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.
Showing posts with label Society. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Society. Show all posts
Friday, February 25, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Collusion: Part XXI
Christine and I had a conversation later that evening about just how little she liked the amount of time that I had been spending with Melodie Cappoccia. We were walking back towards her room after dinner. About as much practice that was going to be done that day, was already done, and I could tell she was in a bad mood.
CD:"I just don't understand why you like hanging out with her.... She's fat... and obnoxious and she smells like cherry blossom rape." She said flatly.
ME: "I mean.... It's not like I'm trying to make her into a best friend or anything... She just always seems to show up whenever I'm practicing."
CD: " Well.... why don't you practice somewhere where you don't usually practice.... like the basement of the dorms."
ME: "I would, but those pianos are complete crap.... I mean, some of them are missing legs!"
CD: "Well, I just think that you probably like the attention...."
ME: (sighs) "Ya know, she just seems like a nice person...."
CD: "She seems like a skank. Just a nasty big breasted skank."
ME: "I'm not even remotely attracted to her! Her boobs are bigger than my head!.... It's a public nuisance..."
CD: "And another thing! Every time I have a conversation with her, she's always going on about how fantastic you are! It's friggin' annoying! YOU ARE SPOKEN FOR! And she needs to keep her hands off you..."
ME: "She hasn't had her hands on me.... ewe. She's just got a crush... it's no big deal!"
CD: "Well. I don't like it. And I don't like her. She's repugnant. And I think you should stop hanging out with her."
ME: "I mean... if it really makes you that unhappy.... (eye roll) Ill make sure to to instigate anything with her.... ya know. Disengage."
We were quite for a while after that, and just walked without speaking, in the half light back to Christine's room.
CD: "Well.... I dunno. Maybe Im just being a total bitch about all this. We just don't get to hang out as much as we used to."
She started to tear up a little bit, and I leaned in to hug her. Just a quick one though. Ya never know who might be watching from a window in the dorms and find the need to punish you for a harmless gesture of affection. Christine, by comparison to Melodie... did not smell like bathroom cleaning liquid. She smelled like a normal girl. Like skin, and shampoo.
ME: "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it bothered you all that much. She's starting to get on my nerves too.... And you're right.... She smells awful."
She was right about us not hanging out as much anymore... I'd transferred out of the Dining Common work force and begged a job from the people at the Museum & Gallery. Which is honestly the quietest easiest job anyone could ask for. I spent afternoons dressed in a simple black suit, and blue button downs and usually my own choice of an hideous tie. My tie choice was never ever calculated.... and most of them were yard sale purchases. All refugees from the seventies who had managed to not be thrown away or burned due to kitsch. I would study note cards and write poetry whilst wandering around in the thickly carpeted dimly lit rooms. Rooms filled with archaic and post Renaissance paintings. Huge... wall encompassing works in which the Virgin Mary would look down peacefully at her christ child son. All works on thick topics like sin, or death.... or the devil. The whole place couldn't have gotten more than 12 visitors a day. And that was fine by me... I loved the luxury of the quiet Bach string quartets on repeat on the PA system.... and the dusty emotionless atmosphere. It was nice. It seemed like a place between places.... Peace and quiet, only occasionally interrupted by the occasional group of antique humans there to look at the antique art.
Because of the new work schedule though... whatever free time I had to spend with Christine had been ganked around so that our schedules no longer coincided.
After our sad little fight, I trudged back to my room, planted myself in my bed, and stealthily put in my ear-buds. Like so many other convenient personal items, earphones were considered contraband. Being discovered with them could land you an easy 50 demerits. Presumably because you could be listening to any of the many types of music forbidden from student consumption... Such as rock, r&b, rap, jazz, soul, and polka. Whatever. Id had a bad day, and I'll be darned if I was going to chill out in my room listening to negro spirituals. No sir. All the other roomies were busy about the lords work.... So I cranked up some tunes and did a little homework reading.
::Knock Knock::
Who now? Uhn. I ditched the ear-buds and my ipod.... tossed them way back onto my bunk and jumped/slid into the chair at the desk. Just in time.... In walks Danny Callahan. Danny is a tallish troll-like creature. With rudimentary spacial perception and infantile logic skills. He's 6'1'' with a blond crew cut and a face like an Irish potato. Also, his accent was something like 'The Real White Trash of Boston Mass." Also, he was this years hall leader. So in addition to being obtuse, it was his job to make sure that everyone was living or dying by the Almighty Handbook.
DC: "Hey."
ME: (I look up from my text book and slowly blink at him.) "Hello Daniel."
DC: "So.... what are ya doin?"
ME: "I'm trying to decided if you got your polo out of an egg machine."
DC: "uh..... ok." He said wondering about the room. He was delighted to discover Roland's soccer ball in the corner and began punting it around. Callahan was, of course, a soccer player.
DC: "So... they've got you rooming with Roland. I wonder why that is...."
ME: "I haven't the slightest. I can only assume it's because Roland is so very fond of me..."
DC: "Ha..... funny. You should be nice to people. They'd like you better."
ME: "I have no intention of being in-genuine with people to win their affection. Besides, soccer players are all the same... Once you've met one, you've met them all." I finished dismissively returning to my reading.
Callahan continued to mill about the room until spotting the ipod, tossed aside.
DC: "So.... who's ipod is that?"
ME: "Oh that old thing!? It belongs to me.
DC: "Well you need to turn it in.... You could get in trouble for having it."
ME: "Yes, thank you Daniel.... I am aware of regulations. And.... Ill turn it in.... I'm just waiting for Hell to freeze over."
DC: "Hey!" He said, pointing at me with mock anger. "Not funny."
ME: "You're right its not funny! How am I supposed to get anything done listening to the air conditioner run. My tunes help me concentrate!"
Danny apparently had lost interest in the conversation, or had rediscovered how fun soccer balls really are... because he was back to his punting. I have always been fascinated by obtuse people. Much as Pavlov was fascinated by dog saliva. It's not that Danny wasn't friendly, or that he was doing his job too well. It was just that I had serious doubts about his being a Counseling major. How could he possibly be good at that? Weren't most of his people lobster fishermen anyways?
DC: "Don't you ever get tired of playing the system?" He asked in a sparkling moment of clarity and relevance.
ME: "Well.... yeah sometimes." I said with earnestness, and then with a passionate intensity.... "But if I do not play this "system".... I ask you.... How then shall it be played!?"
Danny was not impressed with my theatrics. And decided to leave without ceremony....
DC:" You're weird." He said popping his head back in the door before leaving....
ME: "Thank you!" I sang merrily back at him.
CD:"I just don't understand why you like hanging out with her.... She's fat... and obnoxious and she smells like cherry blossom rape." She said flatly.
ME: "I mean.... It's not like I'm trying to make her into a best friend or anything... She just always seems to show up whenever I'm practicing."
