Collusion: Part XXXVI

What is the human condition? Lately that's all I think about. I don't mean to sound like a stoner. I promise. But the more I think about it, the more I have to say... everything's relative. I'm not talking fringe science or family trees. I'm talking about trajectory. The likelihood that person 'A' will achieve wealth, progeny or perhaps dare I even suggest... popularity. Or to what degree a person would consider said person 'A' would consider a certain amount of pain 'excruciating' and how that's different for every person. I'm only thinking about these things because I was training for a marathon in February. I've been tricked into it by my run partner. She did the NYC a month ago or so. I wonder if I'm capable of those distances. I mean... It has to be like everything else right? You can do it... it just depends how much of yourself you're willing to give away to do that.

I've always thought that the amount of yourself that you're willing to throw into something is the driving factor in the trajectory of our achievements. And it is the degree of cost that we find   outlandish that differs person to person. There are other tangents to consider. But let's be honest... Most people earn what they get and the people that haven't should be shot in public. Or maybe lynched. Maybe I could head an advisory board for lynchings. For worthless people. I digress.

I was signed up for it. Tom Grimble didn't even ask me if it was ok. He said I should do it, and that it would give me a chance to debut the Tan Dun pieces. I dragged a bag of books into his office. His office that always smelled like melted vanilla wax and carpet cleaner. All around the room was little decorative trinkets that previous students had gotten for him. Tacky cursivy things. Thank you for this. We love you for that. I judged him for those trinkets.

"How are you today Josh?" He asked as I came in and plunked my bag on one of the chairs by the wall. "You look... tired."

I wanted to thank him for his observation. How between working full time, and part time grad work, and living thirty minutes from school I hadn't quite had the luxury of waking each morning at 9 am to the paper and a soft boiled egg.

"I'm..... alright." I said rather disinterestedly. "It's... my schedule is tight. Ya know."

"How are things?... With work?" He asked. Tom is such a curious man to describe. He had grown one of those Italian mustaches long ago in the 90's and for whatever reason allowed it to reside on his face. He's one of those larger people, that have an odd grace and fluidity to their movements about a room. So much so that I often thought to myself, that Tom Grimble moved about like the a cloud... Like the Holy Spirit who led the Children of Israel by day through the desert to the promised land.
He was desperately interested in my personal life. Who was I dating. How my job was going. You know, I can't really knock him for that. He was trying to do his job well. He was trying to be a nice guy. He's one of the few people from school that I think wanted me to be happy. Who had thought through what it may be like for me not to be happy.

"I want you to perform for Mrs Gingery. She's doing a work shop this weekend. Are you working Saturday?"

"I.... " thought through my obligations. I was in the middle of memorizing. I would spend an hour on a page. Close the book and try to play through the page without looking. One page at a time. One piece at a time. Performance time was close to an hour. That meant six months of memorization for me. 2 Hours a day with the piano. Me. The piano and a book.
"I think I'm not working until later that after noon? Tell me about Mrs. Gingery..."

"Well" He was checking his email with his back to me. "She's retired from the music faculty here. I want you to play Tan Dun for her. The pieces haven't premiered at this school, and I think she could be very interested to hear them." Tom always spoke with a kind a lethargy. Due in part to acute back pain from a horrible fall some time ago, and also... That's just how musicians are. They speak as if they are imparting the divine secrets of the universe. It's something that happens as a result of whispering to one another during performances.

"I guess I can do it.."
"Well of course you can do it."

"I'm... just not so sure about some of the rhythms on this page..." I pointed to a folio I pulled out of my book sack. "I've been listening to the recordings for days... and I still don't think I'm getting it right. Can we look at it?" I wouldn't have been happy half-assing it. Workshop or no. Music school is like a quiet pageant. We each take our turns performing at different venues. There are those who get nods from teachers... and there are those who don't.

"Listen. I can't be there either. I'd like to go to introduce you to Mrs. Gingery, but there will be two others from the studio there. She's a lovely woman."

We spent the rest of the hour after praying briefly re-working the rhythm of the first page of the Tan Dun. 8 Memories in water color. Delicate and precise little wood cuts of pieces. Dun had said enough, but not too much. The works were sharp, and they turned quickly from one idea to another. They rushed about spilling money in the street and ending quietly... stealthily even. Reworking the piece was tant-amount to pulling the stitching out of a garment because a line wasn't correct... and re-stitching by hand. Think about teaching yourself to type all over again if the letters swam around and re-organized themselves at will. That's it.

The day was at hand. I was going to be late as well. I tripped up the steps to Stratton Hall and nearly ran around the corner into David Landon who was skittering off on his lanky legs heading towards the Dinning Common.
"Hey Med-head! Just you watch where you're going!" Nasal tall person voice.
"Shut up Landon. Im late for a show."

