He’s a whole generation older than me, and it must really rankle his ego that I’ve professionally surpassed him by a light-year.
“Regardless, the concept is a fairy tale,” I say, and chuckle. “But more so, it’s a paradox. Despite such hope for an enlightened species, there can never be a peaceful future, Professor Wellington.” I take a step in his direction. “In the event this holistic, mystical divinity presented as a gift to the masses, based on the work of esoteric theorists, this state could only be achieved through a destructive force, such as a sacrifice. Or, self-sacrifice. Just as Jung’s alchemic theory stated, correct?” I eye him coolly. “Light cannot exist without the dark. Good cannot exist without evil. The totality. Ergo, peace cannot exist without violence.”
His smug expression loses its edge. “Ego of the philosopher is destructive all on its own.” His gaze drops to the tattoos peeking above my collar. “I find it ironic you’re speaking out against Jung’s alchemic theory of delving into the collective unconscious, seeing as you’re a practitioner of other widely scrutinized, unverified practices.”
He’s referring to the rumors of my interest in the dark arts. Particularly, chaos magick.
I had more than one revelation in Egypt.
“Ah, professor, this is where I specialize.” I move closer to where he looms over me. “Let me explain a little more clearly. Jung used alchemical works and symbolism to further his unsound psychology endeavors. Which is exceedingly insulting to the very Western esoteric sects he founded his theories off of. Alchemy is not a vehicle for scholarly greatness. The Hermetica isn’t a spiritual or philosophical path to psychological gold. Although the pursuit of both reveals the greedy nature of desperate men staring into their insignificance.” Okay, maybe one abyss reference…
“I, unlike Jung, am not lifting an archaic belief to incorporate in my unprovable, bullshit theory,” I continue. “My endeavor for the muse is a personal practice. After thousands of years of pondering, we’re no more enlightened than our heathen ancestors dancing around fires. But they did start the trend. They’re the teachers we should still look to, not the hacks.”
Wellington says nothing as I give him a lengthy pause for his rebuttal.
“Besides,” I say, leaning my elbow on the lectern and wiggling my inked fingers, “women like the tattoos.” I smile smugly, earning a few whistles from the class.
Even a narcissist knows when to admit defeat. Wellington is something else, something far worse. I see it in his unblinking gaze, a sadistic hunger. Despite his declaration toward peace, there is a malicious need banked there that craves to destroy.
This primitive force resides in us all, is a part of our very atoms, but it’s the hypocrite which makes this force a dangerous one.
“I have no doubt your reputation has scored you plenty of trim, Professor Locke.” His smile borders on a sneer. “But how do you presume, then, by your astute observation, to imply that the idealism of the Primal Man to humankind isn’t in itself a rare treasure? After all, philosophy teaches us that it’s our ideals which make up our world. We are the creators.”
I pace a few steps, considering the question seriously. “Because history has proven most treasures have a dark and violent unearthing,” I say, sending my response outward for the students. “The monster of greed ultimately descends, gnarling humans into a disfigured beast of selfish gluttony and ego. We as individuals ascend to a higher, godlike power… Every one of us to become the judges of what is right and wrong, good and evil?” My chuckle is sardonic. “That is the very ruin of the cosmos. Society would collapse.”
I pause a moment, then: “Think of anything we create. Look around this room. This lectern—” I touch the wood stand “—first a tree had to be cut down, then carved, essentially destroyed, in order to create the podium. Yes, we are the creators—but our creations can only be born from violent acts.” I turn and direct my next statement toward Wellington. “There have already been enough narcissists in power over the years to prove this is not an idealism that will reward us peace.”
Eyebrows hiked, he says, “I admit, I’m impressed. You’ve made a compelling argument.” But he’s not yet ready to concede. “Another question, Professor Lock, if you don’t mind. I’m curious if there is no hope for a future of peace and harmony, and only out of destruction do we wield the ability to create, how do we then justify our continued existence on this planet? Is it a selfless or selfish act, should destroying oneself be the only means of defense?”
“I’m afraid that’s a question of morality, professor.” Checking the time on my watch, I measure my answer based on the two minutes left of class. “We’re part of a world that was conceived in a womb of violence. It’s only logical that when our chaotic nature threatens to destroy us, we should then turn to any means in answer, such as scapegoating, to reset the balance. It’s more than justifying our actions; it’s essential to our survival and our conscious. Oh, I apologize, our collective conscious as an intelligent species. Though I feel that’s a stretch for most of us.”
“I think you’ve won your argument, Professor Locke,” Wellington says, although his arrogant smile contrasts his words.
“Naturally.” I turn my gaze out over the classroom, addressing the students. “If you’re willing to destroy yourself in an act of violence, then and only then can you call yourself god. Otherwise, you’re just another uninspired scholar with unproven theories who idolizes a madman, but doesn’t have the conviction to test his methods.” I look at Wellington. “I think our history books labeled that a coward.”
There’s no mistaking the disdain etched in his severe features. He smooths his necktie down his sweater vest as he nods, then retreats up the steps. But before he exits the hall, he turns to address me one final time. “A thought to leave you with,” he says. “It’s a rather self-fulfilling prophecy, don’t you think, that we employ violence to defend ourselves from our own violence.” A condescending expression crosses his face. “If we are the creators, then by that design, we are the creators of our own doomsday. Quite the conundrum.”
I signal Ryder to close down the slides. “I suppose you’re right on that, Professor Wellington. We can only avoid catastrophe if we’re aware of the signs,” I say distractedly. “But what fucking fun the end of times would be.”
As the class responds with a collective laugh, a dark gleam ignites behind his eyes. “Of course. Bored, privileged philosophers would no longer have the luxury to ponder the muse.” He smiles arrogantly, his insult hitting its mark in my ego. “How very exciting to see how our future would evolve, as not every creation can be one of beauty like your lectern. Some are rather horrifying.”
He exits the lecture hall then, but I know this won’t be the last altercation I have with Percy Wellington.
I’ve made an enemy today.
As the room breaks into a ruckus of students hustling to escape, I pack away my course manuals in my leather satchel, some distracted thought still itching at the back of my mind.
“What a douchebag,” Ryder says as he hands me the laptop.
“Professional rivalry keeps you sharp.” I pat him on the shoulder. “You’ll know you’ve made it in academia when you get your very own douchebag to heckle your lectures.”
His tight smile holds a menacing weight. “Not sure how you didn’t punch him,” he says. “I would have. I like the concept of taking it back to our primitive roots.”
I sling the leather strap over my shoulder. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” I halt at the door to say, “But if you do, record it and send it to me.”
As I walk the outside courtyard toward the parking lot, my thoughts churn deeper, the itch festering into an infection that digs beneath my skin.
