Collusion: Part IV

Each next day was a mirror image of the last. The nice thing about monotony is that time seems to slip by more quickly. The ants were busy about their work. Everyone i met had plenty to say about where they were going... but nothing to say about who they were. Another aspect of society in the ancient puritan tribe i had supposed.
During the flurry of activities and people to meet my name was shuffled in a database. An archaic machine with punch cards was at work selecting what campus job i should have. With a chink, and a ding... a small card with my name and new station dropped onto a slate floor.

Josh Medlin

"Cook"

Dinning Common Staff

I had signed some paper somewhere... quill pen. red ink. According to the rules of my scholarship, i would have to work at least 10 hours a week at a campus job. Ten hours. Nothing to it. There was a work meeting and a power-point presentation about chemical safety. Cartoon characters with overly theatrical reactions to situations involving bleach and turpentine. In one of the booths that had been set up during my arrival, one of the smiling faces had asked me if i wanted to cook. Of course i wanted to cook! At the time when i was asked, the question conjured images of myself and seven or eight other smiling post adolescents in bright, clean, white aprons, icing cupcakes and making sculptures of swans out of chocolate. Out of thick glossy black chocolate. Jokes would be made... Someone would throw a handful of flour... and then we would all frolic about with as many cares as a daisy has. 

 Of course i wanted to cook! 

As usual, my imagination was my most well developed mental faculty. I had not yet seen the dinning common. Just like all the other buildings at school it was made of that same shade of yellow brick. That color like faded sunshine. A color that would take the place of a red curtain in this progressive academic theater. Order. Clarity. An un-assuming color. 

There was a work meeting that I attended in those first days. And after rising and dressing with care and a nod to AH, i walked the distance of four or so city blocks from my room to my new employ. 

The dinning common had at one time ages and ages ago been a grocery store... and the long long front face of the building was pock marked with a row of roughly fifteen double-doors. Identical to the ones everywhere else at school. Black metal. Plate glass and little black security panels to the right of each one. Green light, un-locked... Red light, locked. Through the one door that had a little green light. Those doors are heavy. A long, expansive lobby ran the length of the front of the building.... It would take you three minutes to walk from one end of the room to the other. Bent rectangles of light poured in through the fifteen metal doors and spilled all over the blue gray carpet. Opposite the wall of doors of the front wall, was another wall that ran the length of the room. This time there were 15 wooden double doors.... one of these was open. There were computer printed sings motioning me forward to the main event. 

I had never seen a larger room. Four stories or so to the ceiling i guessed.... It was like the Romans had bricked up a soccer field... and wallpapered it in the largest blue paisley print they could manufacture. Wrap-around windows in a recessed portion of the ceiling continued the idea of an 'inside-outside.'

This room was another machine. Massive common room for one of life's most basic needs. Food. Rows and rows and rows of tables and gray metal chairs covered in some blue rubber. You could seat eighty full sets of Brady Bunches... and all of Elizabeth Taylor's exes. 

In that momentous moment of being wowed by architecture.... it hit me. I would not be sculpting swans out of chocolate. I would not be chasing my friends around throwing flour on them. There would not be any cupcakes. Alac. A sous chef... I was not.

There was a flurry of staff meeting in the center of soccer-field-ish room. Tossing papers around...Writing students schedules around work. Helping them fill out their forms and papers. 

I walked up to one of ladies... and said.... "I think I'm a cook?" and "I don't know what these papers mean....", gesturing with a handful of papers that would become my schedule for the next three months....

She gave me one of those.... "oh, you poor little lamb...." looks. And with a grace and dexterity i had yet to observe amongst the other staff.... wrote my schedule and otherwise allayed my concerns about how i should set out my life for the next little bit. 

The kitchen i would discover was a fur piece more industrial than my imagination had lead me to believe. Cement floors. Rolling carts of staples.... Stainless steel everything. Glossy white paint everywhere... and the central feature was a row of fifteen 100 gallon stainless steel steam powered cooking pots that were all bolted to the floor. This would be what i did. 

I would make macaroni and cheese 100 gallons at a time. I would melt 65 pounds of cheddar that i had grated myself with a machine that would eat your hand off if you weren't careful.... 

I would shoulder 60 lb bags of rice... and the white apron from my imagination would be replaced a full uniform, apron included. all white. Even a pleated white hat. We can't have hair falling into macaroni. The cook staff that i worked with was quite a lot different from the american eagle models in my imagination. There were student workers.... who were mostly mute aside from their tasks at their stainless steel work areas... and then there were the the staff cooks.

Mr. Smith had worked in the kitchen for nearly 40 years. So i think that made him close to 70 something. He didn't know any of the student workers names. Those were the things that had changed the most here, and so were the last things on his list of important things to do. You could tell that he'd been taller at one time. Less bent. But the type of work to be done here was wearing. What was left of his hair was all white... he'd likely been in one of the wars. Korea maybe?

