Timothy Allen
LEAPING THE FENCE
I hate three-lane roads. My father always told me they were the most dangerous, and even though I know it isn't quite true, that the really curvy, narrow ones are worse, I still hate the three laners. That trucker in the right lane is double clutching on this grade; the sound of that is something I'll never forget. Thank God this stretch doesn't last that long. And, the biggest problem, now anyways, isn't the road, but the class. What am I going to tell them? The good students in the class are all science majors; how am I going to make Sartre's attack on causal laws seem plausible to them? Do I even want to? He doesn't really attack all causation; he actually embraces physical science. It's only with respect to consciousness, to human agency, that he insists on breaks in the causal chain.
I've got a lot of notes, well more than will be needed for this class. Shit, I have more than I will need for all week. Why am I worried, then? Well, there's that stuff with the scanner, but it is still early. That's not going to be that big of a hassle, really. There all those exams to grade from the ancient class, too, but I can do them over the weekend. Why am I feeling so stressed, then? There's no real reason for it. Chill, dammit, chill. Concentrate on the good things going on right now. I did find that briefcase, didn't I? The nice one. How it got out in the garage is beyond me. I really feel good about it, though; that old one was getting so ratty. What on earth did the students think about it? Maybe that I was just being curmudgeonly, deliberately carrying a miserably beat up old briefcase, to make a statement or something. Actually, I have done things like that in my life. Oh, well, let's not go there …
Thank God, nobody is here yet. Philosophers aren't known for being especially early risers, are they? Damn, this machine takes forever to warm up. Worse, it's not really even a scanner, just a photocopy machine with a scanning function, and a lousy one at that. Where the hell is this stuff? Which envelope did I put it in? Two are grey and one tan, but which is it? Why didn't I put a paper clip on it, or at least make a mental note about it. Crap. This must be it, it is the thinnest. The fattest one has to be the philosophy of law articles; I have to scan them, too, but not right now. I'll worry about them, later. Yes, this has to be the right one. Okay, the lights are on, we're ready to roll. Good thing my name begins with "A;" first on the address list.
All right, at least that is done. Now, which key is it? These institutional keys are all so similar. Crap. Okay, this must be the right one. What's this stuff on my desk? A box? Heavy, too; must be textbooks. The joke's on the publisher, I guess. I am smiling, for the first time today, I realize. As soon as this computer warms up, we'll see what we've got. I've got to get ahold of Mike, too, about getting this printer working. He doesn't think it will interface with Windows seven, but there may be some way around that. I'll need to get a parallel to USB adapter, regardless, and some tractor paper, too. Ah, the scanned copies are here, good deal. One fewer worry, at least. But, there are all these other emails. Shit, I didn't submit Sara's grade change, did I? Was it A minus or B plus? I can't remember. I wonder where Chet put the car; that stuff is in the back seat, for sure. Maybe I can get it over lunch break.
Who can be knocking on my door this early? Not a philosophy major, that's for sure, none of them get up this early, but somebody is definitely there.
"Hello, professor, it is Madeleine. Remember when we talked about the letter of recommendation?"
"Yes, law school, right? Here, have a seat. Did you send me the transcript and personal statement?"
"Yes, last night; did you get it? "
"Let's see." Email is still open; this shouldn't be too hard.
"Your computer is talking," she remarks. She wishes she hadn't said that, though, I can tell.
"Yeah, sounds awful, doesn't it? That speaker must be all of an inch and a half in diameter ." I don't like talking about this; it probably comes across in my voice, though I consciously try to keep it from showing.
"How do you understand it? It is so fast?" She is trying to make things better. We are both ill at ease, though.
"Headphones make all the difference." I say. I am lying, it occurs to me. Damn, there are a million junk emails here. This is getting on my nerves. "Ah, I'm sure it is here, somewhere." I am not going to deal with this right now. This could take forever. "Have you decided on where you want to go?" I ask. I don't have to fake this, being interested. I really do care about my students, most of them, anyways. There are others, those with real attitudes, though, those who …
"I'm applying to NYU, although I don't know how I could afford it; and UB and U of L," she says, cutting off my train of thought. I'm glad, too; I didn't like where it was going.
