Observing my pet teacher, captive.

Today was the first day of classes for fall- besides what I could talk about I find the desire to talk about  Paul Churchland’s appearance and mannerisms.

He is a large man, perhaps 6′5″ from the perspective of a sitting student estimating from the first row. He is 66 years old but retains the full complement of hair on his head, but the blackness is mingled with equal amounts of grey.  With his eyebrows brown, beard white, his follicular variety makes one hungry for a Neapolitan ice cream.  His Canadian accent is unnoticeable except for the jarring vowel which he prolongs every few minutes.  This does not diminish or distract from his message nor his articulation, which is fluid and animate.  The man lumbers back and forth at a pace somewhat slower than expected from the rapidity of his ideas.  He has an ease with his lectures from practiced use, from teaching countless classes before, and one imagines, in talking to his wife.  His expression gives no intimation of pain, but he speaks with a breathlessness as if just having completed a moderate jog.  Whether this is from the energies requisite of his manner or belies a condition, I do not know.  His long arms hang limp and appear burdensome to his pacing.  As he speaks he makes eye contact surprisingly in-often, this added to his wide eyed stare would give you the impression of a fanatic’s mania if you merely focused on whom he looked like.