Wednesday, February 09, 2005
An Unexpected Picture for a Surprisingly Serious Post
The year after leaving university I started a Spanish evening class: it felt strange not having a structured programme of learning. I got over it, of course, and only went to four lessons. These were held in one of the Leeds Metropolitan sites. After the first lesson I went to the bar with a couple of friends who had decided to come along too. There was a circle of chairs in the middle of the room, with perhaps thirty fresh first years playing drinking games. It was awful, of course, the forced fun. Every few minutes one of the organisers would play a snatch of the song of the moment and the kids would dance around. “Who let the dogs out? Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!*” I remember one of these chuckleheads more clearly than the others. He’d jump up - bug-eyed, tongue lolling - spread his arms wide, tilt his head back and shake it, shouting out the words. At 22 I didn’t respect him - I could already see his desperation to impress, make friends and avoid some terrible loneliness. I didn’t have any affection for him either; I thought he was a prick. Now that I’m not so threatened by extrovert behaviour I am unable to emulate, I feel an avuncular fondness for that young man. In time, no doubt, the posturing sophistication and search for the hip of the twentysomething will seem to me to be equally sweet: children trying on grown-ups’ clothes. Perhaps the horizon-gap between what we really feel ourselves to be and the image we like to present to others is never closed – I hope I always have it, without this incentive to catch-up, we may ossify. I suspect that everyone has this to some extent, throughout their lives, but we recognise it in those younger than us as it is easier to see ourselves in them. Old people are probably like that too. Unless that’s what maturity is, the solidifying of self and the bringing into line of internal and external personalities. If so, count me out. Through immaturity we remain alive.
That was a bit po-faced, wasn't it? My fingers took over there, kept on typing.
* I always thought it was “Who? Who? Who? Who?” A search for the lyrics persuades me otherwise.
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The year after leaving university I started a Spanish evening class: it felt strange not having a structured programme of learning. I got over it, of course, and only went to four lessons. These were held in one of the Leeds Metropolitan sites. After the first lesson I went to the bar with a couple of friends who had decided to come along too. There was a circle of chairs in the middle of the room, with perhaps thirty fresh first years playing drinking games. It was awful, of course, the forced fun. Every few minutes one of the organisers would play a snatch of the song of the moment and the kids would dance around. “Who let the dogs out? Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!*” I remember one of these chuckleheads more clearly than the others. He’d jump up - bug-eyed, tongue lolling - spread his arms wide, tilt his head back and shake it, shouting out the words. At 22 I didn’t respect him - I could already see his desperation to impress, make friends and avoid some terrible loneliness. I didn’t have any affection for him either; I thought he was a prick. Now that I’m not so threatened by extrovert behaviour I am unable to emulate, I feel an avuncular fondness for that young man. In time, no doubt, the posturing sophistication and search for the hip of the twentysomething will seem to me to be equally sweet: children trying on grown-ups’ clothes. Perhaps the horizon-gap between what we really feel ourselves to be and the image we like to present to others is never closed – I hope I always have it, without this incentive to catch-up, we may ossify. I suspect that everyone has this to some extent, throughout their lives, but we recognise it in those younger than us as it is easier to see ourselves in them. Old people are probably like that too. Unless that’s what maturity is, the solidifying of self and the bringing into line of internal and external personalities. If so, count me out. Through immaturity we remain alive.
That was a bit po-faced, wasn't it? My fingers took over there, kept on typing.
* I always thought it was “Who? Who? Who? Who?” A search for the lyrics persuades me otherwise.
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