C.R.E.A.M.

The West Coast Delay

Whatever glamour there is that lies in the life of a PhD lecturer of literature, I have always longed to experience it. Without any real prominent father figure in my life, I have always inadvertently developed covert relationships (of the fatherly kind) with male tutors or lecturers, figures that feel out of reach, people who I feel hold answers for me, if only I could have a more intimate relationship with them. Nothing sexual, of course, just a forum where I would constitute the sole weight of the audience. These academic fathers provided a sense of security and knowledge that resulted in me placing them on some pedestal. In my first year of being an undergraduate, I drunkenly stumbled to the room where I had my first ever seminar, and fell into some twisted love or higher respect with my seminar leader; he gave me that sense of 'this is who I needed in my life as a young boy, someone to guide me'. I tried my best to kick down the glass panel of the door to the room, just to get inside. I am not sure why. I was never caught and along with two break-ins in to the School of English, in that first year also, it was a stunning display of how bad the security here at university really is. I have a tendency to prolong my walk home when intoxicated.

This description of my relationship with male figures in my life could be easily related to some kind of textbook Freudian theory. The need for me to fill that masculine voice I lacked in my childhood, projected on to the next available figure that could fulfil the role. I revert to my opening statement; the life of a lecturer has always held tremendous value to me. In my constant search for a career (which is still at an all time low in terms of intensity), becoming an academic of literature has always intrigued. It would definitely remove all the crushing guilt I have had in regards to my total lack of motivation in my education so far and it would fill me with a more 'noble' or sense of self respect that what I was doing had some meaning and that I could always find infinity, passion and some kind of financial success in reading and writing.

In lectures, we are usually introduced to a writer and their works by being told about how they grew up, what they did, where they were from, and what was going on in the world around them. Looking at their letters, their critics, their friends' opinions of them, and so on. I sometimes wonder what would be written about me, if I suddenly dropped this inability to create and managed to become some kind of prize-winning poet or screenplay writer. The issues of self-perception will ultimately conjure some degrading and flat description of how I was never an academic of any kind, a failed musician, and despite a surprisingly creative and passionate journal in my college years (nearly four birthdays ago now), I never touched another human being in any way, or created something I could be proud of or call a creative work. I could count how many novels I have read with both hands and still have enough fingers left to squeeze my temples and restrain rage.

The career of a lecturer has a feeling of safety attached to it. I respect lecturers and am constantly amazed at their intellectual prowess and how a lecture can make my mind 'zoom out' from the insignificant diversions of life and see the vast picture of what we are living in. There is a respectability and constantly unlocked view that one could hold as an academic. I can feel the safety of seeing the past so broadly and seeing the effects of what writing can do to the world around us, it is inspiring. Looking at certain character types, it seems that spending all your time in a library to achieve the switch in your title from an 'M' to a 'D' to make it 'Dr.' instead of 'Mr.' can, or could, have an effect on you as a person and cut you off from the realities of life that aren't presented to you through a page. I must apologise to the reader, as I am excruciatingly tired at the moment and my hopes of staying up tonight to prepare for my 11am seminar is not going well. At this rate, it looks like I may even oversleep.

I detest writing under the influence of sleep deprivation, coherence and flow are effected quite dramatically! I need to stop leaving this to the last minute, and I need to get back in the library. The last five days have included two nights out, one night of working until 3:30am and two late nights as the result of the parties and working! It has been an unproductive and expensive few days.

I must study later, I must sleep now.