Collusion: Part XXX

Circle. Moon. Earth. Symbolic of an extraterrestrial sort of intelligence. Thought patters run in them. All sustainable systems burn in cycles. Perhaps the incidents that come to have the most meaning in our lives are those moments when a tangent forces the end of a cycle… and then enacts permanently bonded change. A mother gives birth. Your dog gets hit by a truck as you look on. You remember exactly the moment when… she broke your heart.

But which patterns are healthy ones? It’s hard to tell sometimes.

I have to share reader, that I find writing be a little tangent for me. I can almost hear a bottle cap pop when I begin. Though really Im never precisely certain what Ill be pouring one day to the next. Water? Or Sweet Tea? Blackberry wine? Or Jack? Or Pepsi? To some degree or another. Who cares? I’m dumping shit out.

As I have to some degree waxed nostalgic of a late… I’ll follow this path for a time. As I have mentioned before I was quite a voracious reader as a child. The tiny dusty white library was in St. Matthews. A short drive into town would bring me within reach of the thing that I craved most. Knowledge. It felt more intimate than the sort of statistics that you rattle off when you’re trying to be impressive though. It felt like I could leave the dirt roads and wet heat and soy bean fields beneath me and I could float up and up… To every which way but back down. 

The librarians were a mysterious thing to me. Most of the were nearly fallen into their tombs with age, and their accents were all something Mayberry. I had heard their names many times, but that always slipped my mind when Mom would take us by the place. I was rather a shy child. And you know, there’s nothing at all wrong with that. I suppose at the time I was uncomfortably aware of it though. I always wondered what others thought of me.

My Mother was very scrupulous of what she allowed me to check out from the library. She understood that books are just as dangerous as a loaded gun in the night stand. Perhaps more so. Books are tangents also. The books that we had laying around the house had been read and re read and I arrived at the feeling of curiosity about what other books might have to say. I had first thought that all the reading in our little white library might be only more of the same as what we had at home. Or that the books in the little white library would be a reflection of the building itself. That they would be sinless… sturdy… dusty. This was not so. I’d sooner vote republican.

I chose the books that I brought up to the counter judiciously. Weighing carefully the likely hood that Mom would read the spine, or not be over fond of the cover… and tell me to put it back. I didn’t really understand why should would find some in poorer taste than others… but who can say why, at that age mothers do what they do. Mothers are arbitrary.

Along and Along as we made more trips to and from the little white library I noticed that mom was paying less attention to the books I picked out. She would perhaps be using the computers, or talking with a librarian. And then of course there was John and Beth to be concerned about. I saw an opportunity to use less discretion in my selections… and so I decided to do just that. It was as much fun as throwing glitter.

I was a stealthy thing though. Hmmmm yes. I would pick two or so boring books that I knew Mom would find appropriate… and then slide something in between them. Whichever one I found most intriguing. The one that I would read thirstily and blithely ignore the others. Once I found a treasure trove of a read in Anne Rice’s ‘The Witching Hour.’ So adeptly sensuous. So filled with over wrought emotion. Fantastical tales about witchcraft. And… And women. And shockingly vivid vampires… and sex. There were so many things I thought I understood about the story when I read them. Rice painted. She worked for those words and that story. This little boy thought she was some sort of genius of the criminal mastermind variety.

There were other books too. There was one titled ‘speak.’ It was by some somebody that I cant remember. In it I was introduced to a 9^th grade girl. Something was very wrong with her… but I couldn’t tell what. This girl didn’t pray or go to church or anything. She cried often, and hardly spoke to anyone at school. She cut herself sometimes. Turns out though it made sense by the end of the book. She had been raped by one of her peers in a broom closet at school. The closing scenes were fantastic! She fought the boy, with his wanton and filthy desires… he was chocking her… and he pushed her head hard into a mirror. It broke. As the fight moved to the floor she snatched a shard of the thing and stabbed that horrible boy in the neck. And ya know? Good for her! I wanted to give her a hug…

I drank up Tolkien. All the way to the Silmarillion. Which didn’t make a lick of sense until I read it again. It was an intoxicating story of … well a sort of retelling of the Greek myths with name changes.

