I had the weirdest dream. I was in Streatham campus, you know the main gate on Prince of Wales Road? There. It was packed with people: I didn’t know them all but somehow I knew they all worked at the university. We were holding banners and talking. The atmosphere was quite jolly. There were dogs and children too. We had soup and cinnamon bagels. There were students writing poetry on the pavement, classicists holding placards with quotes from the Catiline Orations, a band called ‘The Attachment Issues’ singing protest songs. There were professors from Philosophy and Geography knitting a blanket. I’m not sure how, but I found myself embroidering ‘we are the university’ on some bunting.
And then the dream goes from weird to outlandish.
At some point, the Vice-Chancellor showed up but he was a Lego figurine. I talked to him and he actually listened to my concerns. We posed for a photo together and he told me I am an extraordinary academic. No idea what a psychoanalyst would make of this. Then Billy Bragg arrived (!) and we all sang The Internationale – can you imagine Exeter academics singing The Internationale?
Ah, I almost forgot: students were occupying Northcote House in protest, then they came out and we greeted them with party poppers and a booming, sonorous round of applause. Beaming smiles, song, energy, enthusiasm. It was magical!
We marched through town and eventually ended up in the drama studio at the Phoenix Arts Centre where we talked about the university of the future and, wait for it, we discussed electing the Vice-Chancellor (!), boycotting the TEF, and abolishing tuition fees (!!!!).
I mean… I don’t know. It was probably something I ate.
Wait a sec…why do I have a party popper in my coat pocket?
If there is no church in the wild, if there is study rather than knowledge production, if there is a way of being together in brokenness, if there is an undercommons, then we must all find our way to it. – Jack Halberstam
We invite you to join us in the break! For one night, we will occupy space, take possession of time, and think about what it means to ‘be with’ each other. Through a score of discussion and silence, activity and play, we will collectively make space for time and co-create a new institution*.
Is there something you wish you had more time for? Gazing at clouds, fly-fishing, cat stroking, laughing? Bring an object or idea to contribute to a playful potluck of unproductive activities and everyday expertise.
The Institute of Killing Time is a new (anti)-institute for the experimental study and exploration of time. This inaugural event is part of Antiuniversity Now 2017.
Do join us! Book your place on Eventbrite.
Easter meditation. I have been absent for a while. The winter of my discontent is over. Every year I tell myself ‘this time it won’t get me’. It always does. Short days, feeble winter light get the better of me. And I always come out at the other end. In the meantime, we have been plunged into a dystopian world that would put Ray Bradbury and George Orwell to shame. An inarticulate, narcissistic white supremacist is now the most powerful politician on the planet and he seems determined to pick a fight. A schoolyard bully with weapons of mass destruction at his disposal. Can I freak out now?
No, I can’t. We can’t. I don’t know what the future will bring, but we’d better stay lucid.
From my privileged spot, I can campaign, I can protest. What else? I am fortunate enough to be able to turn my job into a militant practice. I am fortunate enough to be working with students who (most of the time) demonstrate a remarkable generosity of spirit. I can build a militant classroom, to borrow Kim Solga’s words. But how? Teaching and research are hardly predictable activities: if you are looking for neat and ordered stuff you might as well change career. Dealing with living, breathing human beings requires a good degree of flexibility and responsiveness.
What then? How do you turn academic work into a militant practice? I’m not sure, but somehow I’ve always known that my practice (on and off stage, inside and outside the classroom) boils down to sharing stories. Forget the post-truths or the alternative facts. Beyond the news, we have stories to tell. Stories that reconnect us with our resilience, kindness, and generosity. Stories to counter the pestilent narratives of the past few months; stories to heal, stories to overcome fear, stories to make sense of the illogical and frightening stuff the world throws at us every day. And, by all means, stories to explore the monsters that inhabit the deepest cracks of our conscience; stories to face our biases and our prejudices. Teaching and research are conversations: we build images, we weave narratives, we propose visions of the world. I’m starting here. Is it enough? Of course not!
Happy new season, everyone.