CD: " Well.... why don't you practice somewhere where you don't usually practice.... like the basement of the dorms."
ME: "I would, but those pianos are complete crap.... I mean, some of them are missing legs!"
CD: "Well, I just think that you probably like the attention...."
ME: (sighs) "Ya know, she just seems like a nice person...."
CD: "She seems like a skank. Just a nasty big breasted skank."
ME: "I'm not even remotely attracted to her! Her boobs are bigger than my head!.... It's a public nuisance..."
CD: "And another thing! Every time I have a conversation with her, she's always going on about how fantastic you are! It's friggin' annoying! YOU ARE SPOKEN FOR! And she needs to keep her hands off you..."
ME: "She hasn't had her hands on me.... ewe. She's just got a crush... it's no big deal!"
CD: "Well. I don't like it. And I don't like her. She's repugnant. And I think you should stop hanging out with her."
ME: "I mean... if it really makes you that unhappy.... (eye roll) Ill make sure to to instigate anything with her.... ya know. Disengage."
We were quite for a while after that, and just walked without speaking, in the half light back to Christine's room.
CD: "Well.... I dunno. Maybe Im just being a total bitch about all this. We just don't get to hang out as much as we used to."
She started to tear up a little bit, and I leaned in to hug her. Just a quick one though. Ya never know who might be watching from a window in the dorms and find the need to punish you for a harmless gesture of affection. Christine, by comparison to Melodie... did not smell like bathroom cleaning liquid. She smelled like a normal girl. Like skin, and shampoo.
ME: "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it bothered you all that much. She's starting to get on my nerves too.... And you're right.... She smells awful."
She was right about us not hanging out as much anymore... I'd transferred out of the Dining Common work force and begged a job from the people at the Museum & Gallery. Which is honestly the quietest easiest job anyone could ask for. I spent afternoons dressed in a simple black suit, and blue button downs and usually my own choice of an hideous tie. My tie choice was never ever calculated.... and most of them were yard sale purchases. All refugees from the seventies who had managed to not be thrown away or burned due to kitsch. I would study note cards and write poetry whilst wandering around in the thickly carpeted dimly lit rooms. Rooms filled with archaic and post Renaissance paintings. Huge... wall encompassing works in which the Virgin Mary would look down peacefully at her christ child son. All works on thick topics like sin, or death.... or the devil. The whole place couldn't have gotten more than 12 visitors a day. And that was fine by me... I loved the luxury of the quiet Bach string quartets on repeat on the PA system.... and the dusty emotionless atmosphere. It was nice. It seemed like a place between places.... Peace and quiet, only occasionally interrupted by the occasional group of antique humans there to look at the antique art.
Because of the new work schedule though... whatever free time I had to spend with Christine had been ganked around so that our schedules no longer coincided.
After our sad little fight, I trudged back to my room, planted myself in my bed, and stealthily put in my ear-buds. Like so many other convenient personal items, earphones were considered contraband. Being discovered with them could land you an easy 50 demerits. Presumably because you could be listening to any of the many types of music forbidden from student consumption... Such as rock, r&b, rap, jazz, soul, and polka. Whatever. Id had a bad day, and I'll be darned if I was going to chill out in my room listening to negro spirituals. No sir. All the other roomies were busy about the lords work.... So I cranked up some tunes and did a little homework reading.
::Knock Knock::
Who now? Uhn. I ditched the ear-buds and my ipod.... tossed them way back onto my bunk and jumped/slid into the chair at the desk. Just in time.... In walks Danny Callahan. Danny is a tallish troll-like creature. With rudimentary spacial perception and infantile logic skills. He's 6'1'' with a blond crew cut and a face like an Irish potato. Also, his accent was something like 'The Real White Trash of Boston Mass." Also, he was this years hall leader. So in addition to being obtuse, it was his job to make sure that everyone was living or dying by the Almighty Handbook.
DC: "Hey."
ME: (I look up from my text book and slowly blink at him.) "Hello Daniel."
DC: "So.... what are ya doin?"
ME: "I'm trying to decided if you got your polo out of an egg machine."
DC: "uh..... ok." He said wondering about the room. He was delighted to discover Roland's soccer ball in the corner and began punting it around. Callahan was, of course, a soccer player.
DC: "So... they've got you rooming with Roland. I wonder why that is...."
ME: "I haven't the slightest. I can only assume it's because Roland is so very fond of me..."
DC: "Ha..... funny. You should be nice to people. They'd like you better."
ME: "I have no intention of being in-genuine with people to win their affection. Besides, soccer players are all the same... Once you've met one, you've met them all." I finished dismissively returning to my reading.
Callahan continued to mill about the room until spotting the ipod, tossed aside.
DC: "So.... who's ipod is that?"
ME: "Oh that old thing!? It belongs to me.
DC: "Well you need to turn it in.... You could get in trouble for having it."
ME: "Yes, thank you Daniel.... I am aware of regulations. And.... Ill turn it in.... I'm just waiting for Hell to freeze over."
DC: "Hey!" He said, pointing at me with mock anger. "Not funny."
ME: "You're right its not funny! How am I supposed to get anything done listening to the air conditioner run. My tunes help me concentrate!"
Danny apparently had lost interest in the conversation, or had rediscovered how fun soccer balls really are... because he was back to his punting. I have always been fascinated by obtuse people. Much as Pavlov was fascinated by dog saliva. It's not that Danny wasn't friendly, or that he was doing his job too well. It was just that I had serious doubts about his being a Counseling major. How could he possibly be good at that? Weren't most of his people lobster fishermen anyways?
DC: "Don't you ever get tired of playing the system?" He asked in a sparkling moment of clarity and relevance.
ME: "Well.... yeah sometimes." I said with earnestness, and then with a passionate intensity.... "But if I do not play this "system".... I ask you.... How then shall it be played!?"
Danny was not impressed with my theatrics. And decided to leave without ceremony....
DC:" You're weird." He said popping his head back in the door before leaving....
ME: "Thank you!" I sang merrily back at him.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
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.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Collusion: Part XIX
What is beauty... exactly? No... seriously. Think about it. I don't mean a definition. What is it to you? Is it balance? Is it symmetry? Is it perfect? Is it that exotic balance between right and wrong? Maybe not any of these things. Not exactly anyway. It's not perfectly constructed personal grooming. Nor is it the product of rampant orthodontia is this country. Beauty is perception. It's our believing, however foolishly, that something is perfect. Balanced. Innately circumspect.
Year two started, and my brother requested to room with me. It was fine... despite his poor sanitary habits, I had grown used to his idiosyncrasies; seeing as we had shared a room for the better part of 2 decades. Through some odd twist of karmic fate, Josh Roland was one of our room-mates. I could hardly wait for the enlightening conversations that might await. This semester was going to be like a season of Dynasty... without the creepy long nails and big hair.
