The sickness. It had started I suppose. It was sickness in the sense that I hadn't necessarily brought it on myself. Atleast... I hadn't developed and immunity to the contagion that I had run into. Just like when you get a blood transfusion... you know because you are a kind of sick of a different sort. But then antigens in the new blood give you yet another illness.
This one had a three month incubation period, and started evidencing symptoms immediately. But honestly, I loved the fever and the chills. I loved it all. Every tiny molecular construction. I breathed it in. And it became compulsion. So much more than the addiction brought to you in part by Phillip Morris and the lust for the American dollar. Hard core. Leather-headed, furious, blundering... enigma.
I can't just blither on in that direction for the entirety of this post though. Suffice it to say that X had become the whole of my thought life. I no longer gave even feigned interest in any other sort of religion. It had grown and wormed its way snake like up and around in behind the back alleys of my heart. And in the truest sense became the botany of my desire.
We traded texts about minutia. It was perfect and it felt like absolution. Texts during class. Text during chapel. Texts that kept you from sleeping and then made sure that you had happy dreams when you finally did. Texts that said 'good morning' and 'goodnight' and 'i miss you.' I never even bothered turning my phone off silent. The repetitive motion of flipping open my motorazer became so familiar that even now I instinctively check my phone 289 times a day. Thank gaga that I didn't have to pay my phone bill back in those times. And that there was an infinite sms allotment. All the same I utterly destroyed more than 4 motorazers... entirely though the pursuits for which the device was intended.
Thanks also be... for the fact that my parents never had the gumption to order transcripts of those conversations over that 3 month incubation period. They would have been shocked into their graves.
I wasn't even planning on going. Between the two off campus jobs that I had and the fast approaching piano examinations towards the end of the school year, sitting in a crowded stuffy room and listening to some old wheezer explain the changes that I needed to make to my personal life wasn't precisely the first thing on my list of afternoon delights. But that's what Bible Conference was really.
In the place of the typical collegiate experience of Spring Break, which as I've come to understand it should be filled with dry mouthed sandy covered scantily clad frat girls and boys challenging each other to drink themselves blind; we had something else entirely. A week of church.
Kind reader, and pray understand... Church 4 times a day. Follow the link if you'd like to have it make a little more delusion.
Forms had to be filled out and filed with the Deans Offices for all of the services that I would be missing due to work obligations. But that was the best that I could do. I was still ending up enduring 5 or 6 before the week was out. Friends and co-workers out and about are still surprised and sometimes a little confused when I relate this past requirement. I get "But... so you don't get a Spring Break?" or "Why... didn't you just skip..." alot.
One memory of these times stands out above the rest. I had managed to make nice with the members of the senate. I tagged along forgetting my Bible on most occasions. I just reasoned that if the entire audience brought theirs, they would be able to fact check the things that the lector said... Who was I to doubt the cross referencing of 6,439 fellow Christians. This was an error on my part. I had taken a seat high up in the balcony of the exhaustive and cavernous building. I did in fact bring along my rather large sketch book and a sharp pointed black sharpie. I knew there must be some value in the story telling and didactic eclecticism I was being bludgeoned with and thus decided to take note. Pictorially.
The preacher started talking about the old ways and customs of the times before internet and cell phones. I immediately began sketching a puritan who I named Gilgoroth. Gilgoroth was a good man. A hard working German immigrant who had sailed to America to grow potatoes, impregnate his smallish wife Olga and practice religion freely. Happy with the way this looked I flipped the page and began listening to what Preachy Face was saying again. hmmmm.
"Our highest moral obligation is in the service of Christ the King! The inspiration for the fabled ASLAN THE LION AND THE KING OF THE TRIBE OF JUDAH!"
Bit much I think Preachy. Never the less I began sketching again. A sort of end-times lioness/siren creature who began stalking Olga from the previous page and luring her away from Golgoroth with the intention of luring and subsequently murdering Olga and her unborn daughter. I named the lioness Aaaslana. Go Aaaslana! Go!