Mr. Rae. (We must always refer to them respectfully.) Mr. Rae was exactly like the kinda guy you would imagine owning a pizzeria in Naples. Prodigious man. Gargantuan. Italian. And jolly mostly. Given to moods. Because of his size, his joints were in bad shape. I swore i could feel the cement floor shudder a bit when he walked past. I liked working with him. This volatile colossal man with his black mustache and sing-song moods. He accomplished his tasks passionately.... and made conversation with the student workers.
There were rumors about him selling an heirloom pasta recipe that had been in his family since they left Naples.... but I don't think he ever will.

Mr. Balentine. Aggressively friendly. A short man with graying hair, large spectacles and a gray brown mustache. Quirky and bright... hard working. I worked with him mostly. He reminded me of a tinker. I had never met a tinker, but i had imagined that if i ever were to.... Mr B. would be one. He moved about in the bowels of the machine... stirring here with a 5 ft wooden spatula... skampering to one of the 60 ovens.... He liked to laugh.

It was grueling work. But it wasn't something that i minded. I made friends there. And the way that my life here had been divided into neat little rows and boxes.... work now. sleep now. read now. pray now.... it was therapeutic. It helped me balance anxiety and ambition. It focused my efforts into my studies.

During high-school i was a runner. I continued this tradition here. Back home i would run 4 or 5 miles along dirt roads.... through trails that four-wheelers had cut into the woods.... Here i ran around a track. Seven times around makes a mile.... and late at night there would be old people walking around the track; swinging their arms bent at the elbow and chatting with other old people.....
I ran around them.... I ran every day and i let the running drown me. The sweat and the repetition and the thud of my feet lulled my mind into a kind of rest. Each lap around the track pulled one of the tangles out of my head and assured me that i would make it here...
After running i slept soundly.

Collusion: Part III

The Authority.

Im all a flutter to be introducing you to this set! As i mentioned in II & 1/2, laws are useless without enforcement. Make yourself comfortable. Listen to this.
See... that's better huh? And now with your blood pressure down a bit, I will attempt a meet and greet with the Authority.

In a system who's laws are so broad ranging (i have no desire to go into more detail about the other confines of the Almighty Handbook. Suffice it to say that it outlines acceptable dress, entertainment choices, shopping choices, and social requirements with the opposite sex... the rules themselves are boring. the people who enforcement them, are not.) the enforcement of those laws must be august; and it must have eyes everywhere. The members of the Authority are as follows.

• Dean of Students: If you are in this persons office... it's because you are saying hello to a personal friend, or because you're being counseled for some sin, or because you are pleading with the Dean to stay enrolled. There are no other good reasons to see this person. He is to be feared and respected. Because, my little cumquats, if you break the rules of the Almighty Handbook.... you will loose all the money you've invested in your prestigious degree.... and all of your non-transferable credits. This man is at the top of the pyramid of power in this scenario. His office is filled with shelves and shelves of leather bound books... and bad memories. If you are quiet enough in his office.... you can hear monks chanting ancient Latin prayers. 
• Dean of Men: The Authority just a hair less powerful than the Dean of Students but you're more likely to have contact with him, than you are with Dean of Students, if you decide to miss-behave. Or god forbid... you become tempted to practice anything from the Bill of Rights. This man has been designated to govern all aspects of male student life. I know how creepy that phrasing was.... er. hm. Anyways... Let's say a male student decides that he's like to have sex, or, i dunno... masturbate in front of a faculty member,... Dean of Men would be the one to expel him. After a long long conversation about how the student had displeased mystic Hebrew god, all republicans, himself, and of course the lord jesus christ. There would be a couple of prayers.... Dean of men would blither something about how he hoped the student would mend his ways.... case closed.... paper signed. Student free to leave. Free indeed. 
• Dean of Women: This is usually a single woman. She handles all terminations of female students.... governs dress laws for them.... has remained un-married so that she may be a shining example of female chastity and swan-like grace etc etc. She is likely 172 years old. She will smell of age and a floral perfume. She will dress like Barbara Bush circa 1987. If you are being summoned by any of the above people... you should make plans for the rest of your year.... such as becoming a pirate.... or a crack head.  Maybe gardening? Consider collecting discarded aluminum cans for a living. Its not that any of these people are particularly frightening per say... if you're not afraid of the loss of thousands of dollars and being banished from your family forever. 
• This powerful tri-fecta control rule of law at BJU and set spiritual directives for each semester. When a member of the student body walks within 20 feet of any of these majestic persons.... he will feel guilty of something. He will tighten his tie. He will walk straighter... and he will either nervously and over exuberantly greet minor deity, or avoid eye contact and hurry away. Its fun to watch. 
• Teachers: Nuff Said.
• Staff: Under paid, Un-attractive people who want their children to get free tuition. 
• Dorm Supers: Each dormitory is graced with one of these. These wraith like persons are hallow and soul-less. They have been in school here for so long that they couldnt think of anything better to do than to continue. And such is their way. The are intensely religious. duh. They are mostly virgins. Or married. They love books and bookish things. If you havent done anything expulsion worthy... you will likely be having an intensely un-comfortable conversation with one of these unassuming creatures. Most of them wear sweater vests. I dont know why.
• RA's: These students have been selected, half via 'buddy system' approval through previous RA's and Dorm Supervisors. Each hall gets one of these. Mostly they are found to be the most religiously devout of the student body and are most likely seniors.... though some of their senior years take considerably longer than an actual year. They should be avoided if possible. There is much corruption in the lower levels of the Authority... much of it here that is. Power to enforce the rules is used for personal benefit... more so on the men's side of campus than on the womens. 
• Prayer Captains: These are mostly average 'Joe Political Sciences'.... or likely Bible majors. they look after 5 or nine rooms when the RA isnt. They tend to show up in your room whenever you're trying to listen to popular music... which is of-course taboo.
• (Lastly) Assistant Prayer Captains: Corruption is rife on this level. But then, what is a system without corruption? Boring. You've met Larry. 

