Stepping In The Salad (3)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (3)

'Well . . .

'I can see why it is that you get so pissed off; I am sad to admit that this sham - this chaos - might be borne from an output of mine.'

'It's hardly divine, is it?' I interjected.

'But, when all's said and done, it is impact that counts. And, my dear, I've had impact despite it amounts to - well . . .  I must say what I see makes me sick.

'In defence, I did have to act quick.

'Seven days to create - from conception to birth (that doesn't leave time for reflection, research). Seven days to invent and to bring to fruition a half-baked idea fed from ruthless ambition . . .'

The Priestess paused to light her pipe.

'Can we talk about death?' I said, bored with her hype.

'Now, that's quite a request,' she puffed (out of breath). 'My intention, my sweet, was to talk REF.'

Stepping In The Salad (2)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (2)

'My God,' I repeated (still feeling defeated; depleted by HE's regime).

'Indeed,' she responded.

(And, believing we'd bonded, the Priestess bent forward and beamed.)

She continued:

'It's so quaint that you pray and, indeed, I must say that your faith has sure served me quite well. Since Darwin and Freud, I've been grossly ignored. (I've no takers for heaven nor hell).

'Acknowledged by one who was never baptised; who's life is beset by deception and lies; by one rarely fazed - that is, rarely surprised . . . 

'My dear, please, refrain from looking so bored.'

(The Priestess wiped a tear, or two, from her eyes.)

'Just tell me how to live,' I barked, sans finesse.

'Alas, that's advice I can't possibly give. . . 

'But, have you ever thought of waitressing?' said the worldly Priestess, as an after-thought.

Stepping In The Salad (1)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (1)

Well, I could not abide walking on side by side with the Priestess; the woman appalled me. 

So, I quit my life's hike. Then, I got on my bike. 

I applied for a job in HE.

(Senior Lecturer in Photography History.)

Now, it might have been funny (as was the money they paid me to work like a dog). But, I quick lost my wit; academe is not fit - in effect, it's like driving through fog.

In an open-plan office, I sat at my desk.

Education's burlesque: I find it grotesque. I bit hard on my lip and tried praying to God. (Self-indulgent and sorry, I let out a sob.)

'Don't you worry, my dear, I have noted your prayer. In your hour of need, I will always be here.'

'You,' I said, eyes open-wide. 'My God.'

'Indeed,' she coolly replied.

Then, the Priestess stuffed an out-of-date, Aldi Welsh cake in her slackly-defined gob.

Broom (15)

BROOM(15)

I was sat in my chair with no thoughts about cleaning (despite the fly-shit on the walls and the ceiling).

The one with the Hoola-Hoop had my attention:

'This life that I'm living was not my intention.

'I have failed, but I managed as best as I could; I behaved pretty well and learned how to look good, but, things never worked out quite the way that they should.

'I was doomed from the start, it would seem. And, whenever I tried to redeem myself or my life it all ended in strife; it's a nightmare. (I wish I could dream.)'

'Did you ever dream?' I asked.

'Well, therein lies the problem, my sense of direction has never been very acute. (The fact that I couldn't read maps or road plans was ignored on the grounds I was cute.)

'But, as a woman starts ageing, her beauty starts fading; I suddenly found I was old. My poor navigation had no mitigation. Not cute, just an idiot, I'm told.

'So, I reached for the slap and began to make-up. I would put on a face, after all. I would never admit I was so ill-equipped. I would masquerade boldly; walk tall.

'By the end of the day, though, it's easy to see through foundation and powder and rouge.

'It's not easy to paint out a bruise.'

Broom (14)

BROOM (14)

I was white-washing walls (so the office looked bright) when the one with the hoola-hoop gave me a fright.

Collapsed in the corner she was, with her mouth a bit slack and her eyes almost crossed.

I said:

'hey, why not give that ring a quick swing?'

She said:

'I can't, I'm just feeling too thin.

'I am thinking too many portraits have been taken of me; the result is I'm feeling quite shaken. (My image is all and my soul is forsaken.) I'm blurred at the edges, you see. And, I'm no longer quite sure I'm me.'

I study her hard and I see what she's saying; she is out of focus, her seams are all fraying. The woman is wasting away. Her colour is gone; she's all grey.

I said:

'Well, please, no truck with the negative; you really have to be positive, and don't worry you're now monochrome. We can always hand-paint you, re-touch and highlight you. There's really no reason to moan. At worst, we can always gold-tone. Yes, that's what we will do to ensure that we fix you.

'And, if gold is too dear then selenium, I hear, will turn you a purplish-brown. (My God, why on earth do you frown?)

'It's a solution, isn't it?'

