Reprising the italics…
I stand by the harbor,
scanning the horizon.
Nothing. Nothing.
And nothing again.
Poetry.
I am reminded of the literary classic Teeth, Teeth, Teeth, penned by my late dentist, Sydney Garfield,
who evocatively wrote,
“Teeth, teeth, teeth,
teeth, teeth, teeth, teeth. The bottom
of the sea is covered with teeth.”
Call it an “homage.” Inserting
“nothing” where Syd put in “teeth.”
Yesterday, in a darker revisiting of The Oxford Experience, which I famously attended last summer, I
considered the possibility that, although from my imagined perspective, I was a
“visiting student”, from The University
of Oxford’s perspective I was a gullible “customer.”
“I say. Have you
noticed how frightfully empty the place is during the summer? Why not create a program called, let’s see
now… The Oxford Experience, inviting
starry-eyed foreigners to take week-long classes, under the illusion that they
are enrolled here full-time?”
“A capital idea!’’
“Well I am from Oxford.”
Let me be clear here.
Nothing can erase the exhilaration of waking up each morning, heading
out to the “quad” before breakfast in “The Great Hall”, wondrously jabbering,
“Look where I am!”
That one’s a keeper.
But was this actually a serious exercise?
Or was it meaningless “filler” in a really old school?
What placed this cynical filter on what I only slightly
exaggeratedly called, “The greatest experience of my life”?
Painfully, this.
I had a teacher at Oxford. “Teacher Jim”, I called him. Not a begowned venerable professor. An itinerant “Philosophy Man”, cobbling a
living through cumulative employment.
“Teacher Jim” was sharp, and savvy and funny and smart,
offering insights on issues I had never considered, selected data nullifying my
biases, reasoned arguments forcing me to think.
In short, he was just what I’d hoped for when I signed up.
During mid-class “breaks” on our way to coffee and “McVitie’s
Digestives”, I badgered “Teacher Jim” with troubling questions and concerns,
and he would generously respond. I was
enchanted.
I had a smart friend, with an overseas accent.
A while after I got home, I emailed “Teacher Jim”,
recommending a book I had read called American
Revolutions, whose challenging thesis was that the American Revolution was
less about “rights” than it was about real estate. (In the 1760’s, Benjamin Franklin himself was
in England, seeking a large land grant, which he could then subdivide, sell off
in “parcels”, and get incredibly rich, offering no mention whatever of “life,
liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”)
I was thrilled when “Teacher Jim” wrote back. We had made a “connection.” We would be “Thinking Buddies” forever.
I immediately replied, asking for reading direction
concerning the vexing question of “the Truth.”
Did the truth actually exist? Or
was what we call the truth merely the
collective agreement of the majority? (More
accurately, people with power who considered
themselves the majority, although, numerically, they weren’t.)
I did not hear back from “Teacher Jim.” About that question. Or anything else.
Recently, after an extended interim, I sent him a post I
wrote entitled, “Truth Versus Fiction – The Winner And Still Champion: Fiction” (6/17/19.) I thought it would be right up his
alley. Plus, an ice-breaking opportunity
to re-bond.
Paraphrasing myself:
I sit by my
desktop. Scanning my emails.
Nothing. Nothing.
And nothing again.
That’s when memories of The
Oxford Oxford started to curdle.
I wasn’t a “visiting
student” at Oxford. I was a mesmerized hayseed caught in a
profitable stunt. That one e-mail
exchange? That’s like buying the “miracle”
no-stick frying pan, and getting an accompanying spatula along with my order.
“The Oxford Experience
includes one ‘return email’ from your teacher.”
At which point, the contractual agreement has been faithfully
fulfilled.
Maybe I expected too much of the program, and the teacher. For them, it was “business.” For me, it was a fantasized dream come to life.
Still, like an undaunted wife going down to the sea, shading
her eyes looking for hope, I daily scroll through my emails,
Searching for a sail.
Hold on. I’ll check
today.
…………………………………………………………..
Nope.
I don’t understand it.
The man signed my diploma.
1 comment:
I know how you feel. Shortly after discovering your blog about 5 years ago I went back to the beginning and started reading all your old posts. Recognizing so many similarities in our backgrounds I wrote to you using a gmail address you included in one of your early posts. It was a bit of a fan letter talking about growing up in Toronto, going to UofT in the sixties, living in London in 1967 and following the fate of the Leafs by reading Toronto newspapers at Canada House. I just wanted an acknowledgement that yes we did share some of the same life experiences and thanks for being a fan of my blog. Nothing. Crickets. Perhaps the gmail address was no longer active or like Panton you don't have time for starting an email exchange.
Fred from Scarborough
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