“Is anyone feeling… lost? Confused? A bit?”
The class was silent.
“Yeah.”
He looked up, somewhat shocked, but he must have expected that answer from at least someone. There were a few active participants in the group but more than a few glazed looks as well. Only no-one had so openly volunteered their ineptitude. She felt there was nothing to lose. He might be charming and French, but there was no point in trying to impress him – he’d eventually figure out how clueless she was, and whether he was a frog or a prince, he’d have to be a magician on top to do anything about it.
Flicking through his notes, he said, “What shall we do, go over some of the…”
“Just… just leave me here.” To die, she wanted to add, but she had lost a large chunk of her taste for drama over the last hour and a half. The fact was that she had forced herself to read the two excerpts of Nancy which formed the week’s reading, but nothing had stuck. Just like the Heidegger essay the week before. Now, though, it seemed that there was no getting away from the fact that she had stumbled into a philosophy course instead of an art theory course, and from the feeling that it was going to turn out to be a hideous, hideous mistake.
The minute hand eventually reached its home, and the class had been endured. Another few hours before the second class of the day, which would hopefully be a less torturous experience. In the meantime, she could go to the staff dining room to squeeze in the rest of the reading that she’d avoided all week. This should be better though, Donna Haraway instead of Jean-Luc Nancy. But just so much of it.
One of the other professors from the department was ahead of her at the counter, having his plate piled with ancillary vegetables.
“Hello-o-o!” He said. She was actually surprised that he had recognised her from the core course lectures. “How’s it going?” Cue a disastrous conversation.
He had blue eyes like razor blades and seemed to have honed them for many years on a steady stream of flabby student souls.
“Ehhhrrr.”
“That well, eh?”
“I’m starting to think I should have saved up the money for the MFA in Fine Art. I mean, it’s not like it’s… I don’t think it’s beyond me, but it’s not what I’m really about. I can do the writing, but maybe I should be…”
“Making.”
At that, he turned and fled with his refectory food. Very dramatic. And very fitting, she noted, seeing as he lectured in performance studies.