Broom (13)

BROOM (13)

I was stood on a stool with my new feather-duster, detaching old cobwebs with what power I could muster when the one with the hoola-hoop swooped into sight, gyrating those hips with immense speed and might.

She said:

'You know those old photos of French boulevards; the ones where you really do have to squint hard? The ones that took ever so long to expose; so long that one wouldn't be wrong to suppose that Parisian roads - nay, all capital streets - were devoid of life; yea, untrodden by feet?'

I tried to look cool but, I have to admit, I've a deep-seated loathing of all arachnids.

'Yes. You know about Talbot and that French guy - Daguerre? The first to go public; the first who would dare to suggest they could turn three dimensions into two . . . '

The sight of a spider got me all of ado.

'Well, I often retreat to the fire escape, for a smoke and a think and a bit of a break. . .

'CCTV's always interested me but, now I can see, that my own institution's got its eye trained on me. It's installed an old camera: a pin-hole, in fact.  (Made out of a beer can and some sticky black tape.) My fear: though the camera is less than precise (and it takes several months for the pic to take shape) is that, despite long exposures removing all trace of the people who pass at a brisk walking pace, I am - regular - sat on the stairs . . .

'Now, won't it be awful if after six months, a latent image has registered me sat, all hunched-up? The untrained observer might wrongly deduce that I'm under-employed, and at a loose-end when, in fact (for the record) I actually spend more time than I paid for at work.'

Broom (12)

BROOM (12)

I was trying to construct a kind of prayer as I brushed off the dandruff from the back of my chair. (Is it art or love that I strive for, I thought. Or, am I more interested in the bike I just bought?) Who cares, I'm most sad that I'm losing my hair. At this rate, just two years and my pate will be bare.

So, I turned to my girls (who know much of this world). I said, 'tell me, my dears, what's it mean to get old?'

The one with the hoola-hoop winced as she said, 'your skin starts to sag and your face gets all red.'

The one from Exotica was somewhat oblique: 'Enlightenment; that's the thing we all seek.'

The artist who always remains on the train, was slow to reply (no signal again). The one who is always delayed on the track said, 'you get old and the world wants to give you the sack; it will never forgive you the youth that you lack.'

And, I suddenly thought, what becomes of the dead (and I felt myself miserably consumed with a dread). Do we know if we've landed in heaven or hell? If only the dead could come back and re-tell of what happens to them when they croak their last breath. (God, I'm scared to death of dying.)

Broom (11)

BROOM (11)

Well, it's the end of the week.

I can hardly speak.

It's not just my vocal chords; I tell you, I'm asking the Lord how his potentially wonderful creation resulted - post-industrially - in such a spectacular abomination. . .

I'm exhausted and depleted; I'm feeling quite defeated.

And, it has to be said that despite their unfriendliness (their evident uncleanliness - their total lack of female-ness) the women on my team (for all their confrontational prowess) seem to have it right.

They have an innate kind of existential insight that I think I might lacking.

I so desperately want their backing: their endorsement and support. (I think I need them more than I ought.)

The one with the Hoola-Hoop asked me the other day: is it for love or for art that you generally pray?

I had to say I never pray, but she's made me nervous.

Should I be praying?

Broom (10)

BROOM (10)

I began to defrost the mini-bar (discard the old cheese and the mouldy jam jar). The refrigerator was stinking, but, it's still got me thinking . . .

This is what I'm currently pondering:

The girl from Exotica loves the thought of the one with the Hoola-Hoop's mobile institute . . .

I mean, how is that for a team?

I confess, these young women exceed all my dreams. Yes, they moan and they snipe (don't use feminine wipes) but I feel like a cat with the cream. (I'm so happy I think I might scream.)

The fly in the ointment - my one disappointment - is the artist who runs for the train. I am tired of her old refrain. Yes, of course, we regret British Rail was disabled but that shouldn't determine how her days are timetabled.

Get a Student Rail-Card and cheap tickets aren't hard to acquire, to purchase or buy. (So, right now, I am asking 'just why' the artist can't make a nine-forty-five start; why the artist can't leave after three. Why the artist is always quite testy and tart; why the artist seems not to like me.

All I want is a happy family; a convivial community.

Broom (9)

BROOM (9)

I was emptying the bins and recycling things, when the girl from Havana observed:

'I think it's so cute, this mobile institute. Can I come along, too?' she purred. (I noticed my teeth felt all furred.) 'Because, you'll need a spare driver, a spare pair of hands and I'm never more happy than when traversing new lands. I'm, for certain, a victim of wanderlust. Come, let's do it together: Monte Carlo or bust.'

She punched me rather heartily on my left upper arm. Christ, these ethnologists have no idea of the harm that they cause.

I think it's Havana (but, it could be Savannah); whatever, our girl is a veritable trooper. I looked at her briefly, and said:

'I believe that you're very well read.'