I was trying to do some sort of controlled panting as I closed the door to the Orchestra Room. There was a echoing 'chunk' from my closing the door and the sound bounced around the room. Eight students sat in chairs around the piano and Mrs Gingery stood one small white hand rested on the piano. She looked exactly like Mrs. Doubtfire. Every last hair. The voice was different though. She was of course a musician. She breathed sunlight from the mountains.

"Mr. Medlin. Will you please come sit down? We're just going to go around the room. And discuss each piece as we come to it." She said this quietly and here eyes sparkled in a watery old-person kind of way.

Each of my associated took there turns. Chin held high. Elbows up. Perfect. Perfect.
As my turn came, I slunk to the piano and announced my piece. Gave a brief description of the artist and genre. Sat down and began. Clipped through the piece like a pony at the state fair.

There was a little stretch where I was applauded. Just a little one.
Then Mrs Ginger began to speak.
"Well... There's certainly some explaining to do here!" She chuckled a little.
"Oh?" I said... I could feel 16 eyes on me. The room was hot. Suddenly.
"Did you perhaps notice... " she began again... "That here and here," She pointed with a red pen... "you botched the triplet patterns."
"Oh?" I felt like I was getting smaller. Like I was shrinking into the leather bench. My eyes widened and my vision glossed. This was gonna be bad.


I was right. It was bad.


She kept on talking. About how my tone was too dry. How my articulation could have been tighter. How if I had been an adequate student I might have performed well. How one day I would ascend to the great heights that she had. As she spoke in my mind she walked up steps... up a high mountain of judgement. And.. I guess I deserved it.

I hadn't prepared like I wanted to. I hadn't checked my performance against a metronome. I wasn't a serious artist. I was a hack. I was a hack in front of 8 of my peers.

Later that week I consulted with Tom. We talked about how I got lynched. And why.
He and I worked it over again. Cut the stitches. Pulled out the thread. Re-stitched the entire piece. Sewed it back together like it should have been.

Later that week, I wrote a piece myself. I learned what it meant to place a tempo as you intended it. Rests where you wanted them to be. And pitches exactly perfect. And then it made sense.

Composers weren't doing this because they wanted to be assholes. They didn't write things because they wanted you to be gap faced at their magnificence. (I'm talking about everyone but Franz Liszt. He was an attention whore. ) They wanted you to feel what they felt about a sound. They wanted you to be convinced that a sound was just as beautiful as they thought it was. They wanted you to believe I think that for a moment, you weren't listing to music. You were listening as an Artist called down sunlight from the mountains, and imparted the divine secrets of the universe.

Addendum

I have a tiger in my chest, 

It's cage was spun from silk.

Woven daily, and precise,

It purrs, I feed it milk.

The cage that I am weaving,

Keeps the tiger hidden deep.

But at night his playground- jungle,

Is my mind while I sleep.

This monster of my keeping,

Is strong and swift and white, 

He was not meant for taming, 

but for murder in the night. 

With new rope I hide em daily, 

sew him out of sight and thought, 

The isolation keeps me living, 

but the peace is labor bought. 

I found him just a kitten, 

I took him to my house to play, 

But now, he's grown to prowl and hunt,

And break and kill his prey.

I have a tiger in my chest, 

containment, lust and lies.

So mend the fence, and lock the cage,

and if he's loose, we die.

Collusion: Part XII

Words. Powerful words. They take shape and leave our mouths. Such harmless little things made out of carbon dioxide. Little puffs of a toxin and a bit of vibration made with teeth and tongue. Or little symbols on white paper. These are the tools that we use to fabricate community. How odd that stubby doses of poison should give us so much... should become a deity of sorts making so many choices for us.

Collusion celebrated 1,000 page views this week and I cant think of a better way to slide into Christmas than by inviting my friends and my foes to collude with me. To follow the pied piper. To admit to ourselves if only for those moments that we share with our thoughts and a computer screen that corruption is everywhere. It is who we are. It's the one thing that you can be sure of in any new person that you meet. And why is corruption so pervasive, you might ask? That's simple! because its so delicious.

Christmas break droned on. We chopped wood for the fireplace. A great hulking thing that's the centerpiece of the largest room in my house. Enormous 13 and 15 foot logs my dad had chainsawed into submission were piled up in my back yard at the edge of the woods; and every other day or so my brother, or my dad or myself would take an axe and cut away enough wood for the next couple of cold nights.
I'm from a very close-nit community. In a town that cant have a population of more than 3000 people. Its so rural as to be cliche. As ive mentioned before, people farm there. They have all their lives. Their fathers did, and their father's fathers did. Our neighbors all came to church with us. A church which my father had left the sins of his wild youth to found, and one which he continues to lead to this day. As i consider it, most of my early musical training was intended for use in worship. As a result, I have a mental database of hundreds of hymn tunes that I can play with my eyes closed, in any key. When I was home over Christmas break I fell neatly back into the roles that I had played before. At home and at church as well. All told it was a congregation of about 40 people. The number changed from season to season as southern people tend to have disagreements about such highly important religious matters as women who wear pants and those obviously diabolical members of the congregation who attend movie theaters. No joke. Anyways, our church services met twice on sundays and once on wednesday nights. We all met in a beige corrugated metal church building in the middle of a seven acre field of green lawn, behind one of those stone and metal church signs that you can rearrange letters on. You can make them say whatever you like...

