May 22nd, 2025. Dedicated to Michael Foucault.
Three delusions, and you graduated with honours from all three.
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the veranda of the Cultural Exchange Centre, a name so painfully ironic it almost physically ached. Amidst the wilting potted ferns and the lingering scent of stale coffee, the intellectual gladiators of the local arts scene gathered to… well, mostly to posture.
I watched, detached, as Barnaby Finch-Hatton, a man whose entire personality seemed to be constructed from salvaged bits of Michel Foucault quotes and a deeply misplaced sense of self-importance, held court. He was, as always, dressed in what I could only describe as ‘academic leisurewear’ – a tweed jacket that had probably seen better decades, paired with offensively bright, and undoubtedly cheap, trousers.
“To see this thing make its way around the readings…” Barnaby began, his voice a theatrical whisper, like he was sharing a state secret instead of complaining about a critic’s review. He paused, dramatically, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “An inner fight in the camp of your propaganda, twists your face to the left.” It was like watching a parody of intellectual discourse, an over-the-top performance that was almost comical.
He gestured vaguely with a hand that sported a frankly unsettling number of rings. Around him, a small gaggle of acolytes – mostly wide-eyed undergraduates and the occasional bored retiree, all eager to absorb his supposed wisdom – nodded with the appropriate level of solemnity.
My gaze drifted to Cynthia, a sculptor whose work consisted mainly of vaguely phallic clay figurines, and Gerald, a poet who specialized in haikus about urban decay. Both watched Barnaby with rapt attention, desperate for a crumb of his supposed wisdom.
“As you emerge with your pinned knee, your newest complaint,” Barnaby continued, his voice rising slightly, “As quick as you wake in the morning air near your TV IV.”
I raised an eyebrow. The man was stringing together phrases like a demented fortune cookie writer. I wondered if he even knew what he was talking about, or if he was relying solely on the sheer obscurity of his language to intimidate his audience.
“Three delusions and you graduated with honours from all three,” he declared, finally reaching the crescendo of his performance. “Brought out some overpriced honey and teas.”
A small, nervous-looking woman, presumably one of the undergraduates, scurried forward with a tray laden with exactly that: overpriced honey and teas, a symbol of the superficiality and excess that often permeated these gatherings. Barnaby took a delicate sip of Earl Grey, a smug expression on his face.
“Over each viewpoint, another cheap pair of pants,” he pronounced, seemingly at random. “Withered and smelly, airing laundry like one-upmanship is religion.” He tilted his head, as if considering the profound implications of his own words.
I sighed inwardly. This was the so-called ‘intellectual apex’ of my Tuesday afternoon, a term I used ironically to describe the self-indulgent and often nonsensical ramblings that passed for intellectual discourse in these circles. I longed to disappear, to melt into the wilting ferns and escape the suffocating air of pretension.
“Curious,” Barnaby announced abruptly, breaking my reverie. “I want not to hang and disappear, Rather than share the earth anymore with these things.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the group, landing momentarily on me. I quickly looked away, pretending to be engrossed in the intricate patterns of the veranda’s peeling paint.
“Who are you, light colour scheme pomp, leaning to one side only, like a tropical fish floating at the top of the tank with those dark circles under your eyes?” Barnaby asked, his voice dripping with mock disdain.
I winced. He mentioned that I tended to wear muted colours and looked perpetually exhausted. An observer’s life was not conducive to a radiant complexion.
“Who are you with subtle blood libel tales and the Danishes on the international gathering veranda?” he continued, his voice taking on an edge of genuine malice. “A mention of a second career – what was that lie you chased from the rear?”
This was a low blow. In a moment of weakness, I once confessed to him my secret ambition of becoming a pastry chef. The memory of my disastrous attempt to bake a soufflé was still a source of considerable shame.
“The same as the peace you sell to anyone who will give you a freebie ear,” Barnaby sneered. “A third of a slice, your gums dribble, and your teeth fall to the plate. Young men know you and run to at least the next chair with the women.”
He was spiralling, losing control, and it was almost fascinating to watch. This wasn’t intellectual discourse but a playground squabble dressed in borrowed philosophical jargon.
“Christ, is this all you can muster?” he finally exploded, his voice cracking. “Like him but overweight with a heart condition and a dead inkless pen to hang off of, pleading with the fairies, the conceited, the presumed connected… mercy on your angels, pretentious supposed lovers and only fan chapbooks, non-alcoholic tears!”
He stood there, panting, his face flushed. The overpriced honey and teas seemed to have lost their appeal. Cynthia and Gerald exchanged uneasy glances, their admiration replaced with a flicker of concern. The atmosphere had shifted from reverence to discomfort, and it was palpable.
I knew I should probably say something and try to diffuse the situation. But I couldn’t. I was too busy being entertained. This scene was like a slow-motion car crash; I had a front-row seat. The audience, too, seemed to
waking up to the situation’s absurdity, their admiration for Barnaby giving way to a dawning realization.
Finally, after an agonizing silence, Barnaby cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. He straightened his tweed jacket, adjusted his glasses, and delivered his closing statement with a forced smile.
“Search for what is good, strong, and beautiful in your society and elaborate. Push outward. Always create from what you already have.”
He paused, looking expectantly at his audience.
I couldn’t resist. I had to say something.
“Michel Foucault,” I said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “taught us that the point of living was to ‘live a beautiful life and to leave to others memories of a beautiful existence.’”
Barnaby’s face turned a shade of purple I didn’t think was humanly possible. I stood up, grabbed my bag, and walked away, leaving Barnaby Finch-Hatton speechless, surrounded by his overpriced honey, cheap trousers, and the shattered remnants of his fragile ego.
As I stepped out into the fading sunlight, I couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t exactly a beautiful existence, but it was certainly memorable. And that, I thought, was something to be proud of. Perhaps Barnaby should consider that next time he was airing his laundry, literally or figuratively. Maybe then he’d leave a beautiful memory behind. Or, at the very least, a funnier one.
