Rime might only have one class to teach right now - and honestly be doubting his ability to handle even that much - but he was still a teacher and he still had students who might desire his assistance. They might not be coming for help with homework or a research project, but he still had to be available.
That led to this: sitting in his office, with nothing left to straighten and nothing left to write. His office was small, and far less impressive than the one he had held before his most recent episode of debilitating mental distress. It was windowless, though the fresh paint and carefully cleaned carpet helped it feel less dingy, and the desk was almost spectacularly unoriginal. It was, in short, just what Rime needed. Unmemorable.
He'd still made it his own. Most of the walls were covered with bulletin boards, though the back of the door was a whiteboard. The bulletin boards were completely covered in post-it notes, for the most part, with any that were meant to be up for more than a few hours secured with thumbtacks. Colour-coded post-it notes and colour-coded thumbtacks, on sorted boards that ended up being colour-coded by their contents.
His desk, in contrast, was completely empty on top, supporting only a computer monitor. There were no personal mementos. The only personality in the room, really, came from the nearly desperate blankness and the need for reminders. Not of habitual things, no, but of things to do that were not basic constant practice - or of things to not do that might be constant practice for others. Things not to think about, things to think of in their place. There were a lot of those, with the replacement thoughts carefully more eyecatching than the reminders they countered.
Some things were safe, but many things were not. Somehow, online versions of ancient-to-mortals video games mostly made it onto the safe list. Professor Rime was playing Galaga, and he didn't expect anyone to come through his open door.
@"mariosaur"
That led to this: sitting in his office, with nothing left to straighten and nothing left to write. His office was small, and far less impressive than the one he had held before his most recent episode of debilitating mental distress. It was windowless, though the fresh paint and carefully cleaned carpet helped it feel less dingy, and the desk was almost spectacularly unoriginal. It was, in short, just what Rime needed. Unmemorable.
He'd still made it his own. Most of the walls were covered with bulletin boards, though the back of the door was a whiteboard. The bulletin boards were completely covered in post-it notes, for the most part, with any that were meant to be up for more than a few hours secured with thumbtacks. Colour-coded post-it notes and colour-coded thumbtacks, on sorted boards that ended up being colour-coded by their contents.
His desk, in contrast, was completely empty on top, supporting only a computer monitor. There were no personal mementos. The only personality in the room, really, came from the nearly desperate blankness and the need for reminders. Not of habitual things, no, but of things to do that were not basic constant practice - or of things to not do that might be constant practice for others. Things not to think about, things to think of in their place. There were a lot of those, with the replacement thoughts carefully more eyecatching than the reminders they countered.
Some things were safe, but many things were not. Somehow, online versions of ancient-to-mortals video games mostly made it onto the safe list. Professor Rime was playing Galaga, and he didn't expect anyone to come through his open door.
@"mariosaur"