"POT LUCK THIS SUNDAY!"

or

"DO RIGHT 'TIL THE STARS FALL"

or

"CHCH. WHAT'S MISSING!? U R!"

My dad was mostly responsible for these messages. One could always rely on them to be inspiring. The members of the church were the most fascinating group of people on the planet. All ok, plain folks with thick syrupy accents. Loud women who wore too much mascara, and ate too much red meat. And quiet men who sat beside these women.

I liked church. I loved the routine of it all. The ritual. We gather... sing old old songs about christ's blood and its power to make us perfect. We'd pray, or be lead in prayer... and then my father would preach a message about sin. Faith. Or the evils and destructing force of extra marital sex. His sermons were all peppered with his own brand of gawdy obvious humor. I have so memorized the lilting pace of my fathers sermons that i can predict what he's going to say next. It's a type of relationship that not many people have the opportunity to experience with their fathers and as such I feel quite lucky to have grown up that way. Each facet of my fathers belief system was made plainly evident written out in hour after hour of monologue. Layers and walls. A labyrinth of hedges looping and twisting into a maze of 'do' and 'do nots.' Sermon after sermon I received a powerful view of this bank of rules.... Fascinating and complex.

The music leader at my church is named Charles. Charles McMillan. He's a man of colossal girth. I estimate that he weighs very close to five hundred pounds, and oddly enough is still mobile. He's been a friend of the families for as long as i could remember. Apparently at one time he was quite average size, but from what ive been able to gather; a love interest in college left him with emotional scars that he had tried to patch up with lots and lots of brisket. Charles is roughly 46 years old. He has been in charge of all the songs sung, and all the notes played at our little community church for very close to 10 years i suppose. Charles and I had been cordial to one another since I had met him until one day when I had prepared a little piano piece for church, he told me that i was "never going to be a good pianist unless i learned to read music." As you can imagine... the comment did very bad things for a cordial relationship.  My playing from sight was remedial at best. Lessons had been cast away patch work things with hit or miss training from country bumpkins who owned pianos. Ah well.
From that moment however Charles and I became mortal enemies. If the both of us were in a room you could feel the temperature drop. The water vapor in the air would instantly crystallize. Charles was part of the reason for my pursuing piano so decidedly throughout highschool... and undeniably had something to do with my two year stint with bulimia when I was 17 and 18.

During holiday services Charles and I danced our icy dance of cordiality and hatred like two quiet little pageant queens; needing attention much as daisies need sunlight. And so i passed away the few days that remained of my break from school. In a very few days i would return to what was sure to be hostile environment. I would be stronger than those boys at school though. They'd see. They wouldn't break me.

Collusion: Part XI

6 or 7 thousand of us students and faculty piled row upon row in Founders Memorial Amphitorium. 'Amphitorium' is a made up word...Perhaps it was invented in an attempt to convey the idea that this was a building like no other. I know not. Either was its what the mammoth building is called. Its roughly 6 stories high and wide enough that it would take you 6 minutes to walk from one end to the other at a normal pace. There are hundreds of rows of rainbow colored fold down theater-style seats that follow a gradual decline in the floor towards a grand stage. A balcony seats about two thousand more. I've been in the building at night before... when the lights were out and no one else was there. The space can give you the feeling of being in the largest cave imaginable. One could very easily play baseball here and not feel like they were lacking space.
The building was used every day for something or another. At eleven a.m., Monday through Thursday everyone is required to attend 'chapel' here. All students report here from the far reaches of campus, which may require a bit of running or brisk walking to get there in time. You must be in your seat at precisely 11 a.m.. If you're late you will be given demerits.

The service begins and a chorus master walks onto the stage. He instructs the mass of students to find one hymn or another in the blue hymnals that can be found in little brown wooden cubbies on the back of each seat. The gathering raises quite a lot of sound, filling the august space with a rich albeit somber music. Precisely we praise mystic hebrew god. In less clinical metrics... all together. After two hymns another speaker emerges from the row of ancients that find their seats lining the back of the stage. (Theses are all the highest member of the authority... many of them of a great age.) He would make a few remarks on the day and the lead us in chanting the university creed. A monologue that all first years had to memorize within the first three weeks at school. Together we stood and recited.

"I believe in the inspiration of the bible. both the old and the new testaments. the creation of man by the direct act of god. the incarnation and virgin birth of our lord and savior jesus christ. his identification as the son of god. his vicarious atonement for the sins of mankind by the shedding of his blood on the cross. the resurrection of his body from the tomb. his power to save men from sin. the new birth through the regeneration by the holy spirit. and the gift of god, which is eternal life."

