He could still smell the chalk dust. He could still hear the echoes of the logarithms, and the grammar rules. He was still being put in position. Always the semblance of order.
Schooling never taught him anything. The teachers didn’t instruct, inform, communicate, or educate. They rarely said anything that hadn’t been said to them. It was simply hearsay, redundancy, and the passing of orders. With orders, they tried to create order. They tried to put him in position in kind.
It was never so much what was said, but what was not said - like the silences of history. Each utterance from the mentors, by omission, put him in a place, in a position as a subject, all the while compelling obedience to an order, as a position in an order.
It was as if they wanted him to become a set of coordinates, settled at a particular longitude and latitude. He became a nomad instead, and wandered through the halls of mirrors, seeking lines of escape.
- The Fool
- photo of Gilles Deleuze - photo artist unknown