Classes and schedule got set without a hitch and I threw myself back into the work. I was checking performance class times on the bulletin board in the main hall of the Fine Arts Building after chapel on a Tuesday... when someone stomped up behind me smelling like a Bath and Body Works. A heavy wave of Japanese Cherry Blossom rolled into my sinus passages... storming the beach like weather hardened Marines. Desert Storm. First strike. I don't discriminate against ladies who like to wear perfume... but to be frank, there's no reason to drink it for breakfast with your morning coffee. Almost immediately my sinuses clamped shut in defense of the invader.
"Josh Medlin!" yelled a raspy little girls voice behind me. I turned around to a familiar cow eyed round face. Shoulder length black brown hair that was shiny enough to shift around the salty white gray light from the industrial strip lighting in the hall way. A quick survey showed a floral print button down top with frills and a stocky little mandarin collar. Grey pencil skirt and ice pick black patten leather stilettos. Cleavage. Cleavage. Cleavage. This girl is what any self-respecting rapper would call 'thick.' Big old faux alligator skin shoulder bag held most of the library and a laptop.
"When's the next time you play in perf class?" She asked... tossing her hair back in a easy little flick.
What is this girls name? Crap. I've seen her all over the place prancing around like she invented music. We were in at least three classes together. All of which I was sure she was acing.
"Ahhhh. October? Apparently?" I answered... looking for her name on something. Anything. Nothing. I forget this isn't like kindergarten.
"Oh really!?... that's a long time! I've been dying to hear you play something!! Like... anything! What are you working on?" This girl was hard core.
"Oh.... ah. You know. Bach. Some stuff from the Well Tempered Clavier. Tom's wanting me to do a concerto, but I'm not so sold on the idea just yet. Ive got Mozart and Beethoven sonatas in the works... and Ive recently gotten really interested in Edward McDowell. The Sea Pieces, and the fireside tales. Do you know the works?"
"McDowell? Oh! I did his concerto in high-school! Totally love!" She pranced around me and traced down the list of performances and students' names until she found the two dates she was performing. Melodie Cappoccia. A musician named Melodie. Cute.
"How do you say your last name?" I queried... Looking for other topics.
"Oh! Yeah everyone always asks me that! Ha Ha! It's CAP....OH.. CHA! It's Italian..."
Already I was convinced that this amount of vivacity was un-natural.... and that I should begin to inquire who her dealer was, and if he was accepting new clients.
"We should totally hang out sometime! What's your schedule look like? Where do you work?"
I would discover she was always like this. Militant. Aggressively friendly.
"Well... Im a cook. Ya know, in the dinning common." Eye roll. "And I dunno... Im free for lunch today.
"What a coincidence!So! Am! I! I used to work in the dinning common. All the little academy kids who work there had the biggest crush on me." She exclaimed, winking.
She rummaged through her bag and pulled out an over-sized compact and did a little touch up.
"Wanna go now? I've got fourty-five minutes or so until I accompany?"
"Well I... thought I was just gonna skip lunch and practice or something."
"Oh come on! I won't bite! (hair toss... another wave of Japanese Cherry Blossom.)
"Ok.... sure..."
We walked briskly to lunch. To my surprise I found her a bit charming. After you get past the perfume and the mascara.... She was pretty ok. She kept telling me stories about how very 'Italian' everyone in her family was. How she had perfect pitch, how she was trying to lose weight. I really didn't know what it meant to be 'very Italian.' Did she have mafia ties? Was her family life like watching Everybody Loves Raymond? She chatted on and on...
During lunch I noticed a text I had missed. Christine.
CD{R U Free for lunch?}
hm.... this could get interesting.
ME{I found someone to tag along with!}
CD{Oh?}
ME{Yeah. This chick named Melodie... ya know her?}
CD{Oh. Oh yes. I know who she is. She smells like Bath n Body Wrks?}
ME{Yes! And she has enormous boobs!}
Christine and I talked about everything. And everyone... No one was safe from us.
"Is something wrong?" Melodie asked, salting a single pea.
"Oh. Oh no.... Just chatting with my girlfriend."
"OH! Ha!" Blank big eyed stare.
CD{Uh. I hate that girl.}
ME{I dunno... she seems nice enough.}
CD{Nice enough? No one can be that happy all the time.}
CD{Oh.. and she's a skank.}
ME{How do you know that?}
CD{Ill tell you at dinner. Deal?}
ME{KK.}
We finished lunch and said our 'see ya laters.' Why the heck was up with Christine? It was just lunch. Geez. Whatever. Id find out at dinner. Work in fifteen minutes.
Year two started, and my brother requested to room with me. It was fine... despite his poor sanitary habits, I had grown used to his idiosyncrasies; seeing as we had shared a room for the better part of 2 decades. Through some odd twist of karmic fate, Josh Roland was one of our room-mates. I could hardly wait for the enlightening conversations that might await. This semester was going to be like a season of Dynasty... without the creepy long nails and big hair.
Classes and schedule got set without a hitch and I threw myself back into the work. I was checking performance class times on the bulletin board in the main hall of the Fine Arts Building after chapel on a Tuesday... when someone stomped up behind me smelling like a Bath and Body Works. A heavy wave of Japanese Cherry Blossom rolled into my sinus passages... storming the beach like weather hardened Marines. Desert Storm. First strike. I don't discriminate against ladies who like to wear perfume... but to be frank, there's no reason to drink it for breakfast with your morning coffee. Almost immediately my sinuses clamped shut in defense of the invader.
"Josh Medlin!" yelled a raspy little girls voice behind me. I turned around to a familiar cow eyed round face. Shoulder length black brown hair that was shiny enough to shift around the salty white gray light from the industrial strip lighting in the hall way. A quick survey showed a floral print button down top with frills and a stocky little mandarin collar. Grey pencil skirt and ice pick black patten leather stilettos. Cleavage. Cleavage. Cleavage. This girl is what any self-respecting rapper would call 'thick.' Big old faux alligator skin shoulder bag held most of the library and a laptop.
"When's the next time you play in perf class?" She asked... tossing her hair back in a easy little flick.
What is this girls name? Crap. I've seen her all over the place prancing around like she invented music. We were in at least three classes together. All of which I was sure she was acing.
"Ahhhh. October? Apparently?" I answered... looking for her name on something. Anything. Nothing. I forget this isn't like kindergarten.
"Oh really!?... that's a long time! I've been dying to hear you play something!! Like... anything! What are you working on?" This girl was hard core.
"Oh.... ah. You know. Bach. Some stuff from the Well Tempered Clavier. Tom's wanting me to do a concerto, but I'm not so sold on the idea just yet. Ive got Mozart and Beethoven sonatas in the works... and Ive recently gotten really interested in Edward McDowell. The Sea Pieces, and the fireside tales. Do you know the works?"