The chant had become such an integral part of campus culture that it was often spoken in a hollow and conviction-less tone. No matter. Conviction or not... when seven thousand people chant something everyday... it has a tendency to stamp itself into your mind. It becomes the sediment and silt of your thoughts.

The day that we were all set to be released for Christmas break there was one of these such services. We sang Christmas tunes and chanted our chant. And Dr. Bob Jones III took the stage to wish us well and safe travels to our homes. And that was that. Semester over. All my exams had gone well.
I said my goodbyes to my little group of friends and of course thought the better of saying anything at all to my brown skinned room-mates. It's such a burden being Caucasian.  

Mom and dad picked me up at the appointed hour. All my bags and things that i was taking home were waiting expectantly in a neat little pile on the sidewalk in front of my dormitory. The two hour drive home was as quiet as a funeral. My brother and sister had tagged along. Mom and Dad offered questions about how I was and how my final test scores had gone. I was at best non-committal about it all. I would not complain about how things had been. This was a choice that i had made. I would present the bucolic ideal of my introduction to college as best i could. I began a collusion of sorts with my family. That is what this story is about after all; isnt it? I would only let them see what they needed to see. Besides... it would be nice to put everything away and just have a nice Christmas. I sat in the back seat of the suburban and stared out the window as the city retracted and trees and fields began to fill up the space left by buildings and parking lots.

That first Christmas was so welcome. It was nice to take a look at my family dynamic in comparison to the building full of testosterone driven repressed cave dwellers that i had been living with. This Christmas was a new one. A different one. I savored the relics of my childhood and yes even mourned their loss.

I baked cookies and wrapped the gifts that I had saved and bought for my parents, brother and sister. My carefully controlled existence had begun to reveal itself to be far from my ability to govern. So that Christmas i learned perhaps the most valuable of life lessons... that we are but the students of life's changes. That adaptation is to be considered our greatest strength. That true godliness could be found in the simplest of acts of kindness, one person to another.

Three weeks of yule therapy had got me into a better state of mind. I had plans for these who opposed me at school and they would suffer the consequences of standing in my way. My optimism was no where near weakened. I would return to the kitchen, and the piano, and my books.

My sister and i were very close then and many nights during the break we would spend out in the night time chatting on the trampoline... Talking about everything. It was nice to know that some bonds stayed strong no matter what... and would never need mending.

Collusion: Part VII

Morning creeps in through the metal blinds of the room. 200 alarm clocks have been set to roughly 12 minute intervals beginning at 5 am; all along the hall. The rest of the room didn't have classes at eight am. They had planned their schedules around the luxury of rising at 10 am. I would come to realize this was a common wisdom amongst students, and it was only my in-experience and freshmen class availability that had forced me to begin the learning process in the dead of night.

Leap from the top bunk. More or less land gracefully. Stagger. Slip into my flip-flops. The room is fuzzy at this point and filled with little grunts and sleep sounds from the other constituents. Towel. Shower caddy. Then a trudge down the hall to the showers.
Twelve or thirteen more of the cement and tile, military style showers that were so common here. Now was a good time to shower, because i wouldn't find myself waiting in a line to do so... the closer the clock came to 8:30 am, the more likely you were to be waiting in a line, 5 men deep. This was certainly not how i had come to think of bathing before school. Before here, showering was something that was equal parts sanitation and therapy... think, Calgon commercial... or, a Dove ad in Seventeen.
Not so here. It was just another part of commerce. To be completed as quickly as possible. Lather up... Spray yourself off. Offer polite conversation to other shower members.... but only if they begin the conversation. If other members of the shower happen to be singing, it is impolite to giggle, chortle, or guffaw, regardless of their pitch and tone. You must never enter the shower without sandals of some sort. The floors ( and likely more surface areas of the showers than I'm comfortable thinking about ) are crawling/ swimming with bacteria of every sort. Ebola. Hantavirus, Athletes foot, tennis elbow, and scurvy. It would be fool hardy to consider ones immune system strong enough to withstand attacks from the shower floor. If you cut yourself shaving, you'd better have good insurance.