Ah! there! Arduous isn't it! Many of my following adventures will take place around and behind the backs of these wonderful persons. Its best you meet them now. The first weeks of school brought sweeping change in me. Already i had adjusted the people that i considered strangers, and little by little my discomfort level at being forced to constantly swim in society was dissipating. I was given new piano pieces to work on. I listened to every word spoken in every lecture. I took copious notes.
I put down roots. Just a little at first. There's nothing you cant do when fueled by an exotic mixture of fear and religious fervor.

I've only done the poorest of jobs laying a foundation for my stories, children.... stay tuned. xx.

Collusion: Part II & 1/2

Ghandi has something to say about society. Regardless of your thoughts on popular culture, without a doubt you are swayed by it and your involvement in it sways others. We make the world that we live in.... and the inverse is more true than any of us likes to admit. Even if we are all little islands, the waters of social interaction flow all around us... bring in touring concepts... shape the landscape of our lives; and despite our ideas about originality and choice, force mutation after mutation.

I claim that human mind or human society is not divided into watertight compartments called social, political and religious. All act and react upon one another. Mohandas Ghandi

Fascinating, isn't it? I became aware of this all too clearly when I started school at BJU. As a reader you are likely questioning the viability of this school as a broad representation of the rest of north american society.... and those thoughts are just. Warranted even. Even if the only thing you know about BJU is what you can find on wikipedia.... you may well be aware that this place has its own anthropological zip code. Everyone that is touched by it is left with at least some of the same finger marks.

I say all of this by way of introduction back into 'collusion'. The difference in my schedule from before my time here, and now was striking. I was determined to do well. I was determined to earn my keep. From the morning of my first arrival my life began to be more and more regulated. There was a bell in the hall way that woke me up at the same time every morning; and that same bell dictated that i should turn off my lamp at night. click. click. Duplicates of that same bell could be found in hallways all around campus. Ring. Go to bed. Ring. Wake up. Ring eat. Ring. Pray.
Those self same bells weren't just bossing me around. They were the levies... and the metronomes of everyone on campus. Tiny dictators that affected all aspects of the micro society, from Joe Political Science, all the way to The President Himself. 
Oppressed by it? Not at all. I was in love with the concept.

I often think how lucky i was to have my first toe holds into social experience happen here. Not because i think it did such an amazing job of preparing me for the future... rather because the machinations of this particular society were so specific and so radically different from society as usual that the experience would be akin to discovering a lost protestant tribe deep in the heart of middle america.

How does one go about describing a micro society? I think I need to...in order to have some bones to have the flesh of this narrative hang on. I will pretend that im you... and that i am discovering this lost tribe first off. Ive already introduced you to the differing levels of the Cast system. Lets talk dress code.
Almighty Handbook is published once a year by University Press. (The Press is a financial cash cow for BJU. They use it to publish all the books for every christian school on the eastern seaboard, the mid-west... parts of Hawaii and beyond. It's housed in one of the largest buildings on campus.) As i said before, Almighty Handbook dictates all aspects of student life. All aspects. And its all-seeing eyes do not miss dress code. I thought i was going to have to go through the trouble of remembering all of it and regurgitating for this story. Thankfully not. It can be easily accessed via the internet. Yessssss.
What you are about to read is real. 

Go ahead! Click on it!

Dress Code for Men

Alright. I know what you're thinking. First that it's the kind of side-splitting funny that just has to be true. And you're right! But cultivating and controlling the impulses of an age demographic that is characterized by experimentation and self-expression is just one aspect of this college experience. It's often a point of contention as you might expect. This one chapter of Almighty Handbook is like all of its others... and is driven by a type of world view that worships mystic Hebrew god.... and holds one book in higher regard than even Almighty Handbook. His Book.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 All of that to give you colors to paint with. How else could i describe the tribe? A hive. Those first weeks of school were as busy as if you had kicked an ant hill. Everyone busy about his own business. Work. Class. Each ant was someone new to meet. New connections to forge... and quickly i was learning that within the confines of the rules set down by Almighty Handbook... there were other powerful ways in which the ants could express themselves. A skirt was an inch too high. A button was loose. One smells like Abercrombie. One smells like Hollister. The smallest of indication that they had decided where to place themselves in the Cast; that they decided whom and what they would obey. Fascinating. All of it. Fascinating. I would soon learn that success academically would be decided by how well i could obey Almighty Handbook.... but social success would be determined by how easily i broke its laws with out alerting the attention of the Authority.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               The Authority. You must realize that the laws of the bells and Almighty Handbook are completely useless,  unless you have a regulatory system in place to enforce such laws. The Authority will be discussed later. There is turkey to be eaten. There is family to attend to. Happy Thanksgiving.

