Hook, line and stinker.

I've only ever endured the misadventure of going fishing once or twice in my life. Notwithstanding the environmental affronts to the "philosophical pastime" which array themselves before someone who by design or compulsion has spent his whole life in Calcutta, I found out very early in the exercise of baiting a fishing rod, configuring tangents of pivot and the general good feeling of standing under the beastly summer sun of West Bengal that I wasn't particularly suited to such pursuits. Never mind the fact that I was desperately overcome by clumsiness each time I'd to cast the rod, the simple fact was (and remains) that I'm extremely unlucky in these ventures, as it were. I've never caught fish in my life. Thus, I've never had curry.

Therefore, for those astute readers pondering how this impoverished blogger shall sustain his quest of retaking tests, ordering 50 sets of (undergraduate and graduate) transcripts, pay application fees and mail supplementary materials, don't think that that's a headache which doesn't consume many afternoons of thought. When one needs something close to a hundred thousand Indian curries, even the paucity of good fortune isn't a strong enough discouragement from going fishing again.

I already had the hook, though. During my sojourn last year, it was recommended that I apply for a well-regarded internship. The line was drawn in that I had, for whatever my beliefs are worth, excellent credentials. But after applying and waiting on it for quite some time came the stinker. I got a mail last night, which read:

"Unfortunately, we are not able to offer you a position. I wanted to let you know that your application was very good; you were very close to being a finalist. So I hope that you will keep the program in mind for the summer of 2008."

Thank you very much. One thing though: I did think that I'd kept the program in mind for the summer of 2008!! Fucking idiots, using year-old form mails. And I'm not even good enough to get in there.

And just a footnote: the money from the internship would've paid for my ticket to ride on the RTU. To manage the significant setbacks this accrues, I'll have to import yet another change to my character and become something I've never been: stingy. Don't me get wrong, I hardly spend on myself except when indulging in books. But based on my calculations last night, I'll have the benefit of $10/month for the rest of the year, if I get a raise in May. Jeez, reel me in already!

Waiting for inspiration.

Even now, as I labour to come up with something clever, I'm waiting for that one moment of inspiration, which shall infuse some life into my mind. Something intelligent. Something fascinating. Something simple.

For what it's worth, I feel like I've been on this never-ending quest to pawn ideas with tenure-track professors, something to attract them to my e-mails so that they're tempted enough to respond. And the more I try, the less I succeed. Well, obviously. Like that'll ever change in the history of humanity. I'm down to the small change of all my ideas, and in the history of ideas, that's absolutely, pun-intended-positively pathetic!

I remember a time when ideas weren't a problem. They just flew at my face, and from my mouth to everyone else's face. (And sometimes to their minds, and ever so rarely, their hearts.) Sadly, I'm no longer able to do that. Posited against the current of mediocrity and loud-mouthed propaganda, I've for some reason reasoned to keep quiet. Let things slide. Let assholes get their way. Y'know, to be sociable, like. I made peace with the fact that I can let my mind unwind as and when I get into a PhD program - oxygen to the brain; a (huge) sigh of relief, et cetera. I wonder now, if the cause has become the effect. I wonder why I wonder, because I know I need to clear my head.

A creative mind doesn't think about inspiration. (Most Langabaga discussions about The Beatles conclude that they never thought about what they were doing.) There's no supreme force that'll suddenly turn a benefactor and throw a bone of inspiration in someone's direction. There's inspiration in a cool glass of water and in the notes of a distant melody, as in the unexpected words of an unknown poet and the eyes of someone in the mirror we know only too well. When I'm teaching the history of ideas, I certainly won't be pawning inspiration for performance; I'll be opening doors. And if someone needs to be inspired, they need only look within.

Corollary: Oxymoron

Just to prove how much of a wise-ass I am, right after I published the previous post, I left home and got on a 13C bound for Jadavpur and L'Atelier's concert on Sunday.

And just to prove that my existence isn't consumed by worrying about PhD applications, I'm publishing the current post to determine that I do have a life.

For those of you who're missing my rants, rest assured that the same shall follow very soon.

Missed the bus, again.

Anonymous blogs on the intrawebs are a great resource for finding all things relevant 5 months too late. I was advised in one of these aforementioned retreats for the apparent crème de la crème of (presumably American) political theorists that I should seriously consider an MPhil at Cambridge, given my interests in political theory and the history of political thought.

