A Move Towards Adjustment

7-8-05

Outside a storm is beginning to brew. Not one of those delicate Michigan drizzles or soft watery advances that form over the lake, but a true Oklahoma storm – born fierce, another shining token to the less congenial effects of mother natures personality. Outside, bugs of such abnormal variety stretch their hardened appendages, staring, shrieking, catching glimpses of the giant water pools that are beginning to drop before their eyes. Outside, the scorched red-hued earth cracked and desiccated by the unchallenged sun breathlessly waits for the skies long belated embrace.

Tucked away from the storm, a man sits beneath the 2 by 4 backbone of an unfinished attic roof, surrounded by the chaotic adornments of the construction site that has now become his home. Boxes, clothes, and all manner of personal effects lie strewn about the crawlspace, barring access to a bed at one corner of the room and the toilet at the far end of the other.

Head bent and shoulders drooped, the man sighs, burdened by the disparity of his new surroundings, lost in a transition born of circumstance and not by choice. A gloom ridden reflection of the approaching storm, he lets himself descend.

Ready to decant he reaches for a key.

* * *

Leisure, recreation, fun—these are words that seem to have withered away from my vocabulary. Now that I am nearing the apex of my mid-twenties, I am beginning to inherit the true meaning of the word adult. It’s a strange phenomenon really. The taller you grow, the older you become, the more life equals work. It seems, in fact, that the word adult is a synonym for the word labor, for the word toil, and for all other actions that bring sweat to the brow. Sometimes, after a hard day as an adult, with aching muscles and tired limbs, I shake my fists at the sky and scream: “Nooooo! I don’t want grow up, I’m a Toys R Us kid!”. This never seems to have any affect, and I wake up the next morning one step closer to complete adultdom, or workdom, or whatever.

The move down from Michigan to Oklahoma was just that—a lot of darn work. It all started July 3^rd, when my good pal Eric and I decided to entertain ourselves by playing Tetris with my belongings. Skillfully we placed my furniture and boxed items into a 14’ Uhaul truck—a true beast of a vehicle that we christened Goliath or Big G in times of duress. Referred to by a Uhaul representative as “an older model”, Big G had all the amenities of aged transport, including a faulty AC system, no tape player, and a steering wheel that had to be cocked five inches off center to keep the truck straight on the road. As if this wasn’t bad enough, we decided to tug my Neon along with a trailer hitch, adding a good 14 additional feet to an already precarious ride.

On the night of the 4^th, at the early hour of 3:30 in the morning, Eric and I awoke sluggishly, and with sharp little sherikens still crusted to our eyes, we made our way out of Kalamazoo. After cautiously navigating the frenzied mess that is Chicago, we journeyed into breadbasket country, there witnessing the hypnotic green crop linings that characterizes the American Midwest. As Eric drove, I marveled sleepily at the expanse of this incredible area, once virgin forest, broken by the axe of settlement, reprogrammed for agriculture, a breeding utopia of corn and beans that stretches as far as the eye can see.

Goliath, it soon turned out, stayed true to his outsized persona, guzzling gas almost faster than we would fill. The beast seemed to prefer his last portion over all others, hastily consuming the final quarter of the tank, and on more than one occasion, Eric and I found ourselves franticly surveying the roadside causeways for some semblance of a station. For future reference, stay clear of Elkhart Illinois, population 500, when in desperate search for fuel. Apparently, people in Elkhart dislike gas stations as much as they dislike strangers, and our visit there can be best summed up with a resounding raspberry and thumb to the floor.

Past the silver arch of St. Louis over the Ozarks and through the woods to grandma’s house we went. We survived the final leg of the trip by filling out crossword puzzles. This proved rather difficult after we passed the Oklahoma state line, for with one last raspy breath our AC went out completely and we had to open our windows to stay cool.

I don’t recommend co-piloting a game of crossword puzzle in a noisy environment—it can lead to some rather disastrous misinterpretations.

Finally, with bloodshot eyes and overripe brains, seventeen hours after takeoff, we landed at my grandmother’s estate in Lawton Oklahoma.

* * *

Try this. Go outside and find yourself a nice busy anthill. Cautiously approach the mound and observe the ordered procession of insects going about their day. Be sure to note the purposeful movement of each worker drone, scurrying about on some constructive task, small but essential characters in the development of the hive. Now, after enjoying this ordered symphony, I want you take a moment to collect yourself. Fill your mind with all of the hurtful and vindictive things other people have done to you. When your emotions have reached their proper crescendo, take your foot, raise into the air, and drive into the anthill. Notice the chaos that ensues. Notice the bewildered intensity of the ants, directionless and lost, enraged over a pile of scattered soil.

I am the ant, and this is my metaphor. Undirected intensity, with a good shot of bewilderment—this aptly characterizes my first couple weeks in Oklahoma.