Collusion: Part II

Before Collusion: Part II begins, I owe a shout out to Kaki Meyers. My delightful co-worker. She is pert. She is bright. And there is a certain something about her that calls to mind a song by Fiona Apple.

With any luck, most of you were able to stagger through that somewhat exhausting look at some of the types you can run into at any given time at ye olde schoole.
Housing. How shall i describe it.....
Well the way i discovered it i suppose. The dorms. Five nearly identical buildings. Three stories high.... Long rectangle/shoe box shaped buildings made out of dusty yellow brick. The lay one after another in precision on either side of one of the side streets of the campus. All around them were ancient box-woods that had been trimmed on exactly the same schedule, and in exactly the same shape for something like forty years. They were designed for efficiency. Not comfort.
Before stopping here though, in another building of long corridors, campus staff had set up little booths and tables and so had incoming students stop at each to gather pertinent information.... We were all given a number. An ID card. Little blue plastic things. And each new student got a complimentary thumbnail photograph of themselves on the card as well. I was thrilled to discover that everyone's ID picture was exactly the same shade of candid and usually revealed exactly how unfortunate each student could look.
Pamphlets. Papers to sign... bla bla. A copy of the schools calendar, complete with schedule for the rest of the year. And a copy of Almighty Handbook; which i learned to my immense pleasure held the keys to my success here. The Book i learned outlined each and every rule that i would be required during my new life here. My parents came along with me on this journey down the hallways. Up stairs. Around and around...Smiling faces at every turn. Welcoming me.... Sign here. Pose here. Smile! Everything's going to be fine.
My nervous system was doing odd things. It knew i wasn't supposed to be in the same room as that many people. It wasn't meant to process all of these variables. I was meant to join a convent of Keebler elves and bake cookies in a tree somewhere... not discover a remedial school for the emotionally imbalanced, products of religion's 'hitlers youth.'

I would conquer this though. I would make it work. I said my goodbyes to my family. My mother was crying. What is it about your mother crying? Why does it make you feel so pathetic? When my mother cries it regurgitates every sad memory I've ever had. When my mother cries... for a little while my soul hits an iceberg and starts to take on water. I must cry with her. It's an imperative. Other directives are lost. My dad shook my hand. More wood on the fire. Goodbye family.

Alright. Enough about that. Embarrassing. In the next ten hours I would attend 16 meetings. About where i would work on campus... one where i found out about financial responsibility for this academic foray... one where I learned about the penalty of sexual activity during my stay here (a large man with a black sack on his head axes off your right hand).... and one with bagpipes, when all the freshmen marched down the aisles of the largest auditorium to stand at attention as the Sorting Hat shuffles us into the proper Societies based on your how well you fit into one level of the Cast or another.

My housing. Oh dear. According to one of the packets of papers i was handed by a Jane Doe Groupie... I found my room. All but one of the beds were taken. I wasnt surprised. Meet my room-mate? Join me, wont you?
There's Larry. Larry is a senior. A large, large, rotund Hawaiian man, who had somehow managed to endear himself to a host of Handsome Soccer Players, despite being about as athletic as a boulder. I think he had managed this particular addition to his popularity level because he knew all the rules to every conceivable sport... and therefore reffed, and because no one can think of anything to dislike about Hawaiians. I was greeted with polity... and a big girthy, Hawaiian handshake.... and allowed to arrange my things on the one remaining bunk. (Since when is everyone shaking my hand? Who started all this? oh yeah.... thanks dad.) I would soon learn that Larry would spend 11 percent of his time eating odd asian foods made from seaweed, and 89 percent of his time talking on the phone with his gypsy girlfriend. I never met her. She lived... Elsewhere.

Introductions to 1/4th of the rooms remaining members being done... I settled in. I know i started talking a bit about the dormitories and then skived off into other topics. I return to the issue now. As i mentioned before the exterior architecture wasn't anything you'd expect to see on the cover of Architectural Digest... more like what i imagined hospitals from the 50's might look like. I dragged all of my things in through the heavy metal and plate-glass doors in the front of the building. Smith i think it was called... and was immediately over-powered by a smell. I would have had no idea how to describe it then... but now ive come to remember it as the kind of smell left by 200 hundred plus post adolescent males living in the same building. Damp. Salty. Animalistic. Not a powerful smell. Which is to say, it isnt the kind of thing that would turn your head... like say a ladies perfume... as she brushes by. But the kind of smell that you always associate with a place. Like your aunts basement... or a wood shed or something.

I hardly know how to describe the oddness. Parents left. New lay-outs to navigate. And a new and constant proximity to society. There was also a new awareness of perception. (perhaps that will be a topic touched on post-collusion.) An awareness that each new face forged and instant opinion of me. An indelible stamp... They each regardless of their place in the Cast made mental short-cuts for how they should consider me. The way i dressed. Walked. Talked. All of it carried intense meaning under this new system. There were lines and lines of social code that i hadnt been programmed with... but everyone here was already running on. I was mesmerized. But I adapted quickly.  More meetings.

