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by Pip The Foundation Year Programme (FYP) is what is commonly known as a Great Books program, which is an academic program where the instructors say, “Okay, then, let’s make all these kids read these whopping huge books by people whose names they can’t pronounce, and call it a study of the history of thought, right?”. Basically, no textbooks, just science as Newton learned it, philosophy straight from Hegel’s mouth, etc. It’s got Snooty Intellectual written all over it. It’s also the biggest draw to King’s, the school Amy and I both attend. I suffered through it. So did she. And what did we gain from it? Way too much information, and hilarious tidbits like these notes I found while cleaning my room last week. In my defense, I’ll tell you that I hadn’t slept at all the previous night ‘cause I was writing an essay. Also, I may not have been taking my meds. I have nothing to say in the defense of the lecturer, but that’s to be expected. ----- 15 January, 2001 Lecture Today: Fuck It…er…I mean, Newton…. bed pip needs bed Aristotle Sir Isaac Newton • dominated modern science until 20th century modern science is smooth and creamy like peanut butter I wonder if Sir Isaac Newton liked peanut butter? Maybe he ate it on his apples before he dropped them on his head. Did they get stuck in his hair? Did he HAVE hair? I forget. Bald seems to be a fashion among scientists. And Bards. Shakespeare was great, but man, was he a loon. I wonder what it would be like to live in rural England with the cows and the chickens and the baby ducks… I would like to have a fuzzy yellow duck. They make me think warm thoughts. And they make me think of beach balls. Why? That’s weird. And hay. That’s more normal. Hay is always so prickly… I remember being young and thinking that hay was soft, or else why would people sleep on it….? Bed…. I do not know if I like this new room they have given us… it feels very empty. The whole building feels very empty. Warehouse-y, in fact. A warehouse for the storage of young fermenting minds. Hold ‘till we’re ripe, harvest us, and sell us off, dime a dozen. Cockles, cockles for sale! Tuppenny a dozen! Was it you whot done it? Oh, nevermind. Ian Stewert is such a pleb. But I’m a pleb, too! It’s scary to think of I. Stewert as being a plebeian like me, a Bohemian like me. I like that song. It makes me want to dance, sometimes, which is all one can really ask for in a song, whot? I don’t like doing musical plays, ‘cause I can’t sing worth a tinker’s damn (tomorrow’s assignment: calculate the exact value, in English pounds sterling, of a tinker’s damn, circa 1990. Please be sure to cite supporting texts in your argument), but I like the idea of them. The drama, the display, the extravagance. Sometimes, I think that if I weren’t going to be a circus freak, I’d join the Catholic church, ‘cause they’re pretty much the epitome of ceremony, display, and pomp and circumstance. It’s funny that so many religious types don’t like theatre, considering how dramatic they are. Biting the hand that feeds you, that is. Grrrrrrr….. I guess the military would be the same sort of thing, too, but I always found the aesthetic look so much more appealing than the grunt look, really. Not like I’d be getting any on either side of that argument, but still. Nevertheless, Church = celibacy, which Pip is not so good with. Oh, well, everyone must have their flaws and little peccadilloes. I am no more perfect than the next man, although infinitely more perfect than that particular chicken sitting over there. S’s…..f’s….why couldn’t they write like normal people? The ancients were out to get us. I know it. Maybe I was an ancient. In a past life. I am an ancient, to someone in the future. I don’t like to think about the future. There’s so much to worry about today. Newton didn’t articulate. Tch, tch, tch. No wonder you can’t tell his s’s from his f’s. I have lost all feeling in my hand. There is a man taking pictures. Ian is lost. Why do I feel these are all related events? I hate photos. Well, I hate photos of me, usually. Other ones are fine. I should destroy the photos. Leave no evidence behind. I was never here. You never spoke to me. Remember that, when they ask you. There is stuff out there. It is human, thinking. FYPpers? No….we are all numb. Our essays have drained us, and now I. Stewert wants to blather on about Maimonides. We shall humour him. There is really nothing else for it. Or perhaps we should storm Prince Hall and demand scrambled eggs. We ARE scrambled eggs. Don’t put us all in one basket. Though why you’d put scrambled eggs in a basket is beyond me, anyways. They’d all fall out. It would be a terrible shame…and a messy shame. Marriott would be pissed. Heavens forbid we should raise the wrath of Marriott. They feed us, man. Why is I. Stewert seeing red sweaters? Why won’t the man with the camera go away? Why is my hand red? FYP can’t answer these questions, but it CAN explain why I should ask them. I think. I’m not too clear on this bit, here. I’m sick. Really sick. Emotional distress manifests itself physically. Calm down, Ian. It’s just colours. Red light. Green light. Red rum. Newton and Decartes: Celebrity Death Match? “Why can’t we all just get along?” “NO!!! KILL!!! His theory is longer, uses bigger words, and sold two more copies than mine. So what if that’s only seven copies total? HE MUST BE OBLITERATED.” No one wrote to make money in those days. It was like being an actor. Your parents didn’t approve of it heaps, and you were generally considered to be eccentric. Plus, you got burned up a lot. Maybe Newton needed to lay off the dark rooms, eh? Then he could differentiate between those tricky s’s and f’s. If I were in the carny, I’d be asleep right now. Coloured sausages? Newton (or I. Stewert) is on crack. Crack meets coffeeshop? Next Tuesday in the Wardroom: Carny Night. Do do doo-do doo-do do do doo do….. Ladies and Gentlemen, I. Stewert is getting violent. Someone restrain that man. More popcorn? “Philosophical instrument”? He he he he…. Universe = back of flea? Flea circus! poodles Ian really missed his true calling. He should be a carny, too. Carnies LIKE optics! Ian LIKES optics! A match made in heaven. They should pick out curtains, I. Stewert and the carnies should. Ewww…that image was just uncalled-for. My god, I have a dirty mind. Stop it! Just stop it! Newton understands. He should have been a carny, too. The Apple-Throwing Man. The Funny-Looking Man. Whatever. Time to move this wagon train out west. Thanks for stopping by, ladies and gentlemen. Show’s over, folks, there’s nothing more to see here. Dear God, screw this. I’m just going to bed.  |