Alright I thought! This is more like it. Make entertainment of you entertainment! I was soon to be noticed by a peevish little blond man with a Bible he had borrowed from some library in Carthage. Massive table sized thing. His quick little eyes shot over to me two rows in front of him. During a standing spell while the crowd was being required to say some chant about how they loved school and hoped that it would live forever, he weaseled his way into the aisle and poked me on the shoulder.
"Where is your Bible?!" He demanded pensively. Face in an angry glare.
"I think your Bible ate it..." I responded listlessly. The people talking around us and I don't think he got it.
"You should be taking notes." He got louder.
"Oh... I am!" I showed him the pages of the sketchbook explaining how the drawings were representative of the Preachers stories.
I don't think he got the creative import of the finely reproduced image of Aaaslana dripping in black human blood... but he got the drift.
"Huff! Well.... Bring your Bible next time!"
Sure... I thought. "You're exactly who I want to be like."
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
Collusion: Part XXVII
When in Rome, do as the Romans do. What a curious phrase. Are we to suspect that all Romans behave in roughly the same manner? Are we to emulate these toga wearing hive- minds only when we can amass the small fortune which it now requires to make the pilgrimage to Rome? Is it meant to suggest that what happens in Rome, like things that happen in Las Vegas, stay in Rome? I can't be certain. I do not know the origin of the phrase. But like most things that become cliche phraseology, I am certain that there is some sliver of wisdom down deep in its origins... and that should we wander down the old paths to Rome, we would surely find the thing that inspired such a phrase and we would doubtless agree with the wisdom at its root.
And why do I mention? Well you see. In a sense, Bob Jones is... as I had come to see it, Rome. With architecture no less idiomatic and a populace no less united. I came to see as well that I, like Caesar... in forging a relationship with X, had made new and dangerous enemies in the Senate... and soon by degrees they would join and make a calculated effort to end me. The floor of the Senate however would look remarkably like the Dean of Men's office, and the little daggers that my former friends the Senate would make use of... were short but no less quick little tongues. Sharp. Wet with truth... with one simple desire. My blood. Et tu Jesus? Et tu?
As that small little coven of my friends washed frenetically through their own irrelevant schedules summer was at the front of everyone's mind. Expulsion was happening at a rate that might have alarmed me had I not experienced it's reality in the years past. Like pop corn that you cook on the stove... one might draw a correlation between the ambient heat of the burning season change and a witless students demise.
I couldn't make it to a recital. I didn't really have time to meet them for lunch. I couldn't have been less interested in their final project for Interior Design 101... Congratulations, you have successfully furnished a dolls house. Certainly this means you were born to win? I could feel it in the looks that I got. Those friends that I was unwittingly making into the ghouls from an espionage film. As I think on it though, I wasn't making them into anything at all. My decisions were simply the catalyst... the one true chemical, the acid that would burn away the charming tarnish of their exteriors and leave them bright and shining... and... a vulgar sort of ugly.
Melodie was taking a class with me called "Story Telling," the main goal of which I think was for her to eventually ensnare me firmly in the vice like grip of the lips of her vagina. A concept which had all the appeal of being thrown down a flight of steps. We spent hours non the less, in a large conference room high up on the third floor of the Gustafson Fine Arts Center. The room looked like the kind of place where you might be called in to do a presentation on global warming or some other mind numbing pig shit.
MC: "I know, but do you think my interpretation of the witches voice might be a little too... scratchy?"
ME: ... I was responding to a text from X and could hardly remember what story she was referencing. Oh.. right Hansel and Gretel. "Uh... well. I thought it was fairly accurate. I mean... I was really convinced that you sounded like a witch." M took this as a compliment, and I'm afraid did not get the sense that I could have been remotely back handed.
MC: "The only thing is... I don't want to go hoarse. If I talk like that for too long.... Maybe I just need to bring a bottle of water to class." She chewed the end of a ball point... distressed.