"McDowell? Oh! I did his concerto in high-school! Totally love!" She pranced around me and traced down the list of performances and students' names until she found the two dates she was performing. Melodie Cappoccia. A musician named Melodie. Cute.
"How do you say your last name?" I queried... Looking for other topics.
"Oh! Yeah everyone always asks me that! Ha Ha! It's CAP....OH.. CHA! It's Italian..."
Already I was convinced that this amount of vivacity was un-natural.... and that I should begin to inquire who her dealer was, and if he was accepting new clients.
"We should totally hang out sometime! What's your schedule look like? Where do you work?"
I would discover she was always like this. Militant. Aggressively friendly.
"Well... Im a cook. Ya know, in the dinning common." Eye roll. "And I dunno... Im free for lunch today.
"What a coincidence!So! Am! I! I used to work in the dinning common. All the little academy kids who work there had the biggest crush on me." She exclaimed, winking.
She rummaged through her bag and pulled out an over-sized compact and did a little touch up.
"Wanna go now? I've got fourty-five minutes or so until I accompany?"
"Well I... thought I was just gonna skip lunch and practice or something."
"Oh come on! I won't bite! (hair toss... another wave of Japanese Cherry Blossom.)
"Ok.... sure..."
We walked briskly to lunch. To my surprise I found her a bit charming. After you get past the perfume and the mascara.... She was pretty ok. She kept telling me stories about how very 'Italian' everyone in her family was. How she had perfect pitch, how she was trying to lose weight. I really didn't know what it meant to be 'very Italian.' Did she have mafia ties? Was her family life like watching Everybody Loves Raymond? She chatted on and on...
During lunch I noticed a text I had missed. Christine.
CD{R U Free for lunch?}
hm.... this could get interesting.
ME{I found someone to tag along with!}
CD{Oh?}
ME{Yeah. This chick named Melodie... ya know her?}
CD{Oh. Oh yes. I know who she is. She smells like Bath n Body Wrks?}
ME{Yes! And she has enormous boobs!}
Christine and I talked about everything. And everyone... No one was safe from us.
"Is something wrong?" Melodie asked, salting a single pea.
"Oh. Oh no.... Just chatting with my girlfriend."
"OH! Ha!" Blank big eyed stare.
CD{Uh. I hate that girl.}
ME{I dunno... she seems nice enough.}
CD{Nice enough? No one can be that happy all the time.}
CD{Oh.. and she's a skank.}
ME{How do you know that?}
CD{Ill tell you at dinner. Deal?}
ME{KK.}
We finished lunch and said our 'see ya laters.' Why the heck was up with Christine? It was just lunch. Geez. Whatever. Id find out at dinner. Work in fifteen minutes.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Collusion: Part XVIII
Hours and hours of painting. Days of it. Another day, another trip to Columbia. Another Mountain Dew, and another pack of miniature chocolate donuts. Columbia is a dirty industrial city that has stretched and grown faster than the city planners had allowed for. Its state house is surrounded by tall hundred year old black palmetto trees. They look like spiny coconut trees and give the old downtown area the appeal of an old-south inspired dime novel. In the middle of all that nostalgia is the city library. A big gray cinder block looking building all pieced together with enormous slabs of mirrored glass. The other buildings in the city are a similarly ill patched together assortment of modern architecture, antebellum estates, and suburbs filled with cookie cutter houses made out of red and brown brick that seemed so perfectly adorable to baby boomers. I always felt like a tourist on these painting expeditions. The kind of cheap tourist that doesn't buy key chains or post cards.... but perhaps the occasional Zero bar and a diet Pepsi.
At the end of the work day I never wanted anything but to return home and shower gobs of paint spatter off and practice piano. There was plenty of pressure to return to school in the fall with a good head start on my new fall repertoire line up. And I would practice too... I just never felt quite satisfied with what I was accomplishing on a daily basis. It's difficult to work in sweltering heat every day and then force new muscle memory from a weary cerebellum. But I would do what I could. If dandelions can grow through cracks in sidewalks, then I could most certainly memorize a Mozart sonata. Tom Grimble and everyone else who had anything to say on the matter had made it painfully clear to me that sophomore year would be the year that would decide if I could stay a piano performance major. Sophomore Check was the platform that I would pass in order to continue study in my major. I imagined that it would take place in a very dark room. Black walls, black ceilings, one spot light... the judges draped in black.... hoods and pale faces and you probably wouldn't be able to see their eyes. If my performance pleased the gods, then they would allow my continued study. If not... they would require that I bring forward my academic torch and extinguish it. That or if i met disapproval they would perhaps begin a chant of sorts and then bash in my skull with a conch shell.
I spent my free time taking all the pains necessary to memorize my Bach. A prelude and fugue that i was working on. Layers of melodic lines. Delicately sewn together. Twisting and undulating. Dancing around and behind one another. Doing their routine with formality, sophistication and old-world gracefulness. Sometimes on the drive to Columbia I would trace out the patterns of the music on my thy... hearing the expected corresponding sounds in my head all the while.
Every night before falling off to sleep I would pray my little prayer.
"God, make me stronger and faster. Make me sin less and make me sharp like a knife. Help me whittle away at myself until there's nothing left that isn't perfect."
The rest of the summer melted away like ice-cream on tarmac. I thought how different times where now than they had been.
I was eleven and John was nine. Beth was just seven or so. We would spend those summer days, not working and saving... but we had built little kingdoms in the woods behind our house. We would rake away the pine-straw and thick leaf layer that blanketed the floor of the woods. All the cast away leaves from seasons past. Hundreds of yards of little trails that snaked away into the wood, far away from our house. There were seven or eight acres and we took advantage of each one. And we would find twine, and lash together fallen limbs... so heavy that it sometimes took the both of us to lift and tie it off to a standing tree. We made little wigwams. We raked away the leaf floors of our forest homes. We almost never wore shoes. We would spend hours and hours gathering sour weeds from a nearby field and bundling them together with the twine. Hanging each small parcel upside down from the branched roof of our imaginary homes. We would develop pretend personalities.We would gather ripe scuppernogs and save them for the impending winter. Or the hard under-ripe green ones... we would gather and sling-shot them at one another... or pelt them at waring tribes of saber-tooth tigers that had wandered into our territory to eat our livestock and pillage our stores of weeds. You must be very careful not to attack a tiger without help. At least take Mini along. She was our fat old golden lab... and she was not afraid of tigers in the least. We grew up with the woods all around us... we all ran fast and climbed high, high up into the arms of the holly trees, who's smooth brown skin looked just like ours.