I returned to the room to dress and the time keeping the pulse of the clock, as being late to a class was something that i could not allow myself to do. I did not want run-ins with the Authority. I was in the habit of styling my shorty-short brown hair with a product not un-like roofing caulk. Think hedgehogs with crew cuts. Already i had begun to re-style myself to send subtle messages about my individuality apart from the confines of Almighty Handbook. As far as i could tell, dress categories here amongst students could be more or less follow the major divisions of the Cast, and the styles would follow the divisions respectively, from most popular to least.
Dress Clues to Cast Membership:

Prep: Generally a style most used by members of the upper strata of the Cast, Prep males were outfits that fit like they were tailored for them. P-coats in the winter or trench in the rain. They carry their books in leather bags that they sling over their shoulder. Colors are conservative, or ever so occasionally gem tone. Ties in patterns that can be found in 17th century French wallpaper. Hair styles deviate ever so slightly from the confines of AH.... the slightest stylistic variation to send a message.... I was learning quickly how these messages worked. Female Preps were much easier to spot. Just look down. A heel of three inches and higher worn daily almost always indicates membership in this style block. Pencil skirts are quit common, as well as knee length tailored wool coats worn in the winter with scarves and pearls. After looking down, look up. female Preps wear their hair in voluminous slightly curled-volumized-shiny shoulder length manes. They spend hours cultivating this look in the morning. They carry all of their scholastic needs for the day in a large purse. Large enough to fit a laptop, and two books. These purses are commonly made of leather, or faux snake-skin. Dress colors vary, but stick to a common theme of slate and jewel tones.

Common American Eagles: The broadest stylistic block. This group contains members of all sections of the Cast. As the name indicates, anything that American Eagle sells, goes. That's nearly all i need to say. Females in this style block almost always wear ballet flats. Males choose khaki distressed chinos and button downs in colors that it would be easy to ignore. Leather shoes.

The Shunned: These were the rest of the population. The ones who hadn't attached large portions of their ego to the cost of the threads on their backs. Tennis shoes or cousins of the tennis shoe are common among both genders. Males wear button downs in a solid color... and they are often one half size too large; and/or pleat fronted chinos in navy blue. You must at all cost avoid dressing beneath your allotment in the cast.

Introduction to Music Literature.

It was one of the core classes for any music major here and as such was quite populous. Any student who had planned to perform or teach anything in the musical realm would have to take this class at some point along their journey. The class was lead by a short and delicately precise man named Fred Coleman. He drove at break-neck speeds, giving sweeping over-views of a large portion of Western Music.  On the first day of class heir Coleman instructed that we should feel the liberty of referring to him affectionately as ‘Uncle Fred.’ I chose not to. I decided that there was quite enough fantasy here without having to imagine that I was related to the teachers. His teaching style was quite theatrical. He came up with clever acronyms for remembering important names and dates, and once or twice leaped onto the bench of the 9 foot Steinway to make a point and awaken a few of the members of the class. Even though it was a three credit class it had the reputation of being as easy as yawing, and thus lured in students with such far reaching majors as ‘Missions’ and ‘Counseling’ or ‘Being A Virtuous and Child Bearing Woman.’

It was absolute foolishness for me to have taken the class first semester, topping off my work-load at 20 credits straight out of the gate. I had nothing to compare the work-load with, however, and so thought nothing of it. This was one of the classes that i didn’t study for. Five or six rows 20 people long filled with bright eyed pupils converged in a large diamond shaped room precisely at three o’clock in the afternoon Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. A sweeping variety of the social strata were represented, and as we were seated by our last names; I would be situated between a quiet, mousy-brown haired Jane Doe Groupie and a mute Seriously Serious Musician.

Time was moving quickly to the point where everyone should have chosen their opposing-gender companions for Artist Series. I had no idea where to begin. Women out-numbered men on the campus two to one. Perhaps because statistically women tend to pursue higher education more these days…. Or it could be because they’re more likely to believe that wearing panty hose would grant you special privileges in the after-life. Be that as it may, if I had too I could resort to making a randomized phone call to one of the woman’s dormitories…. Whoever. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Just pick one. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. I would need to come up with something soon though. I would by no means allow that barrel-chested puppet of the regime, Roland, to predict my social arrangements. 

There were a few minutes before class started in which the students were shuffling their things around willy-nilly and chattering about assignments or other events. At the beginning of the semester moods were light and the students felt free to cross the boundaries of the social strata. A love of music was the common thread. It was a room full of people who in some way or another, worshipped beauty. Same as me.

I was bored with the people sitting beside me, so I turned around to survey the row behind. Girls. Perfect. I scanned the row homing in on those who looked like they were closest matches to my own situation in the Cast. My eyes darted around quickly assessing tiny details in dress or conversation. Assessment 100% complete.

Me: “Hello!” I said brightly. “I’m Josh! What’s you’re name?” I offered the girl behind me in a tinsel covered tone.

Girl: “I’m Christine.” She replied. Her tone was quizzical. She had a smirky look on her face… like I was speaking elvish or something. “I know who you are.”

Target Acquired. Parameters set… This would be my female companion to required entertainment. Christine was an inch shorter than me and had shoulder length ash blonde hair that fell gracefully to her shoulders. Straight white teeth. Im quite partial to people with good dental hygiene. She had fascinatingly large blue eyes the color of a frozen lake. Gray blue. She used them to regard me with skepticism.

Me: “Hey…. So…. Do you have any plans for Artist Series?”

