^February 2, 1970
The N. C. Essay «
Page 5
ImpR To The Editor
(Continued from page 1)
ity whatsoever against returning to
an empty, looted, private room.
Here at NCSA (the so-called new four
letter word) the only possible relief
a student can expect after being
"hit", is to sigh or scream. He
knows that he will never see the
stolen belongings (for the benefit of
the raculty and other administration,
this is illegal: i.e. against the
law) again, and there is no possi
ble hope of anything being done, or
ever being done. He will vaguely
report his loss to the nearest person
in charge (har-har) just for the
record, pray that whatever it was, is
the last thing he will have taken
from him, and sigh or scream. I
choose to scream; because it is at
least a drain of the frustration
gained from the very sight of the
people who students are paying up to
$2,000 a year (to protect you, and to
just allow you to live and work in
peace) doing nothing.
Oh yes, I am now officially init
iated to the NCSA (or whatever syn
onym you choose to use) campus for
the 1969-70 year. I too have now
been officially burgled, and move
swiftly, but without ceremony or
consideration believe me, up to join
the countless other disgusted stu
dents in this slack, absurd, miserable,
crime-infested, and sickly carefree
institution (But come now; institution
connotes too damn much order and
respect. How about "poor man's
Summerhill"?) .
"But you kids have to help us
find and stop these people who are
doing those things," drool the people
in charge. What we have to do is work
and learn as much as we can under
our heavy schedules from day to day
and concentrate on our individual
arts and maybe even acquire a little
discipline from the life in this ZOO.
Not worry ourselves with the jobs
of persons who are getting paid, for
Christ's sake, to put a stop to these
atrocities3 which never had to* start
in the first place. There are
supposedly five master keys to the
college men's dorm out in the eager
hands of who knows who. Burglaries
are weekly, if not daily occurrences
of this training ground for amateur
thieves. We lock our doors only
from habit, and cringe every time we
reopen them.
What is to be done, I could
care less about. It's my job.
I have too much else to do in trying
to finish and leave this place.
I'm paying somebody else to keep the
place clean. I really don't care if
he has to sit at the end of the hall
with a shotgun all day and night. It
might at least end the trouble (but
only if no one steals his shotgun).
I simply go to school here under an
enormous schedule, and ask only the
privacy and silence of my own room
which 1, again, am paying for. Girls
in Sanford Dorm, I pity you al-o be-
THE VIEW
by MIKE FERGUSON
(This avtiale was to have a'ppeared
in full in last week’s Essay, How
ever, a printing error left us with
only half of the article appearing.
This is it in its entirity.)
I dig the sound of these re
cords: Blue Afternoon, Sweetheart
of the Rodea (Hickory Wind), Turn
ing Point, Tim Buckley, Byrds, John
Mayall. Also, "Live Dead", new
Incredible String Band, and Then
Play On, Fleetwood Mac. We've
just passed through an incredible
decade: Kennedys, moon, war.
Dr. King, assassinations, Beatles,
LBJ, hippies/dope/peace, Nixon,
Dylan. Changes. What does it all
mean?
The universe seems to be di
vided into parts which equal no
whole. We're seperate right now,
except in isolated cases, and we
can't make it like this anymore.
We each possess a consciousness
which is (hopefully) capable of
cause I know that you have suffered
as much, if not more, than we in this
smile-viewed miscarriage of the word,
school. I, myself, plan to buy a
hasp latch, screw it to the wall and
door myself, and buy the biggest,
ugliest Yale lock I’can find to
protect my belongings.
Slack and diseased, this NCSA is
lumbering toward its death like a
truckload of drunks on a mountain
road. I don't, and quite honestly
think I ever will, have the slightest
particle of respect, trust, or cer
tainty for this mad house. Oh, you
can stand it for a while, kids, sure.
But it's like a ride on a roller
coaster, which after four years results
in nausia. And I'm throwing up all
over the side. Not all the really
good things this school has produced
when stacked up, can come to the knees
of the waste, disgust, and dissent
that has grown.
Ah, but what is that I see in my
mailbox? A firm and official notice
stating that if the naughty students
who lifted the 6; cinder blocks from
the construction site (of the $1,000,
000 "Early Neo-Ultra Classic" telephone
booth somewhere behind the main build
ing) do not return them immediately to
their little spots, they will be cited
to the JUDICIAL REVIEW BOARD for the
stealing of school property I A school
wide search was put immediately into
effect for the sacred cinder blocks,
but the stealing of my tape recorder,
someone's $2,000 flute or other
instrument, countless other large
and small items, and hundreds of
dollars worth of actual green paper
money, warrented no more than a
"Well, I'm really sorry".
David Sutor
being formed into oneness, but
which has failed to do so. We have
to want to make it happen, we have
to work at it. Nixon thinks that
the lottery system is the solution
to something. Pepsi thinks that
we've got a lot to live and that
they've got a lot to give.
Last summer was a particularly
troubled time for me. Changes came,
radical enough to upset my existing
world structure into something
unrecognizable and difficult to
relate to. At the height of all my
frustration and turmoil, I would
put Pete Townshend's magic opus,
"Pinball Wizard", on my turntable.
Headphones, volume way up.
Electric rushes sent through my
brain. Fury. Rage. Three minutes
in inner space. "I'm searchin' for
my mainline." What does it all
mean?
I consulted the ^ Ching (Chinese
Book of Changes) in late August.
The pressures of the summer at a
peak. Me, trying to stash away my
doubts about the ancient Chinese
text, trying to believe the words.
On their first album, Steppenwolf
sang "Desperation". The Ching told
me that I would shortly enter into
a sort of academic/spiritual commun
ity. Six months later I'm writing
at NCSA. I still don't have com
plete faith in the Ching.
Sometimes I'll be listening to
music, really involved, and this
whole messy cosmos forms into crystal
order. I know what it's all about,
but it's not anything I could ar
ticulate. After the flash has
passed, I don't know anymore. Maybe
that moment is enough. In Crawdaddy,
someone wrote: "The best of life is
in flashes." It happened the other
night, listening to Steve Miller's
"Children of the Future".
The main theme of John Fowles'
The Magus (a book I do wish you'd
all read) seems to me to be that we
spend time exploring, only to end up
at the initial point of our ex
ploration. And only then can we
begin to understand that period of
searching. I'm just now coming to
realizations about the last six
months in particular, and the whole
decade. (Goodbye Baby and Amen.)
A friend once told me that the most
he could do any one time was ex
perience.
"You can't always get what you
want, but if you try sometime, you
just might find you get what you
need." That song says a lot about
us and the decade we just passed
through. (Just as "Blow-up" may be
the definitive film of the 60's.)
They also may be important words to
remember for the seventies.
I suppose it's an ego-trip for
me to put words in this paper, expect
you to read them, and then get
something from them (i.e., "meaning").
(Continued on page 6)