England's always appealed to me in ways that a humble, pie-eating, red-nosed Scouser would surely discern, but not so much for academics, even though I've always known the country to be doing some of the finest work in my fields of interest. I guess I'll go my-head-corkscrewed-up-my-butt insane if I were to land in England, watch football on the telly, and never have the comfort of looking forward to visiting Anfield because I'd be in a line of work already established to be leading to unemployment.

Anywho, I Googled for Cambridge, such being my temerity, and found the Faculty of History offering an MPhil in Political Thought and Intellectual History. The moment I read those words to myself, my ears pricked up (as if they could any further), and I couldn't deny the slight excitement in my search for more information. And then it came - the ritual kick up the back side. Could I still apply to the program? Yes. Was I still eligible for funding? No, of course not. Do I have money to finance the course, should I get admitted? Um, does the Pope shit in the woods?

So, yay, I've found another back-up plan for the future, if I were to strike out again next year. But since I'm applying across the board, big and small, I wonder if there's a point in exercising this option any longer. You see, sometimes it's better to have missed a bus, than to have boarded a 13C.

A moment of panic.

With what has now become a characteristic second second-thought, I almost applied to an MA program at the New School for Social Research. I figured that with one quasi-Marxist-approaching-Hitler already occupying the basement, I might as well carry the fight to the same turf. Right on cue, Pink Floyd played on the radio and a Kantian turn infused reason into my noumenal self which had been momentarily Earth-bound. So, um, Dr. Hobswam, I've gotta give you a miss for now.

I hate this. It's March of 2008, and I'll be biting my nails till the March (April, even) of 2009. I find myself constantly thinking about this nonsensical process of having to prove my academic potential to a committee of clueless, overworked, dreary-eyed objectivists, who'd play it safe by relying on GRE percentiles. I'm not saying I'm something like the best thing to happen to moral philosophy since John Rawls, but I'm an honest student of politics: I debate without provocation, I listen without hesitation, I read without prejudice. I think from things. Or, at least, I used to.

The last few days have been an exercise in trying to will my concentration to last longer than that fleeting second, in evaluating and re-evaluating my readiness and competence in doing doctoral work, on jotting down ideas/thoughts so as not to forget them (yep, it's that bad) and dreaming of a time when I'll be reading these words and smiling to myself.

In reality, I think it'll be easier for me once I get into a program - I got sick as balls just to pass outta high school, had to make my pet cow climb trees to get into college, but once in there, I made progress. I learnt things. Subsequently, I was swept into my MA program by the general inertia of things happening around me. I'm not suggesting that gradschool shall be a breeze, but for me, I believe it'll be the getting in (a.k.a. me throwing off the yoke of negativity which I've left hanging around myself for far too long) which'll be more difficult. In any case, it shan't happen in a moment of panic.

So it begins.

Well yeah, I've always wanted to quote Morpheus' famous middle-of-his-life words. (If you don't know who he is or when he said this, it's a good indication that you shouldn't be here. Avast, freshwater swab!)

Yesterday I received a rejection from Brown. In the process, I struck out for the first year of my PhD applications. Duke and Brown - yeah, apple and orange - both didn't want any more of yours truly than an application form. Goodbye, blue sky. :-(

I'm now at a point in my life where I'll have to do what I've dreaded for the last three years: make several applications, take tests, fill out forms, e-mail professors, write my proposal/SOP several gazillion times, make hundreds of photocopies of inconsequential papers (and some, absent-mindedly, of my butt) and haggle the oh-so-considerate folk at the holy grail of human niceties i.e., the administrative building of Jadavpur University - and all in a few months' time. Oh, fuck me silly!

Let's face it - everyone wants to go to Harvard and brag about it; to be taught in a group of five by Michael Sandel or be advised by Stephen Walt and then go home to mesmerise a crowd of young 'uns with stories of oak-wooden lecture halls and air-conditioned dorms. I'm one in the crowd. I'm taken in by all the hogwash, regardless of how poor the job market in political theory is, and without care for how hot it'll be in India when I've to return after six years with nothing to show for the time but a degree soaking in my sweat. Yes, let's face it - that PhD is surely the road to unemployment (RTU).

On my journey to find the RTU, I shall take with me the unfortunate reader of this excrutiatingly artificial and painful blog. (The self-disdain and mockery works for me. See if my blogging doesn't improve by the next month.) When I'm there, I shall continue as your humble correspondent, reporting all the unserviceables in lieu of the payment of my taxes. Right now, I must conclude this confused first post. Ta!