I've been rather straight forward in my descriptions of Melodie, in the interest of honesty. To be fair, she was unflappably kind to me and I had begun to think about our little practice times as sort of vacation. Up here in the conference room I was mercifully free from prying questions and suspicious member of the Senate. Namely, Ami Jasperson, Eric Inafuku, Christine Dodd, Raymond Swope, Louretta and David Landon... and arguably Tim Johnson. These people are as real as oxygen, and at the time seemed just as dangerous as trying to live without it.
MC: "Joshie! Im just nervous about all of this! I mean, I can talk... you know that! (laughing) But I want to really move people... ya know?"
ME: "You are moving though... Like, I think in a sense.... the goal should be to disappear... and let the story tell itself... right?"
MC: She gave momentary thought to this and then gushed... "You're so right Joshie. I hadn't even thought about it like that."
The conversation bore on... and I was looking forward to getting back to my room and jogging to the Field House for a run on the rubber track up stairs there. Mel started putting away her note books and binders into her big snake skin bag. I noticed she wasn't chitting away like she usually was. I asked her what was on her mind...
She pranced on those ubiquitous black stilettos of hers over to the head of the long dark wood table at the center of the room and firmly gripped the edge of the table as if to brace herself.
She ran her nails through her shiny long hair and tossed it back looking me dead in the eye.
MC: "Well, you know joshie... how you're really my best friend in the whole world. I mean we spend pretty much a lot of time together every day. There's no one that I've been quite so fond of in a while."
ME: "Well I feel the same about you Melly..." I hadn't a clue where she was going...
MC: "Well... seeing that you're not dating anymore... ya know and Im glad about that. That silly Christine was just no good for you..." She was smiling with just a hint of malice...
ME: "Well... that's true..."
MC: "I was just.... I think that there's something between us... Ya know?"
ME: ".... .... (blink) like... the table?"
She laughed at this. Rather cloyingly.
ME: "I guess I don't really see what you mean..."
MC: "There's something really sweet about you! And you're so clever and funny... I've started to have a crush on you... (hair toss) and... I just know you feel it to!"
ME: "I... I. (I was at a loss) I really guess I don't feel the same way. I am... Flattered, that you could feel that way about me, and honored even... but I don't think I can return the sentiment."
There was a silence, and I felt intuitively that I had somehow wounded her. errrrr. uh.
MC: "You're sure... there's like... nothing there? Nothing at all?"
ME: "Yeah... Im sorry... but yeah."
I left the room without ceremony. Congratulations Medlin. Look what you've done. Yet another log on the fire. Yet another sharp knife. At least, I thought as I started my run, when you're on the floor bleeding out... you'll simply have to roll your head to the side to see your own blood pooling ironically around the heels of her gorgeous shoes.
And why do I mention? Well you see. In a sense, Bob Jones is... as I had come to see it, Rome. With architecture no less idiomatic and a populace no less united. I came to see as well that I, like Caesar... in forging a relationship with X, had made new and dangerous enemies in the Senate... and soon by degrees they would join and make a calculated effort to end me. The floor of the Senate however would look remarkably like the Dean of Men's office, and the little daggers that my former friends the Senate would make use of... were short but no less quick little tongues. Sharp. Wet with truth... with one simple desire. My blood. Et tu Jesus? Et tu?
As that small little coven of my friends washed frenetically through their own irrelevant schedules summer was at the front of everyone's mind. Expulsion was happening at a rate that might have alarmed me had I not experienced it's reality in the years past. Like pop corn that you cook on the stove... one might draw a correlation between the ambient heat of the burning season change and a witless students demise.
I couldn't make it to a recital. I didn't really have time to meet them for lunch. I couldn't have been less interested in their final project for Interior Design 101... Congratulations, you have successfully furnished a dolls house. Certainly this means you were born to win? I could feel it in the looks that I got. Those friends that I was unwittingly making into the ghouls from an espionage film. As I think on it though, I wasn't making them into anything at all. My decisions were simply the catalyst... the one true chemical, the acid that would burn away the charming tarnish of their exteriors and leave them bright and shining... and... a vulgar sort of ugly.