Dickenson. Shakespeare. Blake. Emmerson. Shelly. Some Bible.

I replicated this process innumerable times. I longed to feel… beyond. And so I did. Each new story began something. The marks that those books left on me are permanent.

I wonder if I still have anything that’s due.

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. 

Collusion: Part XXII

Aren't people fascinating? They're all these complex bi-peds (most of them) with need and want and varying degrees of intellect. Some of them are content with food and shelter. Some of them have much more complex needs. Social approval... financial success... a basement full of corpses covered in lime.... Ya just never know with people.

It was a Sunday at school. Sundays were usually the most scheduled day of the week. Required Morning Service to attend, Required Society Sunday School before that... Required Vespers in the afternoon.... You could try to squeeze in some homework somewhere in the afternoon. Snatch some food from somewhere and then pick arbitrarily from one of the seven hundred options for evening churches to attend on Sunday nights in Greenville. Vespers, in case you're wondering was a planned religiously themed program that included drama and music, and usually centered on one main theme. Adultery. Lust. Forgiveness. Dedication of one's life to a higher purpose... such as becoming a missionary to Bolivia. Etc. Etc.

On this weekend I had done my best to noodle about in the city, not having a car. I thought it was important to get a feel for the people who lived outside the walls of my confines.... and perhaps the places where they spent their lives. As I was soon to discover, however, my native talents do not include walking, and so by 'exploring the city' I mean that I wandered the streets around school looking like the victim of a natural disaster. Wide eyed at the simple processes of crossing the street at a light and fascinated by homeless people.

I had managed to find my way to an Asian food store. You know the kind where you can buy bulk Asian foods for the restaurant that your Philippine family owns? I wandered into the store beset with the smells of quasi-fresh fish, Mongolian vegetables, and small pastries shaped like domesticated animals. I can't remember what the place was called, as I had spent all of my energy walking to the store, and thus was un-able to form new memories. My weariness did not however, prevent me from purchasing eight pounds of rice, a very large bag of fortune cookies and a tin can full of quail eggs. Quail eggs I reasoned would be an interesting and tasty alternative to the products of their more well known cousins... chickens. I had no needs for these food-stuffs.... but this was one of those obvious facts that like so many other things at the time, was lost on me.

So on this Sunday.... this fateful Sunday, I decided after morning service requirement that I would make a delicious stew out of rice, new onions, and quail eggs. I would cook these ingredients together in a small Crock-Pot(TM) and reveal the product to my roomates. They seemed to have a never ending need for sustenance, and it was part of my plan was to win their affection by providing them with a curious, yet delicious evening meal. I left the mixture cooking all afternoon without supervision... assuming of course that anything you cook in a Crock-Pot(TM) should require this sort of cooking method.

Five hours later when I returned from evening service.... I was greeted on the first floor by the most amazing smell of my life. It smelled like a mortuary.... and onions.... and pan fried human excrement. High jinx ensued. The roomates and I experienced much laughter as we poked and prodded at the cement like mixture in the Crock-Pot(TM).... and then we scraped together what we could of the mixture... poured it into two shopping bags.... and then threw it under my hall leaders desk.

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 XV

Doubtless you readers might find the preceding happenings a bit difficult to believe. Such a structured environment must be designed to protect its members, no? So I had thought too. I thought here i would have been safe. I would be safe from drunken frat parties. I thought I'd be safe from being labeled anything but a christian. I thought it would be a place for me to grow and experience a sort of society, without having to worry about hazing, or alcohol poisoning, or roofies. Or perhaps being dragged out of my bed in the middle night and lynched for looking queer. Alas. It was not so to be. I say this all with a sort of wry smile on my face... hind sight is a bit less dire.

