The leaves dance slowly outside the darkened window. A stately waltz. The Greek - perhaps - with long dark curls and a prominent handsome nose explains of Luhmann and Autopoesis. I sit in the corner of the table and let the language wash over me.
Luhmann doesn't interest me - not in any language. Seminars rarely interest me, but I do find it fascinating to watch them - the others - as they argue abstract questions and details, far developed theories, which continue thousand year old debates that will never be brought to an end. I have no interest to participate and therefore I again push myself to the margin to observe. I am the spurious sociologist and they my subjects; I the collector and they my story.
It is almost always so, but habitually the story, the experiment, disappears into the white noise of the past: with no water and nourishment it has no chance to bloom and anon it is no longer part of my reality. Like the subjects of those countless seminars, which have departed from my memory without leaving any mark.
I hope it is not because I would not possess the capability. With a small smug smile tugging at the corner of my mouth I think back on the intelligence test I took earlier today. In the top one percent of the world's population. I feel impressed, until the realisation hits: that is over 67 million people. Not particularly remarkable after all.
I watch at them debating Luhmann in this language I cannot understand unless I concentrate. Top one percent doesn't make you very intelligent. Perhaps the tests are biased, perhaps the things they measure are of the world of observers. Those who enjoy watching others and measuring them, dissecting them from afar. Perhaps I just have an overabundance of practice - enjoy the tests too much and like seeing myself reflected in them.
Currently listening to: Diary of Dreams - Curse