Back to the room at night.  Time to meet the rest of the room.
There's Ramon. (Maybe it's spelled with an 'e' on the end. I don't remember.) As the name indicates.... this dude is of latin origin. Sort of a Puerto Rican guido. 4 inches shorter than me. And as I'm a lofty 5'7'' that speaks volumes. Introductions were cordial enough. Accent thick like glue. I could tell straight away that this kid was used to getting whatever he wanted... and that the Almighty Handbook would be something that he worked around... rather than towards. I kicked myself realizing how much time i shouldve spent watching spanish soap opera. Conversation with Ramon was alot like fencing. DNA, or something even more powerful, like fate perhaps had decided that he and i were to be opponents. The room we were graciously provided with, was something like 20 feet long and ten feet wide, and making space for any of my things made me feel like a conquistador. Die Incas. Die.
He majored in something like Recurring Revenue and Claims Auditing? I dont remember exactly. Ramon's time was divided as such.... 25% preparing his hair for presentation with a variety of fossil fuel based products.... 10% spent in ricochet spanish conversation with our other room-mate debasing me... 50% being arrogant.... and 15% butchering english with a dull knife.

The last member of the room is was relieved to discover would not be a direct problem for me. Chester. I realize the name probably calls to mind a host of jokes about molestation. This fact was not lost on me. Chester was mute for all i could tell. 6 feet and some change... and built for one of those ancient Roman 'kill or be killed' sports. Chester only ever spoke to Ramon... which was fine by me. There was some sort of un-spoken agreement that I should observed and avoided. That i could deal with. Chester was from some part of the Dominican Republic. Living there apparently makes you immune to humor, communicate only with peoples of like interest in blood sports, and turns your skin coal black. Fascinating land. I imagined that at his birth, there was a celebration where the natives spent a week hunting for the largest boar they could find... then after spearing it to death they roasted it on a spit while chanting praises to their devil gods.

This first day had turned out to be exhausting. This didnt prevent me from having insomnia though. One of the social laws of the Almighty Handbook required that each room meet together and sit in a circle at precisely 10:30 pm to read scripture and pray; and perhaps share observances on the day. And so we did. I love the word 'and'. Larry led this practice. He had been elected to be what is referred to as an Assistant Prayer Captain.... each room was designated one per the Almighty Handbook. As such it was his job to organize these little prayer sessions and also to take a sort of spiritual temperature of the room. I was relieved to find that he would not view this as one of his priorities. Chatting with gypsy girlfriend took priority on most nights.

Day one ended... I took three bendryl. I fell asleep.

Collusion: Part I

Right away, im sure you're thinking that this is going to be about some sort of chemical process, in which rust is the end result. I guess that's one way of looking at it.
But not precisely. Collusion is defined as....

"a secret agreement, esp. for fraudulent or treacherous purposes; conspiracy: Some of his employees were acting in collusion to rob him."  

Well. Its a weighty word, and not one that i think gets used enough, and as such makes a perfect title for today's topic.... Which is rather a story than anything else. A story about me. 

Mommy and Daddy are conservative, right wing, (literally) shot-gun carrying, NRA supporting, ten commandment observing, wildlife hunters.... who fiercely raised myself and my fellow siblings to please the mystic God of Hebrew scripture, to grow tomatoes in the heat of summer, to avoid credit cards and body piercing with the fervor you might devote to avoiding death by house-fire... and to vote republican. 

They grow pears in their yard. We have raised chickens, pigs, goats, quail, geese, and once... a faun. 

Bucolic no?

To baffle you readers, let me just say, that i have managed to deviate from their plans for me, quite a bit. In some ways to the tune of bad decision making... and in others to some of the most profound changes one can experience in life. My children... I speak of love. and loss.

Oddly enough, the gods decided to gift me to a family, that i shared little but genetics with. I drink art, and breathe music. Even as a child, i thought that emulating beauty and grace were among the highest of callings. I read ferociously, and by the time i was seven, my vocabulary started to scare adults. 

Mommy and Daddy were very selective about the avenues that my learning should travel down. But having my own library card, and an ever expanding gift with the English language, it wasn't long before all the writers who had left their dusty dream worlds, sitting out on the shelves of our small public library, began to fill my head with everything. Romance. Fantasy. Heroes. Luxury. Wit. It was all there... and gobs of it. 

I grew something. Ambition.

Years passed. I became a skilled pianist. And I had dreams of Carnegie Hall, and the palpable silence that comes after a flawless performance and seconds before the applause. 

Much as i was ready to take on new life, i never did realize the impression that my own woodland home would leave on me. All of my life was arranged in neat little rows, and a very carefully constructed solitude lay all over like a blanket. I had become more than used to the surroundings. The quiet churp of crickets and the exact shade of white noise that my rooms oscillating fan painted about my room as i fell to sleep every night, worked together. They worked their way into my bones... 

Going to college was hard. Not like the hard you're thinking. Not like studying. Not like work. Hard like reprogramming. 