The great thing about almost bashing someones head in with an oak chair, is that in societies which still operate by rule of the dominant male, (see last 14 chapters) the more a man such as myself can assert physical dominance over the others, the less likely he is to be maligned by surrounding males who are also competing for dominance. Tale as old as time and all that. For a while the bullying stopped. I had learned enough spanish from my classes that I could fire back slurs at the room-mates mothers... calling them prostitutes; and not the classy kind either. Antonio Banderas wouldn't have approved of this tactic, but Antonio was busy filming 'Zorro' with Catherine Zeta Jones.

Control. Always control. I would fight to maintain it. I had divided my life into cubicles like an office space. Piano was in one, Room-mates in another. Running in one, Classes in another. My friends had a space of about four cubicles; one of the largest rooms... but i still wouldn't let them see what was happening in all the others. Everyone hated it here, but I didn't want them to know that I was seriously considering homicide as a legitimate solution to some of my problems. I would check the status of activities in each of my cubicles, and take the positive activity, and weigh it against the things that weren't going so well. Its part of how I managed. I worked hard at my studies. I would even call my Mom and ask for her help in studying something. E-mailing her a copy of a list of terms that I would need to define. I was one way of trying to stay in touch with the family. I would walk back and forth in front of my dorm talking and talking, papers in my hand or reciting a speech. I think my mom liked those long conversations... I had hoped that those phone calls would make here feel less like an era hand ended; even though it had.

Ramon Nieves would spend roughly forty minutes each morning sculpting his very short very black hair into a desired shape. I was unable to comprehend the amount of pride that must be at the back of this practice. I reasoned that no amount of hair gel would change his race, or make him less of an asshole. Either way I refused to give input. I suppose if your hair is roughly the texture of burlap, then your styling options are quite limited. Ramon was curiously vain and most of our conversations consisted of him regaling me with romanticized stories of his academic triumphs and amorous conquests. I supposed that this must have been some sort of attempt on his part to compensate for the fact that he was nearly 5 feet and 2 inches tall... and perhaps also that 60% of the words I used were beyond the scope of his understanding of the English language.

One evenings conversation was particularly revealing of my relationship with him. He stood at the sink preening in front of the mirror as I read an engaging chapter out of my Harmony text book lounging on my bunk. He pulled out a couple of outfit options from one of the three closets he had spread his expansive wardrobe out in.... to get my opinion on them.

ME: "Where are you going? Whats all the fuss about?" I could hardly have been begged to be interested.
RAMON: "Oy, my societies dating outing. Mayn I'm going wid dis girl.... ah Chelsea I think? What do you dink about dis?" He displayed some garishly colored button-down. Latinos are partial to button-downs. Particularly silk button-downs.
ME: "ummmm. Maybe you could mix it with dark jeans i guess. But don't wear the white shoes. It's too much. Especially if you're going to be playing paint-ball."
RAMON: "Oh yeah right! You're good at this mayn..... Brown belt, or the black one?"
ME: "El negro. Es mas simplé." I had taken to assuring the other members of the room that I was learning Spanish faster than they could hope to learn English.

Ramon puttered around for a few more minutes and sprayed himself down with the most god-awful cologne. You know the kind that leaves a dense cloud of musk after? The kind that leaves you licking the roof of you mouth because of the alcohol at the back of your throat. Ramon left in a hustle, more or less content with the way he looked.

I was feeling particularly wicked. I slid off my bunk and marked and closed my Harmony text. Vanity is punishable I thought.... and I'd nothing better to do. I opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a liter of hydrogen peroxide. I uncapped the bottle and poured about a half of a cup of the magical bleaching liquid into Ramon's bottle of hair gel... then gave the hair gel bottle a shake to incorporate my mischief. Shake shake shake..... gurgle. plop. I placed the hair gel bottle precisely on the shelf as Ramon had left it, and went back to reading my homework.

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 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 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.