school

www.flickr.com/photos/gaia_d

academic
psychotherapy

I had a terrible dream. I dreamed that I was still precarious, contractor university: a status lower than that of existence of earthworms. In the dream, that's the case: while my boss mulls its pearls of wisdom in some rural retreat, I do serfs exams for him, for the language course, for some unknown friend, who was there for, there was or should have been. In the process, multilingual weave a conversation with a double Oscar Wilde Conversationalist native does in his spare time - in the sense that when a time out occurs, otherwise not. Since I'm here, I'll bulldoze another contractor of lower rank, resist threats of many students, teachers and teachers with varying degrees of disability, I find that an administration is called Cafona like me and I decide to change their names, I do not pee, I do not eat, and in this mood affront to the last student of the day: an exotic beauty, dressed as Cubist and totally unaware of any use of the object book. I begin to question her. Me: "He had to read three books for the exam, not just one. Students not attending had read three, and she has not attended. " Student: "It can be haunting me do the exam?" Me: "But you did not go for nothing." Student: 'Okay', but as a haunting I had to take a single book. So, the program is right. Let's do this? " Me: "No." Student: "I am Iranian." Speechless, I feel murderous instincts and are interrupted by the desire to pee. Student: "An exception ..." Growl, having learned this elementary manifestation of disappointment from my dog. Student: "So I say to the professor, I can tell that she does not make me do the exam shortened, and Iran." I am about to bite when the Iranian leaves. Quietly, I soiled my pants back home, where I discovered that my washing machine is broken and my dog ​​and dropsy. In this desolate suburban, sip a glass of fine wine to cheer me up and I decided to dance a polka: it will be well served to something my dance class, right? A terrible dream, I told you. When I woke, I felt very grateful to the Buddha, God, Muhammad and the class president for the Divine Being who I am: a university professor with an obsolete sense of ethics, ethics that keeps me from my own business and always Zen, however, and a balance which forbids me to arm myself and go to the systematic removal of deadwood academics, ecumenically distributed in any order and rank. I like the work I do. I love my students. I try to train them to life. Of course it's complicated. Over the past three years, the joyful introduction of four new orders has artistically blended curricula and study plans in a combinatorial game worthy of Einstein. If a student falls behind with the exams, it is easier to shoot it down with rifle fire that lead to the conclusion of his university career. I'll try and preclude. Students are even more heroic to finish his doctorate, usually without a scholarship and going to serve beer on Saturday night in a room to get to the end of the month. Then, under the title "doctor", you make some slamming doors in his face, after which they migrate, change their names and identities and go to make a career abroad. And here we are, lit by the meritocracy of the reform. An example? Finished his doctorate, many years ago, I participated in 13 contests as a researcher. To win one, you had to pass two written tests and oral. When I won the fourteenth competition, my husband has congratulated the following words: "Well done, love. Who takes the win. "I still do not know why I passed the last contest and the other not. But I know that, in this new merit system, the competition is a researcher in an interview on their titles. Schlus. That's it. Who is that idiot who can not speak of his titles? There must be a weak point, but I do not know what is. But do not dramatize. It is a time of transition, magmatic phase of a new creation. Meanwhile, the best colleagues are so out of the pumpkin that do not give even the numbers, but the chickpeas, and after them the data, trying to count them as children of asylum, but were unsuccessful. This gives a measure of how low are our best brains, at least those who have not fled abroad. I thought about it, and I have now concluded that some universities can not even define psychiatric centers. More correctly, I would say that timeshare is that everyone wants to live in the same time. This is not possible, and therefore it generates chaos. And this metaphor seems to have already used it, but you can see here that's okay. A colleague of mine, usually appassionatissima of his work, he candidly said last week that he could not come to a meeting: "I booked a beautician, and dear, with all the work that has to do to make myself presentable." Of course he was joking because it is by far the most ironic and intelligent links that I have. In the frame of the same joke, he added that in future, it may even agree to introduce the academic year with his lecture magistralis only if the will to do it in Gaelic, English language even more fashion, he teaches. The latter concern me a bit 'worried. Whether you drink your brain? Or just the excellent Scotch whiskey? In any case, one thing is certain: alcohol numb, my colleague would not dare smart, from a humanist, amazing comment on the company and recent neutrino, for whose ability to dig tunnels from Geneva to the Gran Sasso than a total and absolute.