Although Beethoven had taught me how to spin elegance out into the air, and my father taught me how to field dress large mammals, Anne Rice taught me to follow her into dark velvet neverwheres filled with musk and passion, and my mother taught me how to keep tea roses from developing spot; no one had prepared me to talk to other teenagers. Let alone choose companions based on my identity. I couldnt have told you who i was at the time. I hardly knew myself. 

I went to school at Bob Jones University. Right now, all two of my followers know everything there is to know about this school, and this story for the most part.... but seeing as blogging is tant-amount to writing to everyone with internet access... I shall elaborate.

Mother and Father liked the school. A whole hellova lot. They went there. They met there. Moms parents went there. They both convinced on some level, that the mystic Hebrew God, still speaks in whispers through the moanings of the hinges on the front gate.

All those musings aside... I wasnt ready for childhood friendships, let alone dorm life at Xavier's School for Religiously Gifted Children. 

But go to school i did. Even though home sickness gave me an ulcer, and a plethora of new responsibilities and syllibi gave me thoughts of joining some sort of fictional militia for the socially handicapped. 

Survival. Self-preservation instinct. Call it whatever you want. It's what i did. I chose to study piano performance. Half because i thought it might have been the most difficult thing i could have ever done... Half because my piano teacher throughout high-school had poured out all her ideas about creating great music all over me; and i wanted to emulate that. I thought of playing the piano with the same feelings that one might have if they were to share a warm plate of cookies.... 
It wasnt about prestige, or screaming about being a virtuoso. It was about sharing something that i thought of as beautiful. (as you might remember kids, beautiful things have always been my bread and butter.... )

I threw myself into my studies... I made friends yes, and instinctively managed to befriend every social outcast in the entire school. Because like it or not, i didn't fit in the accepted social paradigms.
Lets see if i can type cast a few of the norms for you all who aren't quite as familiar with the class system at BJU.


Popular Kids:

• The Handsome Soccer Player: This is perhaps a type that i least identified with. Because i am neither broadly accepted as handsome, nor am i a soccer player. hallmarks of the type are as follows.... : Broad foreheads, complete acceptance into one of many of the soccer teams ruled by a long dynasty of alpha males, most likely studies one of the sciences that involve using a calculator, dating a girl thats atleast a 7 or higher on a scale from 1-10, broadly follows the rules of the Almighty Handbook, likely has some obvious vice that everyone admires him more for, due to his ability to avoid punishment over. 

• Cheer Leaders: yes i know... you didnt think BJU had these too. Surprise! These girls know what they're after. Perfection. Cheerleaders date the soccer players, or others who walk just as blamelessly in the light of popularity. They go to the gym 4 times a week. They major in something banal like.... oh idunno.... grocery shopping, and they never miss a chance to try and slut their way through the dress code. Although this is type i dont mind... it wasnt one that i necessarily gravitated towards.... Popular Kids do not make friends with anyone below their station in the cast. Rules are rules. Cheerleaders are ambitious, flighty, glittery creatures. They arent paying their own school bill because they are not employed... and their parents dont think they're 'ready for that just yet...' Most likely they all have strained relationships with their fathers.

• Wealthy Townies: Money talks folks... and it doesn't speak any less loudly inside these hallowed halls than it does anywhere else. Wealthy Townies are marked by the majority of their time being spent in their comfortable suburban dwellings. Dad's in insurance. Mom's in marketing. Everyone is busy... and no one has time to follow the Almighty Handbook. Wealthy Townies make friends easily by providing transport, lessening the sense of isolation from the rest of the public, and providing easy access to off-campus drinking; forbidden movie theaters, or sex. No one cares what major the Wealthy Townie has chosen.

That about sums-up all of the key popular types. Keep in mind that anyone from some of the lower Cast levels can attempt to boost their station by adding portions of Popular Kids' qualities... but the bones of the type have to be in place for anything worthwhile to occur. Now on to another section in the Cast system... Less popular, but no less important....  


Medial Members:
Medial Members types are neither un-popular, nor popular... and their ambition is usually less bright than those that have reached the upper levels of the Cast... but these players are no less important in the game.

• Joe Political Science: more or less, this is the back bone of the system. this type can be employed by the school, or off campus at the mall or elsewhere. The hardly know what they want from their University experience. The listen to bands like, The Fray, Five Iron Frenzy, and The Shins.... ok ok. and occasionally a little My Chemical Romance. Their dating life is un-stable. They take part in the architecture of 'Societies' (which are BJU's fraternities. but without the booze, violent hazing, or paid membership.{you may be wondering why societies exist.... and i have been mystified by this concept for years.}).

• Jane Doe Groupie: One of the largest portions of the Cast system, this group carries the largest membership. These girls are from middle America, are usually struggling to free themselves from their oh so painful religious indoctrinations, they are all 5's and 6's, and they are all searching for "THE ONE" true love of their life... to help them paint over their many insecurities. Jane Doe Groupies are the less than obvious girls... with less than obvious goals, less than obvious fashion sense, and almost no defined personality. She spends loads of her time procrastinating against her less than challenging academic requirements, and gym attendance; she travels with others like her in groups of two's and three's, and she is almost never alone. 