Later as we grew into teenagers.... our fantasy play time evolved. It became more violent and less forgiving. We replaced our wigwams with bunkers built strong and solid out of wood scavenged from the saw mill. And in place of the spears we had fashioned to fend off raiders from opposition tribes, we bought slick black semi-automatic paintball guns, with load hoppers that held enough ammo to last you through an hour of heavy fire. There were bunkers here and there dotted in the woods and two in the grassy field in front of the house. Three or four friends of equal age to us would come over and we'd split into teams. Objects of the game play changed. At times the objective might be to capture a flag from the opposing team. John and I were nearly never on the same team. The other kids considered us equivalent marksmen and it would be more than a little un-fair. Beth played sometimes.... but I'm sure it had a lot more to do with romance and the neighbor boys then winning a violent game of 'who's the alpha male?'. My Dad played along too... being short and round he found shelter mostly at ground-level or in one of the bunkers. Dad was a crack shot though and could light a match with a shot from 50 yards. I was deeply emotionally invested in these games and had secretly loosened the CO2 valve on my gun. This increased my range of fire by about 30 yards and left ugly bruises on my fallen opponents. During game play I would pull out a tiny octagonal wrench and quickly adjust gas pressure from "ok, i'm hit." to "I blacked out and my spleen is leaking." The other kids hated me for this, but I always managed to pull out the tiny wrench and re-adjust the pressure back to something a little more normal, so that I couldn't be accused of un-ethical game play. During these games, I would often be named a team captain and be responsible for organizing a defensive strategy. Poor marksmen and short or fat kids would remain close to base to pick their noses and over heat in all the armored clothing they were wearing. Lean fast running kids would run quickly well outside of the legally decided limits of decided game play and creep stealthily behind the enemy base. The fact that this strategy was not immediately obvious to the other members of my team was exquisitely painful, and I couldn't help but morn the fact that the rest of my team mates were clearly cave dwellers. Didn't anyone ever watch Alias? You know... where Sidney Bristow (Jennifer Garner) suits up in black leather and dies her hair bubble-gum pink in some tragic public restroom to avenge a fallen comrade who was gunned down on a mission in Uruguay? Christ! What a woman! .... None of my team mates had the drive to discover the accepted uses for a television.
I was usually responsible for these long winded runs across the field of play.... I would dart panther-like behind large trees. Bunker to bunker. On this day my brother was the opposing team leader and was responsible for slaughtering everyone else on my team except me. It was nearly a hung game seeing as he and I were the only players left. I was the last to stay close to the bunker where our flag was hidden. It was close to dusk and I was hiding behind a very large felled tree. I was waiting for John's approach. I would let him get within 10 feet of my hiding place and then easily snipe him. I listened intently and slowed my breaths so that I could be absolutely silent. He walked with purpose and without fear. He assumed that I would be using my limited resources to search for the opposing flag, and followed a little ATV trail directly towards me. Closer. A little closer. Come on.... He stopped for a second... fifteen feet from me and looked around. Perhaps sensing impending danger. I silently propped my gun on the tree... put my brother in my cross hairs and fired. (TWUP!) A neon green ball rocketed out the barrel of my gun and plastered across John's protective visor...
"AAAAH!" he yelled surprised.... and shot back at my tree in retaliation.
"You can't shoot people at point blank range! You're an idiot!" He screamed at me enraged. "You're gonna hurt some body!! What's wrong with you?"
I packed up my things and walked emotionless back to the house.
"Whatever. You lost." I said as I walked past him.
At the end of the work day I never wanted anything but to return home and shower gobs of paint spatter off and practice piano. There was plenty of pressure to return to school in the fall with a good head start on my new fall repertoire line up. And I would practice too... I just never felt quite satisfied with what I was accomplishing on a daily basis. It's difficult to work in sweltering heat every day and then force new muscle memory from a weary cerebellum. But I would do what I could. If dandelions can grow through cracks in sidewalks, then I could most certainly memorize a Mozart sonata. Tom Grimble and everyone else who had anything to say on the matter had made it painfully clear to me that sophomore year would be the year that would decide if I could stay a piano performance major. Sophomore Check was the platform that I would pass in order to continue study in my major. I imagined that it would take place in a very dark room. Black walls, black ceilings, one spot light... the judges draped in black.... hoods and pale faces and you probably wouldn't be able to see their eyes. If my performance pleased the gods, then they would allow my continued study. If not... they would require that I bring forward my academic torch and extinguish it. That or if i met disapproval they would perhaps begin a chant of sorts and then bash in my skull with a conch shell.
I spent my free time taking all the pains necessary to memorize my Bach. A prelude and fugue that i was working on. Layers of melodic lines. Delicately sewn together. Twisting and undulating. Dancing around and behind one another. Doing their routine with formality, sophistication and old-world gracefulness. Sometimes on the drive to Columbia I would trace out the patterns of the music on my thy... hearing the expected corresponding sounds in my head all the while.
Every night before falling off to sleep I would pray my little prayer.
"God, make me stronger and faster. Make me sin less and make me sharp like a knife. Help me whittle away at myself until there's nothing left that isn't perfect."
The rest of the summer melted away like ice-cream on tarmac. I thought how different times where now than they had been.
I was eleven and John was nine. Beth was just seven or so. We would spend those summer days, not working and saving... but we had built little kingdoms in the woods behind our house. We would rake away the pine-straw and thick leaf layer that blanketed the floor of the woods. All the cast away leaves from seasons past. Hundreds of yards of little trails that snaked away into the wood, far away from our house. There were seven or eight acres and we took advantage of each one. And we would find twine, and lash together fallen limbs... so heavy that it sometimes took the both of us to lift and tie it off to a standing tree. We made little wigwams. We raked away the leaf floors of our forest homes. We almost never wore shoes. We would spend hours and hours gathering sour weeds from a nearby field and bundling them together with the twine. Hanging each small parcel upside down from the branched roof of our imaginary homes. We would develop pretend personalities.We would gather ripe scuppernogs and save them for the impending winter. Or the hard under-ripe green ones... we would gather and sling-shot them at one another... or pelt them at waring tribes of saber-tooth tigers that had wandered into our territory to eat our livestock and pillage our stores of weeds. You must be very careful not to attack a tiger without help. At least take Mini along. She was our fat old golden lab... and she was not afraid of tigers in the least. We grew up with the woods all around us... we all ran fast and climbed high, high up into the arms of the holly trees, who's smooth brown skin looked just like ours.