Melodie was taking a class with me called "Story Telling," the main goal of which I think was for her to eventually ensnare me firmly in the vice like grip of the lips of her vagina. A concept which had all the appeal of being thrown down a flight of steps. We spent hours non the less, in a large conference room high up on the third floor of the Gustafson Fine Arts Center. The room looked like the kind of place where you might be called in to do a presentation on global warming or some other mind numbing pig shit.
MC: "I know, but do you think my interpretation of the witches voice might be a little too... scratchy?"
ME: ... I was responding to a text from X and could hardly remember what story she was referencing. Oh.. right Hansel and Gretel. "Uh... well. I thought it was fairly accurate. I mean... I was really convinced that you sounded like a witch." M took this as a compliment, and I'm afraid did not get the sense that I could have been remotely back handed.
MC: "The only thing is... I don't want to go hoarse. If I talk like that for too long.... Maybe I just need to bring a bottle of water to class." She chewed the end of a ball point... distressed.
I've been rather straight forward in my descriptions of Melodie, in the interest of honesty. To be fair, she was unflappably kind to me and I had begun to think about our little practice times as sort of vacation. Up here in the conference room I was mercifully free from prying questions and suspicious member of the Senate. Namely, Ami Jasperson, Eric Inafuku, Christine Dodd, Raymond Swope, Louretta and David Landon... and arguably Tim Johnson. These people are as real as oxygen, and at the time seemed just as dangerous as trying to live without it.
MC: "Joshie! Im just nervous about all of this! I mean, I can talk... you know that! (laughing) But I want to really move people... ya know?"
ME: "You are moving though... Like, I think in a sense.... the goal should be to disappear... and let the story tell itself... right?"
MC: She gave momentary thought to this and then gushed... "You're so right Joshie. I hadn't even thought about it like that."
The conversation bore on... and I was looking forward to getting back to my room and jogging to the Field House for a run on the rubber track up stairs there. Mel started putting away her note books and binders into her big snake skin bag. I noticed she wasn't chitting away like she usually was. I asked her what was on her mind...
She pranced on those ubiquitous black stilettos of hers over to the head of the long dark wood table at the center of the room and firmly gripped the edge of the table as if to brace herself.
She ran her nails through her shiny long hair and tossed it back looking me dead in the eye.
MC: "Well, you know joshie... how you're really my best friend in the whole world. I mean we spend pretty much a lot of time together every day. There's no one that I've been quite so fond of in a while."
ME: "Well I feel the same about you Melly..." I hadn't a clue where she was going...
MC: "Well... seeing that you're not dating anymore... ya know and Im glad about that. That silly Christine was just no good for you..." She was smiling with just a hint of malice...
ME: "Well... that's true..."
MC: "I was just.... I think that there's something between us... Ya know?"
ME: ".... .... (blink) like... the table?"
She laughed at this. Rather cloyingly.
ME: "I guess I don't really see what you mean..."
MC: "There's something really sweet about you! And you're so clever and funny... I've started to have a crush on you... (hair toss) and... I just know you feel it to!"
ME: "I... I. (I was at a loss) I really guess I don't feel the same way. I am... Flattered, that you could feel that way about me, and honored even... but I don't think I can return the sentiment."
There was a silence, and I felt intuitively that I had somehow wounded her. errrrr. uh.
MC: "You're sure... there's like... nothing there? Nothing at all?"
ME: "Yeah... Im sorry... but yeah."
I left the room without ceremony. Congratulations Medlin. Look what you've done. Yet another log on the fire. Yet another sharp knife. At least, I thought as I started my run, when you're on the floor bleeding out... you'll simply have to roll your head to the side to see your own blood pooling ironically around the heels of her gorgeous shoes.
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