She said: 'I'm a professional researcher (you're envious, I betcha). I do what I want when I will. There ain't nothing surpasses free-will. But, you gotta be tough, abrasive and gruff, and, you're better off on the pill.

'Yes, children will just cramp you style,' she said with a feline-fanged smile.

Broom (8)

BROOM (8)

If we fail to attract the numbers required, we'll all be redundant: released, or, retired. 

The one with the hoola-hoop rocked on her hips, she crumpled her forehead and chewed on her lips. 'I could do with not yet being fired (even though I'm despondent and tired.)

'You see, though I've always been partial to German rye-bread, I subscribe to the Bible when all's done and said. I believe in a doctrine, when all's said and done; I can't live by yeast-products alone.'

I rubbed my hands with antiseptic gel and raised an eyebrow as if to say, well?

She replied, 'I need butter and jam, or some well-cured ham. I need goats' cheese and Marmite and all. I need fish from a tin, some olives in brine. And, of course, Waitrose's own falafel. 

'I live by myself - all alone. You must see that I need an income.' 

'Then, tell me, how should we recruit?'

She thought for a while: 'a mobile institute?'

'Just what do you mean by that? '

She said, 'being sedentary turns you to fat. I suggest that we get up and go: a pedagogical sort of road show. 

'We'll sow the seeds of passion for photography; revive the cult of heliography. What we need is a bus or a van. (We can hire a driver: a man.) We'll travel the ends of the earth (a car seat will do for a berth.) Yes, I see it quite clear. (You're excited, my dear.) We must get on the road very soon, with a kitted-up mobile darkroom; like Fenton devised (oh, they'll be so surprised). Indeed, with our pop-up facilities, we'll rival all the universities.

'Believe me, we'll always recruit from our peripatetic (empathetic) institute.'

Broom (7)

BROOM (7)

I was cleaning my keyboard with a feminine wipe when the one with the hoola-hoop started to snipe (again).

She said:

'Well, we took ourselves off on an Easy Jet flight. We walked through the day; slept rough every night. (A porch on the first day, a woodshed the second: by the third night a wooden play-house kind of beckoned. So, we swept it clean with a broom and, despite being cramped, we had just enough room to sleep like proverbial logs. We were, after all, tired as dogs.)

'We traversed eighty miles in just over three days. Up mountains, down valleys: I remain quite amazed that we never felt mardy or hungry or sad. Yet, one day in the work-place and I'm feeling quite bad.

'My stomach is cramping, my face is all flushed. (By the way, there are crumbs where you've polished and brushed.) My face is all flushed and my sinuses ache. My sense of well-being is always at stake in this place.

'Tell me, why should this be?

'Is this normal, or, particular to me?'

Broom (6)

BROOM (6)

The other, she said, as she hoola-hooped:

'The problem, dear Broom, is that we've all been duped. I can't help but thinking our raison-d'etre's sinking; we were promised a lie - that's the truth. Our professional life is a spoof.'

I was cleaning the windows with Windolene. (The desktops, already, gave off a good sheen - thanks to beeswax and elbow-grease. Such hard work: I took off my fleece.)

She continued:

'You see, I had an epiphany. We were bagging some routes, my boyfriend and me. The sun was shining, the grit was dry. As we belayed some classics I thought I might cry. I was happy enough to die.'

She stared out the window and sighed.

'And, as for the future, I don't give a toss. (I've experienced too much and suffered such loss.) I have nothing I wish for, and no expectation. But, when I'm out with my partner my only sensation is something akin to a sense of elation.

'I'm afraid I need nothing more. As a consequence, work seems like a bore.'

Broom (5)

BROOM (5)

As I de-scaled the kettle and washed up the cups, I spotted our girl in Havana (on reflection, perhaps, it's Savannah?)

Whatever.

I spied her curled up in the corner, as I rinsed out those filthy mugs.

You see, our girl from Exotica doesn't like teaching. So, she's convinced our superiors her skill is researching. You'll rarely see her around. For the most part, she's outward bound. But, her ethics are sketchy, her strategy crude. (Rationale, let me say, is verging on crude.)

She uses old cameras to spectacular ends (to aesthetize difference with an old, plastic lens). Now, doc-phot has recently taken a bashing (and, it has to be said, I endorse all that thrashing).

But, I have to admit that I found it astounding when she said she shot subjects in their natural surroundings.  It's something to do with an anthropological grounding.

Broom (4)

BROOM (4)

'Dr Broom,' said the other, 'let me give some advice. The one thing we ask is, you're reasonable: nice. And by reasonable (nice) what we all have in mind is: you're compliant subservient yielding. Just, kind.'