Christine: “Not yet.” Languid. Emotionless. Complicated.I liked her already.

Me: “Well…. Hm…. Wanna go with me?”

My tactlessness amused her. I amused her in general. At least that what her smallest of smiles indicated.

“Sure.” She said.

Click.

Mission accomplished. We talked a little more before class started. I attempted to sculpt away the awkwardness of my introduction/invitation with a bit of humor. Fred started the class with a prayer. He asked mystic Hebrew god to guide the class towards knowledge… I listened intently and took pages of notes. I would soak up everything he had to say.

Collusion: Part VI

My classes were stacked on top of one another in precision. Tonal Harmony. Speech. English 102. Lunch. Choir. History of Civilization. Orientation. Spanish. Then... mercifully enough... it was off to the kitchens. How odd I thought, that i should find relief in that steamy, noisy metal plated bunker. But find relief i did. There were other venues for thought there and most of them included re-traying meatloaf.

One of my fellow 'cooks' lived on my hall. He and I would strike up conversations at work. Mostly about how ridiculous this all was. Richard Reece was a good foot or so taller than me... with broad features and black hair. His accent smelled like Boston... or at least like it had driven through Boston. I didn't know they kept naming people 'richard' after 1953... but he had said that was his name; and i believed him.
We usually worked the same shift. The one that fell after the lunch rush.... So it was our responsibility to put away left overs and start dinner.

50 Stainless steel trays of leftover meatloaf needed to be re-trayed, covered in plastic wrap and wheeled on a 5 foot tall aluminum cart to the cavernous walk-in refrigerator. (One of 3 room sized refrigerators that averaged about 12 feet by 16- 20 feet.) I would drag my book-bag and my worries into the locker room in the basement, find the smallest uniform i could (being 5'6'' and weighing 120 pounds made that difficult when all the uniforms were designed for males) and leave all my stress and confusion with chord function and dangling modifiers with my book sack, in my locker.
The locker room smelled like sweat, stagnant water, and granulated carpet detergent. Or a combination of each of those. All the students who worked in the kitchens had to come there and suit-up first... I never spoke to anyone in the locker room. Not because I didn't know anyone's name who might have happened to be stowing their books away and putting on a uniform.... it just seemed un-natural to be conversational, or chatty in such a place. To be jovial in a basement room lined with avocado green lockers, and a variety of carpet patches on the cement floor.... a room with a adjacent military-style style showers.... it just seemed vulgar. 

The anxiety over academic failure.... even though i had yet to expect failure.... blew over me like a strong, hot, summer wind. Like the wind before a thunder storm. As you can see, regardless of my early social programming, I had become extremely self motivated, and had even attached self- worth to my performance in every arena. Somehow though, there was no wind in the kitchen. The kitchen meant work. If there was anything that i could not fail at..... it was transferring 302 lbs of left-over meatloaf slices into shiny new stainless buffet trays, stretching clear plastic wrap over them, and push-pulling a cart full of trays to the gigantic refrigerator.

Sometimes it was chicken patties. Sometimes it was a vegetable that had been baked to within-an-inch-of-it's-life. Sometimes it was those 6'' little pizzas... but it was always the same process. Richard Reece was usually involved with getting a start on dinner. Which meant that he and the Staff Cooks would be lumbering around the Steam Pots... boiling 20 or so chickens at a time, turning 40 gallons of salty water into macaroni and paste, or punching frozen brussel sprouts out of their cardboard cartons, and into a vat of steaming seasoned stock. What would Julia Childs have said? It would have reduced her to tears. She would have been a broken woman.

At any given moment the Kitchen was populated by 20 plus workers. All clad in their white matching suits and tennis shoes that they wouldn't have minded throwing away. (I think that last sentence contained a dangling-modifier.... but in hind-sight I dont think any of the workers would have minded throwing away their works shoes, or their uniforms.) These twenty sum workers were either busy in the bakery department, having gargantuan machines kneed bread, or working in the basement fork-lifting pallets of macaroni to the elevator, or cooking with the Steam Pots, or even sometimes, in the very darkest corners of the kitchen basements.... i had heard that they butchered cattle. A fact that would be much later confirmed by my discovery of a bovine corpse in a large rubber trash can.

In the midst of all this commerce. In the very center of the kitchens.... there was a space reserved for mostly empty stainless tables... and me. Collect the leftovers. Re-pan the leftovers. Drag foods to the majestic cold room. The whole process was so very repetitious.... so delightfully designed, that there was nothing my mind needed to do here. In the continuity of a physical action, i could allow my thoughts to relax... and the tensions of my mind to evaporate. I used a large white plastic scoop for more liquidic food stuffs... or tongs for others. Maybe it was all the steam, maybe it was the fact that this part of my life was so un-like class or piano... But in the most profound irony, this place of gore and metal and blood, was my own little mecca.
I had a set list of very simple tasks. Most of them including meatloaf... but all the same, the tasks were simple... and no one was grading me on my ability to scoop peas.
My work hours would pass along. Not fast... Not slow really, and soon enough i would trudge down to the little room with all of those forlorn looking lockers and its naked bony showers, and id collect my things.

