lesson plan, classifying a list of words, phonetically transcribing another list of words, and discussing interesting points of British culture, I was offered a class for three hours every morning. We must remember, however, that cultural success of not synonymous with economic success and this is the perfect example. People who work at this school all have Bachelor degrees, and several have a Masters degree. Yet the salary for teaching a three hour session is just, on average, £28. And that is NOT per hour. Neither does it include planning, administration time, test making time, marking time. One could argue that this is almost illegal, if you consider the national minimum wage important. Still, the owner lives in Monaco, and although she is living a tax-free existence, we mere plebs should not begrudge the woman her growing bank account whilst we calculate our budgets in an increasingly expensive circus with tired working eyes.
'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked. 'Oh you can't help that' said the cat. 'We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.' 'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice. 'You must be,' said the cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.' (Lewis Carroll)
I once joined an online group for people who were studying for a Masters degree – people claiming they used to be completely sane individuals before beginning their postgraduate studies. I hadn’t yet applied for any postgraduate courses at that time, though I had every intention of doing so and held somewhat romantic views on madness. Two years later, I finally commence! I enter the vortex of floating cells that are beyond the reach of comprehension. I find myself gathering molecules and putting them in a basket, where they slowly gel and merge into facets of recognition.
According to Pierre Bourdieu, it all comes down to a matter of taste (or rather the perception of taste). Those who grow up exposed to the right names and appropriate interpretations are destined to possess high taste, purity of judgement, and less primitive desires. The rest of us are sensual, vulgar, and unable to defer pleasure. I can therefore put my initial lack of recognition down to my pleasure-seeking vulgarity. It was interesting to hear, however, that economic success is not synonymous with cultural success. One needs only to visit Monaco to make the point more blatant.
After the painful teething period of a few weeks, the cells are producing knowledge, if yet beyond my ability to verbally articulate. I realise my privilege at having seminars in Virginia Woolf’s Bloomsbury home, at being reinstated into the coffee shop environment while perusing texts, at sitting in the Senate House Library among the antique furniture, the gothic-like howling winds while reading texts about cyborgs being plugged into microwave cuisine. I enjoy being reacquainted with parody and paradox.
The whole idea of continuing with studies was to enter academia permanently. I’m no longer sure whether this will take the form of PhD’s and Doctor status (I may have to remain ms). It could equally lead to the title of critic or editor, or freelance writer. Somehow it has to involve sitting in the ivory tower – pensive, playing parody style, putting words to paper. Academics reside in the ivory tower too, of course (and I’m not yet sure which office I’ll be assigned). They simply have better taste.
I have an upcoming deadline. It is the perfect opportunity to play, since it carries no weight. The question is which topic to focus on? Gender parody, cyber feminism, or the carnivalesque? They are all linked to each other in one vital way – the lunar meltdown of a nice, safe, restricting reality.
The carnivalesque can be observed in the cramped staff room of my day job. As I sit trying to make the passive tense interesting with activities from “Taboos and Issues,” a teacher enters the stage: ‘Does anyone know of a good novel to recommend to a pre-intermediate student?’ ‘The Kama Sutra!’ Visuals are always helpful. We are just a few seedy songs short of a Moulin Rouge. The owner of this delightful scene lives in Monaco. She reaches into the pocket of her fur coat and throws us a few peanuts once in a while.
Never has the madness of my existence been so coherent with the chaos of my mind. Perhaps a quote by Sylvia Plath is a suitably resonant way to summarise: ‘Perhaps someday I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.’
An Afterword (Written on 13th February 2011)
Written four months ago, The Vortex is an emblematic follow-up to the previous entry on the London newcomer. From meeting an unpleasantly surreal woman in the confusing maze of Liverpool Street station to finding myself too large for an interview wardrobe, my early experiences of London had left me in a stomach-wrenching descent down the rabbit hole. When I landed in the classroom, I needed to drink the liquid of academia to reach the key that would unlock the basket cupboard. I then started to gather those cells of academic lingo. Some have all their eggs in one basket and share their wisdom willingly; others proceed with indecision whilst gazing at signs that seem to point in all directions. I am the latter.
Finally, the carnivalesque job in the school was the result of that surprise test in the wardrobe. As a reward for sweating out a reasonable lesson plan, classifying a list of words, phonetically transcribing another list of words, and discussing interesting points of British culture, I was offered a class for three hours every morning. We must remember, however, that cultural success of not synonymous with economic success and this is the perfect example. People who work at this school all have Bachelor degrees, and several have a Masters degree. Yet the salary for teaching a three hour session is just, on average, £28. And that is NOT per hour. Neither does it include planning, administration time, test making time, marking time. One could argue that this is almost illegal, if you consider the national minimum wage important. Still, the owner lives in Monaco, and although she is living a tax-free existence, we mere plebs should not begrudge the woman her growing bank account whilst we calculate our budgets in an increasingly expensive circus with tired working eyes.
