Writer's Debate

"All the same," interjected Kenneth. "I'd suggest going somewhere to begin your work for this grant, Mr. Russell." "God damn this grant." "Oh, Christian. That seems hardly a...Christian...thing to say, now does it?" I whirled around to face him, a flash of rage sparking for just a moment. "Kenneth, are you going to continue sitting there, dazzling me with your linguistic mastery, or what?" "Well, technically, I'm standing." "Fine then. If you are to be that way, then I'll be going, then," I stated, angrily walking away. Behind me, I heard Kenneth call out, "And just WHERE will you be going?" "Perhaps the library," I grunted loudly. Now, I am a student of the sciences, a devotee. I plan my moves very carefully. However, on that day, I must be frank: I hadn"t a fvcking clue where I was going. The library seemed too quiet, too comfortable if I ever was to determine what I was going to do for this grant. In fact, I had hardly even determined whether I should--or could--proceed with work on the grant experiment. Indeed, as I had so spectacularly concluded just moments before pacing in front of that grotesque statue, I did not have a single artistic bone in my body, to use the idiom. Attempting this experiment ultimately would involve me making a fool out of myself, trying to don a beret when I should rightly be wearing goggles. And reputation, as much as I am loathe to admit it, is key within the scientific community, even as a mere undergraduate student doing everything in his power to attain freedom. Then again, the very reason I was applying to compete for this grant was for my own scientific career as well--not participating at this stage would only condemn me to God knows how many more years working as a practical lab monkey in the university without a single break. And winning this grant would be that break. I eventually found my way into some diner on some corner with some generic name: "Sam's," or "Billy's," or something along those thematic lines. I had wondered whether my adverse reaction to the grant"s theme had something to do with the distinct fact that I had not eaten that day. Testing this hypothesis in a truly scientific faction, I ordered a ham sandwich and lit up a cigarette (thank God this diner had a smoking section). After a few drags on the cigarette, I was able to make the first important decision about the contest that there was to make: I decided that, indeed, I had to compete, in some capacity. Freedom could not be achieved any other way. As that Argentine revolutionary Che Guevara (though he was mixed up in all that humanities hogwash, the man DID have a knack for medicine and mathematics, and must have some wisdom) once said: "Liberators do not exist. The people liberate themselves." And so I had to liberate myself. Competition was liberation. Although relieved at finally establishing that I was competing, then came the real dilemma: determining further what I was to do for the competition. It was around this point in my own pondering that my sandwich arrived. I grinned to myself. Time to begin THIS experiment, at least. I ate with the clean precision one would expect of a true scientist. Taking my mind off the whole subject, I wondered how artists ate ham sandwiches. I assumed that they inevitably made a mess; either that, or simply stared at the sandwich, pondering the mysteries of the universe, instead of actually seeking an answer for them. It was at this time that I made the discovery. I realized that in the end, this is what separated the artist from the scientist. The real academic versus the phony, armchair intellectual. While the artist, like that poor fellow who sculpted that disgusting statue at the museum, will only sit, wonder, and reflect on the things he does not understand, the scientist will seek out an answer. He will hypothesize and test and conclude and hypothesize again, to no end. Yes, that was it: the artist wanted to go to the edge--that was evident from the very proclamation on the statue. But I, I wanted to go beyond. There was no edge. There was only discovery. The artist was the sedentary, inactive thinker. I was the revolutionary, just like Che Guevara. That was the key: to act. To dive into the scientific foray. To go, not to the edge, but beyond. Freedom. It all meant more than just a goal. It was the means by which I was to win. Indeed, I didn't know what my experiment was to be, but I knew I was not to find it here, waiting for a liberator. And so, I hurriedly paid for my sandwich and rushed out of the diner, off to go liberate myself.