Eric stayed out the week, helping me put all of my stuff in storage, return the Uhaul truck, and get moved in to my parents place. Their new home, or construction site rather, is about fifty minutes out of Lawton, in a rocky savannah like area called the Black Rocks [a description of this rich an interesting local will come in the next journal entry].

They are currently raising two buildings there: a large garage/shop/living quarters, and a stained glass studio for my mom (the attic of which is my new home). It is in and from this den of chaos that I will find work, and hopefully draw enough funds for my trip to Brazil.

I have thus far succeeded on the work front, beating my ass into the proverbial grindstone, enjoying the fruits of my labor under the sweltering Oklahoma sun (fruits=sweat and cancer). Over the weekend, I worked ten-hour shifts for my dad, moving dirt and boulders in an attempt to beautify the BR property. He then left for Detroit the following week, so I decided to seek supplementary hours in Lawton by joining a landscaping crew. The crew turned out to be five illegal immigrant Mexicans who somehow found the energy to work twelve hour shifts six days a week. To add to this misery, the temperature stayed close to the one hundred mark, with atypical humidity and no wind. Never have I been more dirty or tired (you Museum people with your AC and comfortable high backed chairs can shove it…hehe!)

Now, throw in a bit of emotional duress, adjustment stress, and no friends—makes you wonder if the devil enjoys torturing some over others. My aunt commented on this very thing, saying, “Life can only get better”.

On some level she must be correct.

Mustn’t she?

[cue the cricket chirp]

Anyone?

[tweet…tweet]

Bye-Bye Museum, Apartment, Kalamazoo

(waiving off 3 awesome years at the KVM)

(and a similiar blast off from the CLC)

(Yep, 4511 apartment now completly empty)

(I really own way too much shit!)

(Off the road again, I can't wait to get off the road again)

(Always on empty. Goliath the true gas guzzler.)

(passage to nowhere)

Outward Missives

6-25-05

12:39 p.m.

A countdown begins…5…4…3…2…1. A new stage in life ushers through.

Slowly I have acquiesced to the greedy spirits of U and Haul, and am now readying for my Oklahoma move. I will be taking off on July 4^th, fittingly named “independence day”, a quaint reminder of my much belated freedom.

The bleak pallor of my walls—their decorations and hangings neatly packed in cardboard boxes—signals the end of my time here. My apartment is beginning to lose its personal touch, waiting expectantly for the next occupant to adorn its now lackluster space. Kalamazoo, the small crook of earth that has been home for the past four years will soon pass into unfamiliarity, taking up some piece of devalued real estate in the suburbs of my head. All kind of sad really.

Michigan, overall, has been very good to me. It is here that my family discarded that confounded internal gauge which points the nomad to foreign horizon. If I were to circumnavigate the past, to narrate the vicissitudes and fortunes of my time here, the expression of this life would be organized in successive linear episodes of unfolding plot. Today I must highlight one particular segment, a four-year stint of madness that found its resolution in a package on my doorstep.

* * *

“Upon the recommendation of the faculty and by the authority of the Board of Trustees, Western Michigan University has conferred upon ***** the degree of Bachelor of Arts, Magna Cum Laude”.

These are the words that I received today in the mail, secured neatly in a white envelope with the words “DO NOT BEND,” printed on the side. I must admit that upon seeing my diploma—a nine by eleven inch off white sheet embossed with the gold leaf authority of Western Michigan University—I was taken swiftly back to my four-year college spree.

W.M.U., like most college conglomerations, is a veritable city unto itself – boasting a student audience of 30, 000 strong. As I walked down the long sidewalk avenues, past bronze and wood sentinels of impressionistic art, I often marveled at the mass transit of students making their way to class. What a patchwork this steady stream was, a heady mixture of people of all shapes colors. Of all the things that college gave me, I found the appreciation for this swimming vortex of people and ideas, this cosmopolitan diversity of campus life, most rewarding.

My first visit to campus, in 2001, was a rather dismal depressing affair. I was required to see an academic advisor at the Arts & Sciences counseling office, to meet and discuss the general education requirements for my degree. After wearily twiddling my thumbs in the waiting room for a good length of time, I was happy to meet Angela, a cute curly haired women skilled in the art of pacifying student uncertainty. Soon after we settled in her office and exchanged pleasantries, she handed me a rather substantial looking notebook filled to capacity with degree requirement sheets. One hundred and twenty two credits, they demanded, from seven academic areas, five LEC core distributions, and six proficiencies. The system was complex, and Angela had to repeat herself more than a handful of times just to explain it to me. Forty-five minutes in, her office door again swung open, and I left in a state of deranged confusion, utterly intimidated by the amount of work just set before me.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” I ruminated “and neither would my brain”.

