Tuesday, November 22, 2005

I'm close to finish marking a hundred papers, each about 3,000 words. I think my fingers are spasmingh.. . oops... it's startaed already. I have about 30,000 more words to read and hopefully by then I am finished. If not, I'm going to find innovative ways to die.

Anyways, ciao. I have a knife in my kitchen that seems to glow and whisper. I'm not sure if it's asking me to slice my fingers or slice papers. Oh well.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

A Teacher's Promise

Artichoke reminded me of my promise to students. The promise begins with this simple utterance of one's predisposition: "To say 'I am a teacher' is to make promises to students, promises that we must be faithful to."

What is a promise? It is a vow and a declaration of one's commitment to the emancipation and transcendence of ephemeral life. In the structure of this promise is the dedication to multiculturalism, anti-discriminatory laws, anti-prejudicial dictations, democratic politics, and nomadic philosophies. A promise is an affirmation and a sacriligeous asseveration to the mutilation of inimicalism and to disintegrated borders; to avow the shifting movements of identities unconstrained by conservative law, institutions, government and moral ethics. A promise is a paradox. For it is always and must always be forged in the matrix of human relations and power. And we have learnt dearly that two entities - human and power - are a bad combination. We now acknowledge, as we have always acknowledged, that this web is shifty and unpredictable. A quantum matrix of human relations created by promises and exists only to be forgiven for its inability to meet expectations.

I am reminded of Hannah Arendt's words in the Human Condition. In the logic of action there are two conditions of performance. The first is 'forgiveness' and the second is 'promise.' In this she states most clearly:

The possible redemption from the predicament of irreversibility – of
being unable to undo what one has done though one did not, and
could not, have known what he was doing – is the faculty of forgiving.
The remedy for unpredictability, for the chaotic uncertainty of the
future, is contained in the faculty to make and keep promises ...
Forgiving serves to undo the deeds of the past ...; and the other,
binding oneself through promises, serves to set up in the ocean of
uncertainty, which the future is by definition, islands of security
without which not even continuity, let alone durability of any kind,
would be possible[.] (p. 237)
Forgiveness is enacted under the conditions of promises. What and how we commit ourselves to is predetermined by the logic of action; that is, we will always fail to uphold our promises and thus would ask for forgiveness for our falllible actions. We promise the world harmony and we promise the world peace; we promise ourselves love and honour, and we promise others the same. Yet how many times have these promises been twarted and cursed? How many times more must we seek forgiveness for our actions which has failed to meet even the toe-dirt of emancipation? And I ask, could we ever, as pedagogues and intellectuals, learn to accept our disabilities which outlines the fact that we can never fix broken promises?
Judge me as you will. I no longer ask for forgiveness. I have exhausted my promises. I must meditate on what it means to be a teacher again. Perhaps I should not say that I am a teacher, but let that judgement be made by my students. Then, maybe - just maybe, I shall receive promises in which I may forgive. For in the chaos of the classroom and the inferno of their seeking minds, my students cast out an inquiring hook to my being. Latched and secured, the line reels back and examines the food of knowledge in which I provided. They smell it and they taste it. Some spit in distaste and others lavish in the texture of dissidence. But finally, I am but an empty signifier waiting be given meaning. They shall judge and promise me their attention. They shall cry in ecstacy or boredome and promise me love or hate. But their actions would be negotiated and when this signifier is filled, I will be equiped to judge in return. And then I will not be burdened with making promises but perform as the pedagogue of forgiveness.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Shattering Dreams

It was the wee hours of the morning - about 2am. Nia and I sat outside the balcony with my draping underwears and odd assortment of clothes. I didn't care and she didn't mind. It was a lovely night.

Sitting before me was this Sri Lankan woman with olive brown skin. She was still youthful but her eyes showed a maturity and stress beyond her years. I smiled fondly at my old student. Many years ago she was one of my brightest protégé. She had a vision unlike so many others. In the unit Documentary, Nia engaged with the debacles of truth and objectivity, and with the constitutions and conditions of cinematic verisimilitude. She had a romantic but diaphanous objective to be a documentary filmmaker. But her spirit was indomitable. I often remind myself that machines and bodies do not make this world. Dreams do. Nia had a dream and she sat with me with visions exploding before her mind.

Three years have passsed and she is still chasing after the wake of Hope. She was determined to catch-up and to pummel this 'thing' called 'Hope' until it submitted to her aspirations. Now she works for 3 Minute Angels. It is a company that offers massages to anyone in a bar, club, office or even shopping centre. The price of a massage is dependent upon the customer's generosity. She advanced from cherub to angel (erroneous in medieval angelology but the company uses this hierarchy), from angel to archangel and from archangel to GOD (Guardian of Domain). Nia has risen the ranks in three years. Now she is looked-upon as a guardian of celestial beings with miraculous hands. What success she has wrought from the days of poverty. Yet in the dim yellow glow of my balcony, she lamented her position in life.

Her hands flayed and punctuated the air with aggressive strikes and frustrated waves. She saw her dream decay beneath the onslaught of work and financial worries. Every month she saves a large portion of her pay so that she may one day buy her camera. But that day seems so, so far away. I looked at her and shook my head in dismay. I was proud of what she had become and how she was still striving towards her emancipatory dreams of exposing the horrors in Sri lanka. But I was disheartened with myself.

Everyday I walk into class to express the passion of knowledge and the commitment to the philosophies of life. I say to my students that there is nothing in which you may not achieve or become so long as your heart beats to the rhythm of your prescient visions. I said that four years ago and I still say it today. But here, sitting before me, is the failure of my teachings. I asked Nia to follow her dreams yet what is a dream without food to fuel or clothes to warm the roaming mind? What anti-oppressive politics is left in this world which has not been molested by capitalism? Sitting before me is a woman with dark rings around her eyes. He condition speaks voluminous. She is not tired from the demands of her work. She is tired from waiting. She is tired of hoping. There is only so much that a person may hold onto before his/her arms tire and let go. Nia is still brave and gung-ho, but for how long? Have I inadvertently shattered her dreams by being so foolishly idealistic?

The writer's skin is once again open to judgement and condemnation. I have my own dreams but they are wasted away each way I turn, each step I make. I see broken passions and littered hopes around me. Each wafting away from the intangible and the ethereal bodies of these fantasies. How to I teach material reality when it is visions that creates the world? I am without answers. But this is the price we all pay for civilisation.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

New Home

OK... I've had enough with modblog. It has started to piss me off with its ridiculous renovations and constant updates and problems. I had something important to say today, but that something is now quite absent. So it's time to move. I wrote a message to modbloggers not to move. Not to relinquish a space I recently called home. Well bugger that now. Sorry fellas. I've had about enough. This is the new space. And if this place buggers up on me as well, I'm calling Jihad on blog hosts.