Later as we grew into teenagers.... our fantasy play time evolved. It became more violent and less forgiving. We replaced our wigwams with bunkers built strong and solid out of wood scavenged from the saw mill. And in place of the spears we had fashioned to fend off raiders from opposition tribes, we bought slick black semi-automatic paintball guns, with load hoppers that held enough ammo to last you through an hour of heavy fire. There were bunkers here and there dotted in the woods and two in the grassy field in front of the house. Three or four friends of equal age to us would come over and we'd split into teams. Objects of the game play changed. At times the objective might be to capture a flag from the opposing team. John and I were nearly never on the same team. The other kids considered us equivalent marksmen and it would be more than a little un-fair. Beth played sometimes.... but I'm sure it had a lot more to do with romance and the neighbor boys then winning a violent game of 'who's the alpha male?'. My Dad played along too... being short and round he found shelter mostly at ground-level or in one of the bunkers. Dad was a crack shot though and could light a match with a shot from 50 yards. I was deeply emotionally invested in these games and had secretly loosened the CO2 valve on my gun. This increased my range of fire by about 30 yards and left ugly bruises on my fallen opponents. During game play I would pull out a tiny octagonal wrench and quickly adjust gas pressure from "ok, i'm hit." to "I blacked out and my spleen is leaking." The other kids hated me for this, but I always managed to pull out the tiny wrench and re-adjust the pressure back to something a little more normal, so that I couldn't be accused of un-ethical game play. During these games, I would often be named a team captain and be responsible for organizing a defensive strategy. Poor marksmen and short or fat kids would remain close to base to pick their noses and over heat in all the armored clothing they were wearing. Lean fast running kids would run quickly well outside of the legally decided limits of decided game play and creep stealthily behind the enemy base. The fact that this strategy was not immediately obvious to the other members of my team was exquisitely painful, and I couldn't help but morn the fact that the rest of my team mates were clearly cave dwellers. Didn't anyone ever watch Alias? You know... where Sidney Bristow (Jennifer Garner) suits up in black leather and dies her hair bubble-gum pink in some tragic public restroom to avenge a fallen comrade who was gunned down on a mission in Uruguay? Christ! What a woman! .... None of my team mates had the drive to discover the accepted uses for a television.
I was usually responsible for these long winded runs across the field of play.... I would dart panther-like behind large trees. Bunker to bunker. On this day my brother was the opposing team leader and was responsible for slaughtering everyone else on my team except me. It was nearly a hung game seeing as he and I were the only players left. I was the last to stay close to the bunker where our flag was hidden. It was close to dusk and I was hiding behind a very large felled tree. I was waiting for John's approach. I would let him get within 10 feet of my hiding place and then easily snipe him. I listened intently and slowed my breaths so that I could be absolutely silent. He walked with purpose and without fear. He assumed that I would be using my limited resources to search for the opposing flag, and followed a little ATV trail directly towards me. Closer. A little closer. Come on.... He stopped for a second... fifteen feet from me and looked around. Perhaps sensing impending danger. I silently propped my gun on the tree... put my brother in my cross hairs and fired. (TWUP!) A neon green ball rocketed out the barrel of my gun and plastered across John's protective visor...
"AAAAH!" he yelled surprised.... and shot back at my tree in retaliation.
"You can't shoot people at point blank range! You're an idiot!" He screamed at me enraged. "You're gonna hurt some body!! What's wrong with you?"
I packed up my things and walked emotionless back to the house.
"Whatever. You lost." I said as I walked past him.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Collusion: Part VIII
Contact. Confluence. Society. Tiny threads of familiarity that we spin each day. We work with differing levels of pre-meditation, with differing goals attaching ourselves to those around us with invisible filaments. Fibers made from memory, affection and complex belief systems. Our decision to invest in friendships seems arbitrary. This however much we’d like to believe it is the farthest thing from the truth.
Whatever wholesome thoughts we might have about ourselves…. Under whatever peachy stage lighting we like to see ourselves… the ties that bond us to others are most often motivated by selfishness and the promise of personal gain. Look for yourself. Look at your closest friendships. Why do you love the people that you do? You wont have to look too far to find the reasons are simple ones… and most often have to do with personal pleasure… entertainment or money. We as a people have the strongest of self-preservation instincts. This fact is evident in everything. We love who we love because of an intrinsic desire to thrive, to be perceived well by others and to be successful. We must choose the ones we invest in carefully; because the paths that life takes are so often directed by these choices. It was now that I should begin making these selections of who and what to love. It was my choice, and it was the expected time in my life to begin making those choices. Or so I thought…. That’s what I believed back then.
I had an extensive prayer life then. I remember in the months before I came to school… I had a little prayer that I would recite before falling asleep. I asked God to make me stronger. Sharper. To give me wisdom. I thought of college as something to be afraid of…. Being much more than a challenge… it was a threat that would force me away from my family and snatch away my childhood. I only now realize how childish I was then. I still kinda believed in magick. Such is the plight of precocious children. Their minds grow so much faster than their hearts.
Freshmen were required to complete at least one community service project for the city of Greenville. It was one of the requirements of the class called ‘Orientation.’ The class would have more aptly been named “How to Attend School at Bob Jones University.” It covered everything. Importance of abstinence, harnessing sexual desire, how to visit the library, how to budget your time to include an annually completed Bible reading programme… all the essentials really. Anyways, I asked Richard from work which community service project he had picked off of the list. He had chosen one where bus loads of freshmen were trucked to a park downtown and then expected to pick up liter. Delightful. I loved liter. We decided we would shmuck along together and check this experience off of our bucket lists.
The Saturday morning of our planned parole- like experience arrived. We waited on a curb with an unfortunate looking group of like sentenced students… all looking much the worse for this occurring on a Saturday morning. A white school bus with big blue stripes down the side and the schools name shuddered to a stop in front of us and we all piled in.
Richard and I sat side by side glumly. It was expected that males and females would sit only with members of their own gender in the two seat benches on either side of the aisle in the center. God forbid that a little thy-to-thy friction should be the spark that ignites a raging orgy on the way to the park to collect discarded soda cans and half- buried plastic grocery bags.
Some redheaded thing was sitting on the seat in front of us. She was quite noticeable because she was as loud as a macaw. She was laughing with all the force her lungs could muster. The kind of laughing you do when you’re laughing at something you really shouldn’t be laughing about. As the bus made its way through traffic she turned around in the seat, got on her knees and leaned on the back of the bench to greet us. She said hello in an elvish pitch… she sounded like Fran Drescher. She had her bright red brown hair pushed up in violent spikes. Rainbow colored earrings. Rich-girl red lip stain. A pink floral micro print short sleave t, and jean over-alls that were 2 sizes too big and had the legs rolled up. Converse. Of course. A style that made me think perhaps Rainbow Bright and Prince had given her up for adoption to pursue their carriers, and she had been raised instead by Bible believing faeries.
She asked for our names and told us that her name was Amy. Amy Jasperson. And that her pint-sized quiet friend was named Tisha. Through out the remainder of the trip we four palled around… and formed a little troupe. Amy was instantly captivating and kept all of us laughing with her antics. She was cartoonishly animated. Her being no more than five feet tall only added to the comedy. It wasn’t unusual for her to break into an eighties power ballad and look around expecting us all to join in. Always raucous and loud. I quickly came to fall in love with her. There was nothing she wouldn’t say. Rapid fire wit and comic observation about the irony of us collecting trash being an obviously academic pursuit.