* * *

One of the most difficult things about the college track for many students is the number of choices, the number of paths set before you. Professors, by example or through direct invitation, play at the role of occupational recruiter, working to pull the brightest students into their chosen fields. College, after all, is supposed be the point in which one answers that gratingly annoying question: What do I want to be when I grow up? If a student is unable to answer, classes can become a boxing match of sorts, knocking a pupil from one major to the next - bringing one ever closer to the TKO of career enlightenment.

I was lucky enough to find my niche right off the bat. My general education requirements quickly taught me just how disinterested I was in mathematics, business, engineering, or anything that hinted of practicality. As in my youth, the hub of my curiosity was centered on the human story, in fable and in truth – in literature, science, and within the context of the unfamiliar. Anthropology, with its discussion of hominid evolution and biology, archaeological remains, cultural expression and the like, seemed for me a perfect fit.

Unlike the newly erected fortresses of the business college, or the glass and steel edifices of science and engineering, the Anthropology department resides in a somewhat dilapidated old dorm hall, the bottom layer in a religion-philosophy-social studies architectural pie. Despite the meager portion of student dollars that the department receives, the instruction offered is quite good, especially with the small student to teacher ratio. These lesser numbers (only about 75 declared undergraduate majors) proved advantageous for me, as I slowly worked my way up the academic ranks, eventually becoming the president of the Anthropology Student Union (not too difficult a position to receive considering the lackluster ASU attendance records).

And so it was, through my studies, I was introduced to the Trobriand Islanders of Papua New Guinea, the Voodoo Gods of Haiti, the historical archaeology of the Caribbean, the biological qualities of our hominid ancestors. I excavated the seventeenth century remains of Fort Saint Joseph, I led discussions on the trans-Atlantic slave trade, I stared into the hollow eye sockets of a long forgotten Barbadian slave.

What more could a student have asked for. To learn above all else just how fascinating this world truly is, and to feel a sense of purpose in his own effort to unearth these discoveries.

* * *

Now, as I enter my apartment strewn with cardboard boxes and other articles of my move, only one wall hanging remains for me to see. Gloriously rimmed in an antique replica frame, my diploma now rests quietly – a true testament to my life in Kalamazoo and to the exploratory avenues of my college experience.

Soon I will make my way to Oklahoma, only to mark a new age in the advancement of my years. What’s to come? Hmmm…a good question indeed.

One must stay tuned.

Random WMU Adventure Pics

(archaeology in the Caribbean)

(urban excavation in Bridgetown, Barbados)

(too much work? or vacation?)

(Bajan blue)

(Anthropology Student Union jaunt to Cahokia Mounds)

Solemn Goodbyes

6-6-05

5:30 a.m.

I said goodbye to my wife yesterday. My eyes swallowed the whole of her for one last time. She wore a turquoise blue dress with white ribbons rimming the waist, her soft outline accentuated by the swaying ornaments dangling from her ears. Her hair was strained, burnet tresses pulled tightly back in a ponytail, an expression of grim seriousness hardening the delicate lines of her face.

I knew when I stepped into her apartment—an unremarkable nook that rested not two miles from the home we used to share—things would be different. My heart, which long before had lost its measured cadence, screamed for a relapse of that moment. How easy it would be to imagine a quick shift of time, a swift alteration of circumstance, where my visit would speak of more inspiring courtly affairs. The sharp clack of her fingernails on the doorframe and the indelicately folded divorce papers that rested so benignly in my pocket, spoke otherwise, and again I was reminded that realities language is different than that of my dreams.

As I walked up the steps to her upstairs bedroom, I brooded over the details of our shared misfortune, wondering as one foot passed the other how I could possibly utter my last goodbyes. Desolation, wretchedness, longing - few words could aptly convey the weight of my emotion, and sitting down, the lilt and passion of that lexis quickly withered as I stared into her eyes.

Where anger has replaced affection…

Where grief has replaced joy…

Where solitude has replaced companionship…

God knows, my love still lingers…

This I wanted to communicate. And yet, mirroring the sentiment in her eyes, I also felt anger – for being abandoned, demonized, weighed and found wanting.

Our conversation, drawn by the pull of a foreseeable spiral, soon degenerated into the negative particulars of the past. “You weren’t there for me then”, “You didn’t come when I called”, “You didn’t love me then”, “You had to put up your wall”. And in our defiance, as the accusations reached their climax, with rigid spines and cold stares, we both sat back, unified by our shared frustration and disappointment.

“How could something,” I silently asked myself “which once brought my life so much meaning and joy, end in this way?” Still I search for the answer.

I stood up, and with tears in my eyes apologized for any hurt that I had caused her. Delicately I brushed her hand, laid one final kiss on her cheek, and walked out the door.

And there it ended, a final exclamation point to my own personal tragedy. I knew then that everything was different, my life forever changed, and I realized that in the faded alleyways of my soul, all that was left was to sip of my recollections, and affirm, even with regret, my maturity through them.

Footprints fade, new path emerges, and thus I begin my new life…