"Ah, yes, they have all of Louis Brandeis' papers there, in Louisville, don't they?" are you still interested in all the right of privacy stuff?"
"Absolutely; and it is under attack, too, don't you think?"
"Well, yes." I am glad to have the conversation back on academic footing.
But then, "Is it true that he is buried in the law library?" she asks, a trace of incredulity in her voice.
"Yes, so I've heard, and his wife, too."
"That's just creepy," she blurts out.
"They're actually buried underground, beneath the library building, I think." This seems to relieve her, to some extent, "Well, I will find this and get the letter off …"
"Thanks. Yeah, I've got a class," she says, rising.
"Okay." I can't think of anything else to say at the moment.
"Do you want this shut?" She is going out the door.
"Yes, that's probably best," I say, with a feigned casual air. I really want it shut.
Okay, what am I going to say about Sartre? Shit, I've only got forty minutes to get this stuff together. Damn. Why mental processes aren't subject to causal laws, that's what I need to focus on today. Ah, yes, that the lion's share of consciousness is a function of imagination, that's it. The springs of consciousness are impoverished, that's the key point. Yes, but how can I make this riveting? They've got to see it, feel it, get it. I used Sartre's example of a pencil sketch at the end of last class, and that didn't quite do it. There's got to be some way to drive this point home; I need to come up with something. And fast.
A piece of printed page; he uses this one, too. Streaks of ink conjure up fully developed ideas. It's true, and it does more or less prove his point, but it doesn't move anybody. There has to be a better way. But why doesn't this work? Hell, it should work. I can see the matadors when I am reading Hemingway, after all. I can see them, even though I can't ….Wait; what is the problem, here? Why doesn't a passage of print strike them, hit them in the face, as being so impoverished that it can't explain what comes to mind in reading it? Why doesn't the spontaneity of the imagery impress them? They can't actually see it as merely streaks on a page, that's it. When we are reading, we do it automatically, subconsciously; we don't see it as reading, that's the problem. So, I need an example where this doesn't happen; it's got to be simple and straightforward, but a little out of the ordinary, simultaneously unfamiliar yet familiar, with an element of surprise, to catch them a little off guard.
Whoa, I've got an idea; wow, will this work? I'll have to coach them, a bit, maybe, but I just might be able to pull it off. Where's that translator? I just used it yesterday. Crap, it's got to be here, somewhere. Ah, this has to be it. Okay, in the box, type …what? Something obviously impoverished, yet fertile enough to trigger rich and vivid imagery. Can't sound contrived, either. What will work? Will this? Let's try it*:
Deceivingly mundane, isn't it? But it should do the trick, shouldn't it? Strictly speaking, it doesn't actually prove anything, but it will get them thinking in the right direction, won't it? It does show that the rich content of consciousness, all the imagery and emotion in it, arises from something other than what triggers it. Anybody with a normal imagination could easily write a page or two on what this brings to mind. All right, let's blow it up some, landscape, 8.5 x 11; with this font, it will just fit. Thirty five copies, everybody gets one. Damn, I'm running out of time; I'll have to grab these on my way to class. If anybody is in the office yet, this will certainly freak them out, coming out of the printer, won't it? I love it!
Okay, everything else is in the briefcase. Where did I put that thermos? It's got to be here somewhere; shit, I couldn't have left it in the car, could I? I've done some stupid things in my life, but I know I can't go to class without coffee. No, I had it when I got here; I moved it when Madeleine came in, that's right, I remember, now. Stay calm, go back. You heard the knocking on the door, it was on the chair with everything … you picked it up, right. Where did you set it? File cabinet, yes, that's where you put it. On top of the file cabinet. Yes, aha! Here it is. Okay, just enough time to grab those sheets out of the copier and get over there. I sure hope this works. It might. It should, in fact. All right, let's hit it.
*The Braille passage reads "the running dog leaps the fence."