Tisha and Richard more or less were magnetically attracted to one another from that moment on. Standing between them felt odd. The four of us made our way up and down the river that ran through the city park. Mostly goofin’ off… but occasionally being intrigued by a caution cone sunken in the water…or a tire. Cigarette butts all over lost in the fallen leaves. The park was filled with sprawling live oaks… and it seemed like they watched the little dramas unfold beneath them.
It was the first time I remember having fun at school. The brevity of class and piano and work fell away for a few hours and fresh air and muddy water washed away any thought for what I would spend my time on the next day.
Perhaps we are not the only ones that influence our social network. Others are hard at work as well, searching for people that they enjoy. People that entertain them… People to share parts of their life with. Maybe my thoughts about friendships weren’t so right after all. Maybe it wasn’t foolish to allow friendship with less protective skepticism. It was clear that there were people that were much more skilled with these threads of connectivity. Without my noticing Amy had looped strong and fast filaments around the four of us… bonds that would last for years. And you know… it didn’t seem all that dangerous. Maybe I didn’t have to be so careful.
These thoughts mulled around in my head on the way home. We sat in the same arrangement on the bus. Tisha was spent and was laying her head on Amy’s shoulder. The chatter was less boisterous on the return to campus. Play time was over.
As the bus dropped us off back at school we said our goodbyes. ‘Lets do lunch soon!’ Amy suggested. Women have a secret language that they speak to one another, and I think quiet Tisha had wanted this to happen but lacked initiative. Bye. Nice meeting you…. See you all later.
I spent the evening reworking the fingering on a phrase in a prelude… looking out the window as night fell like a blanket.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
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.
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
Of course i wanted to cook!
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.
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.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Collusion: Part III
The Authority.
Im all a flutter to be introducing you to this set! As i mentioned in II & 1/2, laws are useless without enforcement. Make yourself comfortable. Listen to this.
See... that's better huh? And now with your blood pressure down a bit, I will attempt a meet and greet with the Authority.
In a system who's laws are so broad ranging (i have no desire to go into more detail about the other confines of the Almighty Handbook. Suffice it to say that it outlines acceptable dress, entertainment choices, shopping choices, and social requirements with the opposite sex... the rules themselves are boring. the people who enforcement them, are not.) the enforcement of those laws must be august; and it must have eyes everywhere. The members of the Authority are as follows.
Ah! there! Arduous isn't it! Many of my following adventures will take place around and behind the backs of these wonderful persons. Its best you meet them now. The first weeks of school brought sweeping change in me. Already i had adjusted the people that i considered strangers, and little by little my discomfort level at being forced to constantly swim in society was dissipating. I was given new piano pieces to work on. I listened to every word spoken in every lecture. I took copious notes.
I put down roots. Just a little at first. There's nothing you cant do when fueled by an exotic mixture of fear and religious fervor.
I've only done the poorest of jobs laying a foundation for my stories, children.... stay tuned. xx.
Im all a flutter to be introducing you to this set! As i mentioned in II & 1/2, laws are useless without enforcement. Make yourself comfortable. Listen to this.
See... that's better huh? And now with your blood pressure down a bit, I will attempt a meet and greet with the Authority.
In a system who's laws are so broad ranging (i have no desire to go into more detail about the other confines of the Almighty Handbook. Suffice it to say that it outlines acceptable dress, entertainment choices, shopping choices, and social requirements with the opposite sex... the rules themselves are boring. the people who enforcement them, are not.) the enforcement of those laws must be august; and it must have eyes everywhere. The members of the Authority are as follows.
- Dean of Students: If you are in this persons office... it's because you are saying hello to a personal friend, or because you're being counseled for some sin, or because you are pleading with the Dean to stay enrolled. There are no other good reasons to see this person. He is to be feared and respected. Because, my little cumquats, if you break the rules of the Almighty Handbook.... you will loose all the money you've invested in your prestigious degree.... and all of your non-transferable credits. This man is at the top of the pyramid of power in this scenario. His office is filled with shelves and shelves of leather bound books... and bad memories. If you are quiet enough in his office.... you can hear monks chanting ancient Latin prayers.
- Dean of Men: The Authority just a hair less powerful than the Dean of Students but you're more likely to have contact with him, than you are with Dean of Students, if you decide to miss-behave. Or god forbid... you become tempted to practice anything from the Bill of Rights. This man has been designated to govern all aspects of male student life. I know how creepy that phrasing was.... er. hm. Anyways... Let's say a male student decides that he's like to have sex, or, i dunno... masturbate in front of a faculty member,... Dean of Men would be the one to expel him. After a long long conversation about how the student had displeased mystic Hebrew god, all republicans, himself, and of course the lord jesus christ. There would be a couple of prayers.... Dean of men would blither something about how he hoped the student would mend his ways.... case closed.... paper signed. Student free to leave. Free indeed.
- Dean of Women: This is usually a single woman. She handles all terminations of female students.... governs dress laws for them.... has remained un-married so that she may be a shining example of female chastity and swan-like grace etc etc. She is likely 172 years old. She will smell of age and a floral perfume. She will dress like Barbara Bush circa 1987. If you are being summoned by any of the above people... you should make plans for the rest of your year.... such as becoming a pirate.... or a crack head. Maybe gardening? Consider collecting discarded aluminum cans for a living. Its not that any of these people are particularly frightening per say... if you're not afraid of the loss of thousands of dollars and being banished from your family forever.
- This powerful tri-fecta control rule of law at BJU and set spiritual directives for each semester. When a member of the student body walks within 20 feet of any of these majestic persons.... he will feel guilty of something. He will tighten his tie. He will walk straighter... and he will either nervously and over exuberantly greet minor deity, or avoid eye contact and hurry away. Its fun to watch.
- Teachers: Nuff Said.
- Staff: Under paid, Un-attractive people who want their children to get free tuition.
- Dorm Supers: Each dormitory is graced with one of these. These wraith like persons are hallow and soul-less. They have been in school here for so long that they couldnt think of anything better to do than to continue. And such is their way. The are intensely religious. duh. They are mostly virgins. Or married. They love books and bookish things. If you havent done anything expulsion worthy... you will likely be having an intensely un-comfortable conversation with one of these unassuming creatures. Most of them wear sweater vests. I dont know why.
- RA's: These students have been selected, half via 'buddy system' approval through previous RA's and Dorm Supervisors. Each hall gets one of these. Mostly they are found to be the most religiously devout of the student body and are most likely seniors.... though some of their senior years take considerably longer than an actual year. They should be avoided if possible. There is much corruption in the lower levels of the Authority... much of it here that is. Power to enforce the rules is used for personal benefit... more so on the men's side of campus than on the womens.