After stopping and practicing piano for a couple hours, my motivation to practice would fizzle out, and i headed back to my room.
Ramon and Chester were at their usual exploits. Fraternizing with the other troglodytes on the hall... being loud and making what Im sure what would have been considered witty snide remarks about my bookishness.... albeit, they might have only been considered 'witty' in the shanty-town countries of the boys' origin. I was working on a bit of homework when the hall leader pushed through a raucous tumble of boys who passed themselves as adults in some circles. Yes, the dormitory was always like this... and unrelenting drama of post-adolescent hormonal sociopaths... talking, laughing, and breaking into un-explainable wrestling matches.

Josh Roland was our Resident Assistant. Hall Leader. Sheriff of the third-floor west wing. I was his job to prevent action against the Almighty Handbook. He took his obligations seriously... the raucous in the hall was precisely why he was here. After making a group of boys stop bowling in the hall, he stepped in to say hello.
Roland was the picture of former highschool-football star, and by extension was a Handsome Soccer Player. One of 12 or so siblings that looked exactly like him, his father was a devout christian doctor in the vein of Doctor Quinn Medicine Woman.... a father who, i assume did not believe in birth control.
How Roland became both popular, and powerfully situated in The Authority, is probably a novel in and of itself. Broad shoulders. Obvious indention in the chin. Blue eyes and extensive self confidence. I think once or twice he appeared in promotional literature for the school. Glossy photo.... glowing credentials.... etc. etc.

Roland appeared through the dust from the crowd, and immediately engaged me in conversation.

JR: "Hey! You're Josh right?" (slight hair toss, and overtly pensive look.)
Me: "Yup... that's me...." (rubs eyes and offers blank expression...)
JR: "How's it goin' man? What ya sudyin' there?"
Me: "Harmony... its.... great...." (More bland expressions.)
JR: "Cool... is ah, Mr. Flowers still teaching first year a that?"
Me: "Yeah. I like it. He's slow.... easy to keep up with."

Roland at this juncture began making his was through the room taking a look of everyone's things, as if they were relics of a lost civilization. He settled on my alarm clock, which due to the fact that so little space in the room was left for me to claim when i arrived, was over across the room on my dresser. It was amazingly over sized, plain faced clock made out of chrome. Hammer and bells and all.

JR: ''Is this thing real?"
Me: "Do you mean, 'is it a clock?' or 'does it exist?" I quarried.
JR: (chuckles; eye roll) "I mean, does it work..." He plowed on.
Me: "Yes. It functions as it was intended." (Blinks.)

I was beginning to lose faith in establishing intelligent thought flow, outside of the class room. Never the less, I was not the instigator of this conversation, and could think of no way to end it without transgressing polity.

JR: "So who're you taking to artist series? You're a freshman right?"
Me: "Yeah, I am... What's artist series?"
JR: "It's where everyone gets dressed up and goes to a concert in the auditorium.... They throw one every coupla months. You invite a girl and buy her flowers.... ya know, it's kinda formal."
Me: (Blinks) "Oh. I think i remember reading something about that in the calender of events. When is that?"
JR: "It's in a couple weeks. I mean it's ok if you don't take a date.... Not all the freshmen get dates."
Me: (More Blinks) "Do I have to go?"
JR: (Ironic laughter) " Yeah... haha. You have to... but they're pretty cool usually."
Me: (moans... shoulder slump.) "Oh... great."

Whatever Roland had left to say has been deleted from my memory, with a slew of everything else that was un-memorable about him. Artist Series. Yet another challenge had presented itself. A formal event he said? hm.... I thumbed through the calendar of events to discover more about this mystery.
hm. Dates. Hmmmmm. The Freshmen don't usually get dates? Hm....
The concept of required entertainment was confusing... but then, there were so many other requirements here that i couldn't force logic behind that i didn't bother trying to make sense of it. It was something that must be done. Just like study. Just like leftovers. Just like piano.

Roland made his was elsewhere and when he left, the rabble in the hallways turned back to their bowling. Bells rang.... Prayers. Larry crawled out of his cocoon long enough to read a few passages from Proverbs, while Chester and Ramon carried on a conversation about something hilarious in Spanish. The were giggling like absurd little girl scouts. More bells. Lights-out.
I laid awake, pondering this new revelation.... Formal event, in which decorum required that i request the company of a female.... hm.... Work had made me tired. When i slept i had dark dreams.... I dreamed of a black forest with wolves. I could hear the wolves. I could hear them, but i couldn't see them.

