So here I am, sitting once again in a faculty office in a physics department of some university. In a way, faculty offices pretty much all look the same, and this one is not much different. Mind you, it’s a lot emptier than the usual faculty office as most of the books and papers and stuff hasn’t arrived. But it’s got that feel to it, institutional lighting, some nice, (but not too nice) furniture, and the inevitable smell of academia (probably a mixture of outgassing carpet, aging paper, baking electronics and chalk dust).
The big difference now, of course, is that I’m on the other side of the desk, sitting in the big roller chair and looking across my newly arrived desk (still sporting styrofoam dust from the packaging) at the two empty guest chairs and two nearly empty bookcases. This is my office, 617 Keen, complete with florescent lighting, cinderblock walls, and moderately dysfunctional A/C vents. This will be my new home from home, where new secrets of the universe will be discovered and shared with the dozen or so other people around the world who might care about it.
At the moment, it’s a room filled with potential. The walls are blank, the drawers and shelves empty, the seats untouched. Now it’s up to me to convert the possible into the actual. These chairs will soon be holding students who will look to me to launch careers and explain test scores. The ethernet wire descending from my tiled false ceiling like some lone vine in a sparse industrial jungle will soon be filling my in-box with countless faculty e-mails and other distractions. Up that wire must travel numerous papers and proposals and requests for money and the other things that university professors are expected to provide to the world.
The room is a vessel and the vessel is nearly complete. It’s up to me now to provide the creative spark that fills the space with gold. A daunting task to be sure, but the people here have placed their trust in me. They must feel that I will be able to work some magic here. Now I guess we will have to wait and see if they are right.
The big difference now, of course, is that I’m on the other side of the desk, sitting in the big roller chair and looking across my newly arrived desk (still sporting styrofoam dust from the packaging) at the two empty guest chairs and two nearly empty bookcases. This is my office, 617 Keen, complete with florescent lighting, cinderblock walls, and moderately dysfunctional A/C vents. This will be my new home from home, where new secrets of the universe will be discovered and shared with the dozen or so other people around the world who might care about it.
At the moment, it’s a room filled with potential. The walls are blank, the drawers and shelves empty, the seats untouched. Now it’s up to me to convert the possible into the actual. These chairs will soon be holding students who will look to me to launch careers and explain test scores. The ethernet wire descending from my tiled false ceiling like some lone vine in a sparse industrial jungle will soon be filling my in-box with countless faculty e-mails and other distractions. Up that wire must travel numerous papers and proposals and requests for money and the other things that university professors are expected to provide to the world.
The room is a vessel and the vessel is nearly complete. It’s up to me now to provide the creative spark that fills the space with gold. A daunting task to be sure, but the people here have placed their trust in me. They must feel that I will be able to work some magic here. Now I guess we will have to wait and see if they are right.