- Prayer Captains: These are mostly average 'Joe Political Sciences'.... or likely Bible majors. they look after 5 or nine rooms when the RA isnt. They tend to show up in your room whenever you're trying to listen to popular music... which is of-course taboo.
- (Lastly) Assistant Prayer Captains: Corruption is rife on this level. But then, what is a system without corruption? Boring. You've met Larry.
Ah! there! Arduous isn't it! Many of my following adventures will take place around and behind the backs of these wonderful persons. Its best you meet them now. The first weeks of school brought sweeping change in me. Already i had adjusted the people that i considered strangers, and little by little my discomfort level at being forced to constantly swim in society was dissipating. I was given new piano pieces to work on. I listened to every word spoken in every lecture. I took copious notes.
I put down roots. Just a little at first. There's nothing you cant do when fueled by an exotic mixture of fear and religious fervor.
I've only done the poorest of jobs laying a foundation for my stories, children.... stay tuned. xx.
Collusion: Part II & 1/2
Ghandi has something to say about society. Regardless of your thoughts on popular culture, without a doubt you are swayed by it and your involvement in it sways others. We make the world that we live in.... and the inverse is more true than any of us likes to admit. Even if we are all little islands, the waters of social interaction flow all around us... bring in touring concepts... shape the landscape of our lives; and despite our ideas about originality and choice, force mutation after mutation.
I say all of this by way of introduction back into 'collusion'. The difference in my schedule from before my time here, and now was striking. I was determined to do well. I was determined to earn my keep. From the morning of my first arrival my life began to be more and more regulated. There was a bell in the hall way that woke me up at the same time every morning; and that same bell dictated that i should turn off my lamp at night. click. click. Duplicates of that same bell could be found in hallways all around campus. Ring. Go to bed. Ring. Wake up. Ring eat. Ring. Pray.
Those self same bells weren't just bossing me around. They were the levies... and the metronomes of everyone on campus. Tiny dictators that affected all aspects of the micro society, from Joe Political Science, all the way to The President Himself.
Oppressed by it? Not at all. I was in love with the concept.
I often think how lucky i was to have my first toe holds into social experience happen here. Not because i think it did such an amazing job of preparing me for the future... rather because the machinations of this particular society were so specific and so radically different from society as usual that the experience would be akin to discovering a lost protestant tribe deep in the heart of middle america.
How does one go about describing a micro society? I think I need to...in order to have some bones to have the flesh of this narrative hang on. I will pretend that im you... and that i am discovering this lost tribe first off. Ive already introduced you to the differing levels of the Cast system. Lets talk dress code.
Almighty Handbook is published once a year by University Press. (The Press is a financial cash cow for BJU. They use it to publish all the books for every christian school on the eastern seaboard, the mid-west... parts of Hawaii and beyond. It's housed in one of the largest buildings on campus.) As i said before, Almighty Handbook dictates all aspects of student life. All aspects. And its all-seeing eyes do not miss dress code. I thought i was going to have to go through the trouble of remembering all of it and regurgitating for this story. Thankfully not. It can be easily accessed via the internet. Yessssss.
What you are about to read is real.
Go ahead! Click on it!
I claim that human mind or human society is not divided into watertight compartments called social, political and religious. All act and react upon one another. Mohandas GhandiFascinating, isn't it? I became aware of this all too clearly when I started school at BJU. As a reader you are likely questioning the viability of this school as a broad representation of the rest of north american society.... and those thoughts are just. Warranted even. Even if the only thing you know about BJU is what you can find on wikipedia.... you may well be aware that this place has its own anthropological zip code. Everyone that is touched by it is left with at least some of the same finger marks.
I say all of this by way of introduction back into 'collusion'. The difference in my schedule from before my time here, and now was striking. I was determined to do well. I was determined to earn my keep. From the morning of my first arrival my life began to be more and more regulated. There was a bell in the hall way that woke me up at the same time every morning; and that same bell dictated that i should turn off my lamp at night. click. click. Duplicates of that same bell could be found in hallways all around campus. Ring. Go to bed. Ring. Wake up. Ring eat. Ring. Pray.
Those self same bells weren't just bossing me around. They were the levies... and the metronomes of everyone on campus. Tiny dictators that affected all aspects of the micro society, from Joe Political Science, all the way to The President Himself.
Oppressed by it? Not at all. I was in love with the concept.
I often think how lucky i was to have my first toe holds into social experience happen here. Not because i think it did such an amazing job of preparing me for the future... rather because the machinations of this particular society were so specific and so radically different from society as usual that the experience would be akin to discovering a lost protestant tribe deep in the heart of middle america.
How does one go about describing a micro society? I think I need to...in order to have some bones to have the flesh of this narrative hang on. I will pretend that im you... and that i am discovering this lost tribe first off. Ive already introduced you to the differing levels of the Cast system. Lets talk dress code.
Almighty Handbook is published once a year by University Press. (The Press is a financial cash cow for BJU. They use it to publish all the books for every christian school on the eastern seaboard, the mid-west... parts of Hawaii and beyond. It's housed in one of the largest buildings on campus.) As i said before, Almighty Handbook dictates all aspects of student life. All aspects. And its all-seeing eyes do not miss dress code. I thought i was going to have to go through the trouble of remembering all of it and regurgitating for this story. Thankfully not. It can be easily accessed via the internet. Yessssss.
What you are about to read is real.
Go ahead! Click on it!
Dress Code for Men
| Alright. I know what you're thinking. First that it's the kind of side-splitting funny that just has to be true. And you're right! But cultivating and controlling the impulses of an age demographic that is characterized by experimentation and self-expression is just one aspect of this college experience. It's often a point of contention as you might expect. This one chapter of Almighty Handbook is like all of its others... and is driven by a type of world view that worships mystic Hebrew god.... and holds one book in higher regard than even Almighty Handbook. His Book. All of that to give you colors to paint with. How else could i describe the tribe? A hive. Those first weeks of school were as busy as if you had kicked an ant hill. Everyone busy about his own business. Work. Class. Each ant was someone new to meet. New connections to forge... and quickly i was learning that within the confines of the rules set down by Almighty Handbook... there were other powerful ways in which the ants could express themselves. A skirt was an inch too high. A button was loose. One smells like Abercrombie. One smells like Hollister. The smallest of indication that they had decided where to place themselves in the Cast; that they decided whom and what they would obey. Fascinating. All of it. Fascinating. I would soon learn that success academically would be decided by how well i could obey Almighty Handbook.... but social success would be determined by how easily i broke its laws with out alerting the attention of the Authority. The Authority. You must realize that the laws of the bells and Almighty Handbook are completely useless, unless you have a regulatory system in place to enforce such laws. The Authority will be discussed later. There is turkey to be eaten. There is family to attend to. Happy Thanksgiving. | |||||||||||||
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