Mujalifah's mighty musings in mirth and magnanimity

Monday, February 28, 2005

like “falling down an elevator shaft and landing in a pool of mermaids"

Hunter S. Thompson is dead. He's the guy that the film Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was made about - believe it or not, it was a true story. I remember watching that film three or four times over two days - it (and playing tetris) seemed the perfect corollary to a post-wisdom tooth pulling, pharmaceutical binge.

That was my introduction to Thompson and pretty much all I ever found out about him, apart from a conversation once in high school with a friend who had read some of his articles.

Reading his obituary in the Economist was a reminder to me of how precariously silly the seriousness I invest into life is. I stare at the things around me, I stare at the Next and I wait to see what will happen, wait to pounce and make sense, I wait for an opportunity to prove my relevance by keeping sober and awake for the moment. Meanwhile I decay and become a tyrant over self and others.

Thompson had something to say - it would be a shame to reduce him to a nonsensical, drug abuser.

"Journalistic objectivity was a nonsense to him; he threw it away, and turned his gaze on himself." - The Economist.

Friday, February 25, 2005

The University and the Human Spirit

Break the bonds which shackle the human spirit,
enlarge the bounds of human reason and freedom,
inquire freely into all matters of knowledge,
follow the argument whithersoever it may lead:
such is the great adventure of civilisation,
and of its teaching and research laboratory—
the university. - Jan Smuts (CU Reporter, Vol 78, pp 1300–1303.)

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

a chest of jest

Fretty, petty ladies,
shrill and scream,
over the scratches on their babies.

Forget the babies, ladies,
you both have rabies!
You gnaw away at the men with chests.

But the fretty, petty ladies,
think they're something,
because they've got breasts.

But, no, there's more, there's more:
Here comes the chestless chap.
Shying any responsibility,
he claims to be the victim of a trap.

No matter how hard he works - for he is always working - even in self-professed laziness - he exausts himself simply in seeking the start.

A start is somewhere, a start can be anything.
But a start is something he cannot find truth in.
He could lie to himself and say that any start is something, but he doesn't feel like lying today.
While this means he can't resign himself to a start, it doesn't mean he is resigned to the stopped position he is in.

He knows that resting in the nothing - the pre-start - the stop - is also an OEM purchase of a lie.

Oscilating between starting and stopping, the chestless man buckles under the tyranny and like a drowning engine you can't keep pushing his button. You can shove him around and he'll go wherever you do - but he's essentially a burden - truly a liability, unless he's good looking - those kind you can at least arrange with the furniture.

Those chestless chaps that have a social bent to them, will bring down whatever they can - because if they can't start - no-one is allowed to start either.

The only problem I have with the chestless men are that I think they actually may have a point. Then again, it's really no place for me to say that they do, because in fact, I'm one of them.

As for the fretty, petty ladies - I can't really look down on them either - sure, a scratch is something, and yeah, they are well endowed.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Friendly Sunday Protesting

"Yes: man is in fact nailed down - like Christ on the cross - to a grid of paradoxes: stretched betweem the horizontal world and the vertical of Being; dragged down by the hopelessness of existing-in-the-world on the one hand, and the unattainability of the absolute on the other, he balances between the torment of not knowing his mission and the joy of carrying it out, between nothingness and meaningfulness. And like Christ, he is in fact victorious, by virtue of his defeats; through perceiving absurdity, he once again finds meaning; through personal failure, he once more discovers responsibility; through the defeat of several prison sentences, he gains a victory-at the very least-over himself (as an object of worldly temptations); and through death - his last and greatest defeat - he finally triumphs over his fragmentation..." - Vaclav Havel (Letters, p 375)

I'm not quite sure about the prison sentences, but apart from that, I've never thought of Christ as a victor over himself, over fragmentation. Is the fragmentation the human-God split? is it the division of good and bad desires and denials in his body/mind?

I wonder how much of a humanist Havel considers himself to be... despite his commitment to human rights and good government, his desire to live in the truth and to have others live in the truth puts the pursuit of Being over all other things.

But I don't think his Being is God. I think his Being is the zeitgeist of the True man - an ever coming next man, the man who takes responsibility for all he does, the man who does not delude himself about his existence, the man who won't allow himself to be forgiven and who in turn forgives not either. The next man is everyone and No-one. He rides a sweeping current up to his maker. And there he says: "hello."

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Take back the university

What Christian in their right mind would argue that the Church did not start the university? Ought a good Christian do such a thing as to try and detract from the cultural legacy of the great faith? While it may seem like heresy, I believe that exploring a different read on the history of the university will help bring a fresh perspective to the problems of our time. To students who take ownership of their education, this is our reading of history: students started the university.

In the early eleventh century, students came together from all over Europe in search of an education. Together students would hire a teacher to instruct them in a subject. Students determined the subject matter and paid the professor directly, in class. If a professor did not teach relevant material or misused class time, students would simply boycott the class and not pay. As enrolment grew, this ad hoc arrangement transformed into something a little more permanent. Students organized themselves into student governments called guilds. These student guilds served as the administration of the university.

Up and out of their homes, teenagers as young as twelve would leave home and their native lands to join student organized universities in cities such as Bologna, Italy. The student guilds wielded significant power. They determined programs and course material, regulated the city's housing costs, and set the schedule for the academic year.

Professors formed their own guilds and would hire and fire members as they saw fit, but it was students who determined who got paid and who did not. The city and townsmen owned the property of the university, but it was students who determined how it was to be utilized. The students had a major bargaining tool. If the city did not do what they wanted, they would threaten to move the school. It is subsequently no wonder that cities sought and eventually gained control over the university, as a significant source of income was in the control of youth.

Charters were drafted between the city and the student guild, allotting rights to the students that essentially made them citizens unto themselves. This meant that much of the administration of civil and criminal justice was placed in the hands of people whom today would be considered mere adolescent children. Anyone holding this view back then would very likely have been out of a job. The student government was the university's board of governors.

Student guilds were truly international societies. Run like a modern consociational democracy, every nationality present at the university would have had two elected representatives sitting on council. Decisions were legislated by a majority vote with important decisions requiring the attendance and polling of all students.

The historical leadership of students in determining their education is worth considerable attention today. It says several things. First, students want to learn. Students are "authentic learners." Maybe there are many "students" at this private institution who "are not passionate for truth," but whose fault is that? Students do not determine their peers.

Second, students are not clients. Students are the principal investors. Principal investors own a significant share of the company and consequently gain a significant say. Instead of being represented through an Ipsos-Reid poll, principal investors have their people sit on the board.

Third, students should be given the permission to think. Students of the eleventh century were given permission to learn by virtue of a burden on them to set the agenda, and by the professors who consented to teach them. Today, even while IDIS professors dare students to think, many students still need to be given the permission to think. Dared "students" do very well at memorizing what's been given them to learn. Working hard, they meet expectations by getting sapere aude in their brains and out verbatim on paper. Students given the permission to learn, however, are willing to confront the unknown. Instead of alleviating their fears by letting others tell them how things "really" are, a student must be given permission to confront the void in life.

The success and failures of the eleventh century, student-run university deserve to be considered today, when issues of retention, relevancy, and identity now challenge the business of post-secondary education. The ideas delineated here are only those of one student who pretends to know what the problem is. He is a student who dares to challenge the idea that the university came from the church while giving himself permission to rethink how it is run today. He may be wrong, but he would rather look like a fool, even a heretic, than not try.