Last and least in some peoples' minds is The Lesser Cast. These students, are the 'everyone else' of the Cast system


The Lesser Cast:

• Deep Sciences: yet again, another broad level of the Cast... This group is populated by male and female students of academic bent. Their majors take up gobs and gobs of their time. Their dorm rooms are usually thoroughly lined with layers and layers of everything they need to stay comfortable alone. They have very little concern for fashion, social networking, romantic involvement, or popularity. Stable types that have been galvanized by some horrific event during high school, and have developed a thick layer of clinical logic to protect deep rooted but fragile emotional cores. 
• Seriously Serious Musician: Almost like a subset of the Deep Sciences, they earn their own level in the Cast system. As their title indicates they spend 78 percent of their time on their academic exploits. Different from the Deep Sciences; this type was sequestered and nurtured throughout their high-school experience. They are not involved with Fraternity/Society system, as they have no time to be. They have a limited number of friends. Make jokes about the brothers Bach and dress idiosyncratically. Like all of the members of the Lesser Cast, they have little ambition for popularity as most of their energy is spent preparing for recitals and remembering to eat. 

• Sexually Ambiguous Art Majors:As their title indicates... this subset in the system create things... but never explain themselves exactly. They all have distinctive styles of dress that are constantly in direct opposition to the norms set out in the Almighty Handbook. Brutal childhood memories fuel their desire to communicate in abstraction. Parental involvement forced their enrollment, but did not dampen their ambition. There are atleast 3 Sexually Ambiguous Art Majors in each of these sham fraternities/societies... as someone needs to create unifying t-shirt designs. This group is characterized by pioneering social self-sufficiency and decadent interior mind-worlds. Often they provide quality friendship material... as they hate both the Handsome Soccer Player and Mr. Right's. Sexually Ambiguous Art Majors are smart, funny, and most likely poor.  

• Mr. Right. (or Miss): the last and most despised of all the levels of the Cast, Mr. Right is also one of the most fascinating. Members of the type have long been incubated in a thick gravy of religious fervor. Their parents are models of good christian behavior. They come from one of 17ish children who will all attend BJU before the end of the century, and their passion is the Almighty Handbook. Because of strictures of their childhoods the expansive rules of the Almighty Handbook are the most perfect and logical conclusion of a well planned adolescence. Mr. Right has a painfully deep desire to please the mystic Hebrew god... and will 'God willing' do so... right down to the very letter of the Almighty Handbook. Mr. Right's are everywhere, (much like the be-suited emissaries of evil in 'the matrix' films) and they are always watching. Mr. Right's take it as one of their implied duties to prevent breaking any of the rules from the Almighty Handbook. Do not befriend Mr. Right's. 

OK! well, that about sums it up for the Collusion: Part I. Most of part: I is topography. 
Stay tuned as the plot thickens.






 

Inspiration

Gosh, arent we getting to lofty topics lately? Here i sit. Guess where. Anyone? ok. Starbucks. I know.... the tragedy that i would choose to spend time where im employed is fully evident.... But ya know... It's warm here and. And dry. And today being the kind of cold and rainy that leaves an impression on your soul, is more than enough reason to stop in here. That or either stay at home in bed watching Dane Cook.

Amazingly enough, what other people think about inspiration isn't all that interesting to me. What matters is that feeling... an energetic desire to reproduce an emotion. A place. The over-powering quietness that i get whenever inspiration strikes. And the absolute and total conviction, that behind this quiet tug,... lies the seeds of great art. Art that isn't necessarily great because of its flawless technique, or its realism. But art thats great, because it's an attempt to communicate things that have been impressed upon me by exterior influence. Chance even.

Some people find inspiration in the works of old European masters. They wish to convey tutelage by ancient artists who's subject matter and technique reflect a type of perfection that seems precocious for an era. Some seek to reproduce nature... finding the visual balance around them and its reproduction therapeutic. After all, Creations perfection is worth emulating; is it not?

I suppose for my latest sort of inspiration I would have to fall into the later group. Because all i can think about for my next painting is an image. Something that seemed to burn into me just a few hours ago while the world was still dark.
I was just in middle of having dinner with friends. Enjoying that fact that all of summers heat had fallen away. It was weather much like now. Chilly. With just the lightest bit of rain at times, and the nights sky was layered over with a dense fog-like cloudiness. The neighbor hood where my friends live was quiet. We stood out on the porch and smoked. Thick gray effusions escaping from mouth and nose... Little cloud children that died off before getting to meet their parents in the sky.
It's a woodsy neighborhood... next to a city park. The terrain is hilly, so the houses run in a stuttering curve following the asphalt road. On this night the smell in the air was that damp smell of grass and trees, but the coolness of the air rendered it faint.
The image that stayed with me was the sky. That sky that was just a ceiling of fog over a quiet city. That sky that have been shot through with a bruised purple-red. The street lights and reflections of the burgeoning city beneath it had poisoned it with color... un-natural, but beautiful none the less.
In addition to this dying sky, there are branches.... fingers and hands of the trees that have been here far longer than i have... and will be here far after i leave.
Those colors and lines. They are what stayed with me. The sky with that hue that suburbia either doesnt notice, or doesnt care about... and the sum of it all seemed to tell me something.
Hard to understand at first.... it was only a feeling. A quietness. A sobriety. And i didnt think all that much of the feeling at the time, because i didnt understand it. Social decorum demanded my attention and the evening carried on.
But the trees and the sky. They left me with that feeling. They had a message.... or the seeds of a message that i couldnt quite grow yet.

