On Graduating From One of the Top Liberal Arts Colleges in the Nation
It's strange how the things that initially attracted me to SLC-- the emphasis on self-motivation, the resistence to hierarchal ideologies and the nearly cult-like worship of The Sanctity of the Individual-- are precisely the things that I've come to loathe about the school. Not that I have the slightest objection to such notions. On the contrary, I hold them in especially high regard. The trouble is that in many ways, SLC is like communism: the problem is not the system-- after all the system is perfect on paper. However, there is quite a divergence between the original idea and its practical implementation.
Ideally, you have a group of extremely self-motivated, free-thinking individuals who come together to challenge their own abilities and each other. Okay: good, great, stunning. The trouble is those people who would benefit most from the environment this institution aspires-- and fails miserably on all counts-- to foster are exactly the people who are least likely to ever attend. Why? There are a litany of reasons: cost, insular nature of the college, etc. What turns up here instead are a group of individuals for which SLC proves to be a culmination of and not departure from their customary modes of existence. And as they say, familiarity breeds contempt.
The dissonance provided by such emotions of contempt could be productive. But human beings are universally fearful and lazy. As such the potential for enlightenment through the interrogation of self is sacrificed on the altar of security. An unholy offering pleasing only to the devils of pretense.
Those who recognize the patterns are no less to blame. They embrace the spirit of the system and genuflect before the age and wisdom of their instructors. They fail to realize that, as with any institution, those who administer are necessarily a reflection of those they administer. Kafka was right when he stated that in order to apprehend the nature of a country he needed only to be shown its prisoners.
What is taught here is not self-impowerment through learning, despite what all the propagandistic brochure's maintain. It is instead an amalgam of high-brown mental masturbation, uneven expectations and blind liberal optimism. Profound due is paid to the purity of intellectual form. That form, however, remains untenable floating somewhere in the miasmatic aethereal beyond. We strive for that which we are least likely to ever attain.
The myth of Sisyphus springs to mind.
Furthermore, if the status quo is struggle without progress then can we fault the pretense of the individual. Isn't struggle without progress merely another instantiation of pretense?
I've been talking to several friends. They use words like 'truth' and 'beauty' with the same ease and entitlement as bath tissure. They speak of making 'art'. Each time the televised smile I broadcast flickers, a sharp wince within momentarily interrupts the single. What right do we have to speak of ourselves as art. To promote by means of implication ourselves to the position of artists.
Before I came here I used to be the most creative person I knew. I was always working on some project. Granted I never finished anything. But at least I had ideas. It's like the mind of my youth was tropical and lush. Over time the vegetation has all started to fade, fail, wither and burn. My once beautiful mind is now are rotting wasteland praying for one more rain.
I used to love to write. Thought myself to have quite a knack for it. I sit down know and my mind remains as blank as the pages waiting to be filled.
Something is wrong. I cannot put my finger on it. Just like that ideal something floating, always just beyond my reach.
The myth of Tantulus springs to mind.
If only rocks could be trained to roll themselves up hills. If only It would rain a little. Even a few lonesome drops.
Ideally, you have a group of extremely self-motivated, free-thinking individuals who come together to challenge their own abilities and each other. Okay: good, great, stunning. The trouble is those people who would benefit most from the environment this institution aspires-- and fails miserably on all counts-- to foster are exactly the people who are least likely to ever attend. Why? There are a litany of reasons: cost, insular nature of the college, etc. What turns up here instead are a group of individuals for which SLC proves to be a culmination of and not departure from their customary modes of existence. And as they say, familiarity breeds contempt.
The dissonance provided by such emotions of contempt could be productive. But human beings are universally fearful and lazy. As such the potential for enlightenment through the interrogation of self is sacrificed on the altar of security. An unholy offering pleasing only to the devils of pretense.
Those who recognize the patterns are no less to blame. They embrace the spirit of the system and genuflect before the age and wisdom of their instructors. They fail to realize that, as with any institution, those who administer are necessarily a reflection of those they administer. Kafka was right when he stated that in order to apprehend the nature of a country he needed only to be shown its prisoners.
What is taught here is not self-impowerment through learning, despite what all the propagandistic brochure's maintain. It is instead an amalgam of high-brown mental masturbation, uneven expectations and blind liberal optimism. Profound due is paid to the purity of intellectual form. That form, however, remains untenable floating somewhere in the miasmatic aethereal beyond. We strive for that which we are least likely to ever attain.
The myth of Sisyphus springs to mind.
Furthermore, if the status quo is struggle without progress then can we fault the pretense of the individual. Isn't struggle without progress merely another instantiation of pretense?
I've been talking to several friends. They use words like 'truth' and 'beauty' with the same ease and entitlement as bath tissure. They speak of making 'art'. Each time the televised smile I broadcast flickers, a sharp wince within momentarily interrupts the single. What right do we have to speak of ourselves as art. To promote by means of implication ourselves to the position of artists.
Before I came here I used to be the most creative person I knew. I was always working on some project. Granted I never finished anything. But at least I had ideas. It's like the mind of my youth was tropical and lush. Over time the vegetation has all started to fade, fail, wither and burn. My once beautiful mind is now are rotting wasteland praying for one more rain.
I used to love to write. Thought myself to have quite a knack for it. I sit down know and my mind remains as blank as the pages waiting to be filled.
Something is wrong. I cannot put my finger on it. Just like that ideal something floating, always just beyond my reach.
The myth of Tantulus springs to mind.
If only rocks could be trained to roll themselves up hills. If only It would rain a little. Even a few lonesome drops.