I selected the speed on my Miele vacuum, plugged in the machine, began hoovering the room.

'Take me,' she continued above all the noise. (And, I have to admit that the woman had poise as the hoola-hoop span round her waist and her hips. So I switched off the Miele and considered her tips.)

'Take me, Dr Broom, I have but one desire; to not come to work, but stay home by the fire. After all, I have lectures I need to prepare and this open-plan office is driving me spare. Now, please, Dr Broom, pray don't get me wrong but the journey to work is both tiring and long and I've yet to appreciate what I can gain from colleagues who gossip and moan and complain. . . '

I noticed the hoola-hoop seemed to be slowing but, a quick change of gear, and she soon had it going - again.

'Yes. I've yet to appreciate what I can gain when the talk in the office is always the same.'

About to switch the Miele back on when - blurry-eyed sad - she gave out a groan.

'Dr Broom,' she beseeched, 'you must realise that we've lost all we worked for; we coveted and prized. We worked hard to avoid a professional life of ambition, achievement, convention and strife. Toiled long to escape the commercial rat-race. And, now, I discover I'm stuck in a place that requires I subscribe and conform. (All I want is escape from the norm.)

'So, to cut to the chase, I'm not cut out for working a full working week. I would rather be slacking.'

Broom (3)

BROOM (3)

Well, I've always found something particularly difficult about relationships and their concomitant commitment.

But it seems that, now, I am head of department I'm sorely struggling with the email attachment. 

As previously mentioned, timetabling's disabling. 

When, at last, I disabled the problem, I emailed my staff the new programme. 

But, I forgot to attach the excel sheet. (Wasn't long before they informed me of that.)

But what should a bachelor do, when commitment is what he eschews? Attachments are hard (they put you off guard). 

Perhaps I'll try texting in lieu.

Broom (2)

BROOM (2)

'Dr Broom', she said, 'may I give you a tip? It's meetings and things that we all like to skip. We've all read our Sennett. We endorse all his views on the pitfalls of teamwork; managerial ruse to ensure that the buck stops with us.'

I paused with my dustpan and brush.

'Indeed. Team meetings perpetuate the worst fallacy; that we're anything but a dysfunctional family. It can't be denied we're a kind of community but it doesn't include the idea of solidarity. It merely provides managerial immunity from accountability and blame'.

Contradiction, I knew, would sound lame so I carried on brushing as I felt my face flushing. (As for her, she was rushing for the train.)

Broom (1)

BROOM (1)

Now, I have to admit I find classroom timetabling a bit of a bore and just more than disabling.

But, perhaps, I am jumping the gun.

I must tell you, first, what has gone on. I've become the new head (when all's done and said) of a Fine Art Photography programme.

I am, that's to say, the new broom.

Yes.

I'm the newly-appointed head of department, and it seems that my staff is deficient regarding its want to appease and to please; to commit and collaborate with ease. Sure, I don't doubt its skilled expertise. But what's lacking is joie-de-vivre.

And, it scoffs at enthusiasm.

Fractional Posts - Clay Head

CLAY HEAD

Fractional Posts - Open Day

OPEN DAY

The email had been received with cynicism. Reading between the lines, as all well-established and would-be academics are compelled to do (as proof of their intellectual status), the warning that we should think carefully about rejecting any students at interview had been revised and endlessly rehearsed - muttered in the toilets, corridors and designated smoking areas.  Like Chinese whispers: we have to take anyone and everybody now. 

(A pragmatic, if brutal, reality underpinned the message from middle-management: no students, no course, no jobs. Bound to result in redundancies. Shape up or ship out or watch your back. I get lost in their metaphors.)

This was not, however, the line our Line-Manager chose to take. Refusing to read between the lines, he doggedly, obstinately and with terrier-like tenacity, took the email at face-value.

'We will, indeed, think carefully,' he said, 'before rejecting anybody'.

We thought a bit, and we rejected a lot.

Our jobs are now in jeopardy.

So, when it came to the Open Day, I aimed to be charming and persuasive. To endear myself to would-be recruits.

I was slightly stymied by the corporate powerpoint I'd been given to present to visitors. While the strap-line was the personal touch the presentation struck me as somewhat generic. But, I tried to be nice, all the same. OK, so I failed to identify what an Incubation Unit might be. I can only say, it's a ridiculous name. I certainly don't consider myself to blame.

Three students attended the morning session. By the time I was finished, they all had one confession. They'd prefer to study something else.

One of the few who attended my course review had, actually already, been offered an interview. 

I was suprised when she failed to show on the day. I thought I'd excelled at the Open Day. But, perhaps my approach is not the right way?

I guess she has gone somewhere else.

(I only wish we hadn't given her a free lolli-pop.)