Collusion: Part V

You know that thing people say sometimes? When you're parting? Maybe a friend or an acquaintance that you might not see again for a while. Sometimes at that little juncture... they say "take care of yourself." Take care of yourself.
In that small moment of kindness they offer one of the many cliche phrases that have been programmed into the social fabric. "See ya soon." "Great seeing you!" or one of several affable options that social context provides option for. Thoughtless we say these things. Thoughtless we toss the phrase aside... like so many other things in our lives that are as easily discarded.
This little piece of advice, however draped in common clothing is invaluable.
What have we but ourselves? Our bodies and minds.... And should we ignore this cast-away of conversation filler... We are lost.

This tiny pearl of information became bright and evident... in stark relief for me in the first month of school. Much as there might be inclination to let circumstances, room-mates or schedule... class even eat away at your sense of being... it must not be this way. We must make reservation for our own happiness... no matter what the strength of our will. If we don't take care of ourselves... who will?

The first week was so filled with things that i needed to accomplish as to be foggy in my memory. There was my audition for my major. As it turns out, if you're planning to major in Piano Performance... the school wants to hear some kind of proof that you can play the piano. I had been preparing for the audition feverishly for most of the year before. I played Rachmaninoff. I played a Bach matched set of prelude and fugue. C minor i think. And then the piece i was most proud of.... Beethoven's piano sonata Opus 10 Number 1. It was a reflection of the way things worked in my mind. Balance. The most delicate balance. Just like the work, though, i was filled with passion. Passion to do well and to be above all things; perfect. A rhythmic exactitude held this passion in check and kept me from over speaking.... But still that heinous desire was there.

Over the summer before I had spent hours.... weeks and weeks of hours perfecting and polishing. Articulating the precision of phrase.... the sparse pedaling.... and guiding the soulful angst of the piece. All of the pieces were memorized, per requirement by the entrance committee. Repetition and memory made the work a part of me and wrote each line on my finger bones. My joys became the high exuberant lines of the work and my fears and angers grew into a great sea that swelled into the crescendi and crashed on the shore as tiny sea gulls flew away with the staccato.

Three faculty members of some age heard my pieces. Two men and a woman. It was like standing naked in front of strangers. Nerves flooded by blood stream with endorphins.... i felt like i could run for miles.
I nailed the performance. I didn't miss a note. What's more... for a little bit the oddest thing happened. I was communicating. I was sharing.... something beautiful. This was the art of the 'great un-said.'

There was a slight hang up however.... This isnt a hallmark movie after all. I could sight read. But i was doing it several grade levels below what was expected. My growth of expression and memory was thwarted by being a slow reader. I was still sounding out the consonants and vowels of the little riff i was given to sample. It was embarrassing. So much that i ignored the stifling social decorum of the exam.... and asked out-right if that was going to keep me out of the major.
I'm sure they could all hear the fear in my voice.
No. It wouldn't keep me from studying.
The lady judge offered comment. "It's a bit strange that you're playing literature that some don't see until their junior year, and you're reading like a junior high student.... but it's nothing preventing your study."
She said this with as little affectation as if she had been commenting on the weather. Particularly bland weather.

Relief. The kind of relief that one must feel after giving birth. And i had a healthy baby. I'd grown it within me for almost a year.... and there. It was done. It was fine. Everything was going to be just fine.

The rest of the day after the audition... i wandered around campus with a sickening smile on my face. I was walking a good three feet taller than anyone had a right too. All those months of worrying and preparing.... and perfecting every tiny detail... and now i had earned the right to be called a musician.
Sunshine leaked out of my mouth and my ears and my eyes. I was happy. More than happy. I was soaked in happiness.... I was swimming in happiness.
I called my mom. Speaking too fast... so excited... more electricity in my voice than the cell phone.
Rounds of congratulations.

My dad congratulated me, but there was no way for him to understand the momentousness of the situation. I had conquered Rome.... but to him i had just gotten my drivers license. Ah well. I didnt need him to understand exactly.
There were woodland creatures following me around and singing. There were milk-maids dancing in the street.... all the hills were alive with the sound of music.

I levitated back to my dorm room to find Larry in a predictable position. Coiled in his bottom bunk whispering to his cell phone. I often wondered what the possibilities were of having a conversation with anyone for the lengths that Larry had with Gypsy Girlfriend. Spoiler alert.... the relationship ended. Surprise. It lasted for a few eye-roll inducing months. The other room-mates were out and about. I was sure they were out vilifying some of the least popular members of the student body.

As i settled into homework there was talk on the hall of an Artist Series fast approaching. What was an 'artist series?' i wondered... I had practice to do. I had new repertoire. I didn't have time for anymore wastes of time.
Night settled on the campus. The lighting under the maze of covered sidewalks glowed yellow... transforming walkers into tired performance art. Up-lights bathed the campus oaks in a ghostly blue white light. Bells rang. We skipped prayer group. Larry was still on the phone. (yawn)....
More bells. Lights out.

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 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.