It's this self same feeling that i hope to convey in one of my next paintings... and perhaps in the process learn what the alien sky, and black trees meant.

Process

Process. Quite alot of people have things to say about the process of creating works of art; the idea being i think, to impress us with the plethora of data they have on art in concept and creation. Doubtless this is the sort of thing that appeals to cabernet swilling yuppies, scarf-wearing hipsters searching for the newest intellectual fringe to moan about to their cigarette abusing confederates, or columnists for Juxtapoz.
Either way, I'm inclined to take sort of an agnostic approach to viewing process. Which is to say, 'let's suppose there is virtue in understanding process.... I'm sure it doesnt matter nearly so much as what we see and how it moves us.'

Today being my day off, i decided to make a bit of a journalistic foray into this 'process' business myself. After running a few errands, and making an obligatory stop at starbucks... I drove to Greer to the nearest craft store. (Hobby Lobby. Which incidentally is the only craft retailer in the area who's board of directors all have lilly white skin to reflect their Christian souls. This i surmised from it being November and the stores music being selections from Handel's Messiah.) I purchased four pieces of canvas frame. And lucky enough for me i happened to acquire two matching sets of two equal lengths. Not purchasing as such can be difficult to work around when trying to create a squarish shape.

Delighted with my purchases... i jaunted home to my basement dwelling to interlock the pieces of wood that i was going to stretch canvas over.

Notice my horribly elegant rug design. I used a solidly heeled shoe of mine to tap the corresponding corners of the frame together. tik. tik. done.

These shoes are remarkably comfortable. That has absolutely nothing to do with this blog.
After tapping the corners of the frame in place... it was time to trim and staple the canvas to the frame.

snip. snip. roughly an two inches from the edge of the frame. Roughly.

Stapling down the corners of the canvas is a little bit of a trick.... but its just a simple fold and staple. holding the ends in place. it's important to stretch from opposing sides of the frame to pull out all the wrinkles in the fabric, leaving a taut surface to paint over.

lastly the finished product is something to be proud of. fresh white, unblemished space to spread your ideas.

Please chalk up the general disorder of this room to artistic slovenliness.
The last order of my business would be to pull out colors from by cardboard box of goodies and begin raking them across the canvas, 'willy nilly'....

Here it is. A work in beta. I find that i tend to continue working until i like what i see.... Im not sure this one is there yet. But the fight is on.
xx.
-J

Mondays and Leaves

Chilly and breezy, and with any luck, today im over the sickness of the weekend.... I spent something like 17 plus hours in the bed, tirelessly watching poorly produced cinema on netflicks. At the moment I'm lying in bed, bluetoothing some mp3's into my droid2...
paramore.
deathcab.
I need more dance music. Nothing can turn the day around like a solid dance beat, paired with some witty lyrics.

Today began with my solid commitment to heal myself. A weekend is long enough to spend in the throws of what i can only imagine must have been "nebulous 24 hour stomach destroyer. plus fever."
If we cannot heal ourselves, then who can we heal? First stop on this road from perdition was Starbucks. I know, you're thinking... "coffee? upset stomach?" And that was precisely the thought that i had too... So, instead of adding acid to an already complaining acid pit, i went for a refresh tea. Minty. Hot. You could just see the healing oils swirling around on the skin of the steaming water. I sat and sipped for maybe an hour, and read the Times.
The magick mint oils seemed to have done the trick, because by the time i had gotten around to the sports section, i was hungry. And so with the resolve that hunger gives, i set off to The Clock.
Seeing as this would be my first real food in twoish days, of course it would follow that i should try and digest the most unwholesome, ingestion causing, un-adulterated animal lipid oozing, greenville fast-food staple that i could come by.

I dont care what people have to say about The Clock. I love that place. From the moment that you pull in and see the neglected 60's industrial architecture... (with its long tin awnings, where doubtless a bell hop or two used to serve) you know they mean business here. Everyone that works there is old enough to be my dad.... or is an illegal immigrant. And when you walk in the door you can smell a mix of vegetable oil, bacon grease, cold fall air, and stale coffee.
That is precisely what i needed.
A bacon cheese-burger, with fries and slaw. And a pepsi.
Fruit of the gods!
Somewhere between the ketchup, the fries, and the oil sodden burger, my stomach stopped fighting. A beautiful clear coat of golden oil coated its grouchy walls and soothed it into digestion.

This is the truest health food i know of. I know. you're all green with envy.
Well salt readers... time for a bit of laundry folding before heading into work.
The Starbucks where i work should provide hours of monotony, and .... of course wage.
xx.
-J