North Carolina School of the Arts
Page 7
I
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V
Exodus
by Jon G)ggeshall
There comes a time in life when
all good men must come to the
aid of their sanity. A time to leave
the fold. A time to pull ones
bootstraps up and head for
greener pastures. A time to
banish oneself from the Garden
of Eden. A time to “break away
from the crowd” and become an
Old Gold Filters Man. A time to
lifteth roots; untie old knots. A
time to every purpose unto
Heaven. What am I talking
about? I’m talking about
EXODUS!
All on-campus students,
brothers and sisters in agony,
peers in peril, friends, roomates,
campusmen, I SYMPATHIZE!
Yes, I know it’s hard. God, do I
know it’s hard! I REMEMBER
the guy in 308 who plays electric
leslie fuzz-wah feedback reverb
vibratostick guitar ’til dawn. I
REMEMBER the funny coin
cidence of the yahoo on the other
side of the wall who is or will be a
sex fiend, owning the Carolinas
most olxioxious bedsprings. I
KNOW the Head down the hall
whose very existence is a con-
tinous party, complete with
human feet that walk loud and
human voices (inhuman?) that
scream, giggle, guffaw, and in
general span the entire range of
human vocal expression with
astonishing volumne and clarity.
And, of course, I can’t (am
unable to) forget those daun
tless, heartless, lesson practicing
music people, their dedication
matched oidy by their endurance
as they practice, and practice,
AND practice, AND PRACTICE
with the regularity of dripping
water (and idth as much variety,
too!). And the strangest facet of
the whole mess is the queer
malady affecting the entire lot of
them; fuzz-wahs, sex fiends,
Goodtime Charlies, everybody.
Something almost super
natural! Supernatural? Yes, I
said SUPERNATURAL!
Have you ever heard of
vampirism? Tush! Why doctor,
(scoff) things like that are only
found in silly superstitions, (scoff
scoff) old wives tales told by
ignorant villagers! (scoff scoff
mock mock). Oh? Well then,
perhaps you can explain this
strange, inbred instinct of dorm
dweller to sleep by day in small,
damp, enclosed area, and then to
prowl by night (or practice cello)
or in^te other prowlers (or cello
players) into their small, damp,
etc etc for parties or cello orgies
or other myriad pastimes?
Well?? CAN YOU EXPLAIN
IT!?!? “What?”
AH HA! So what can one do to
escape such a fate?????? Easy.
One can MOVE OUT!!! OFF-
CAMPUS!! PEACE! CON
TENTMENT! PRIVACYIITHE
LURE OF ADVENTURE! THE
CALL OF THE WILD!
STRIKING OUT ON YOUR OWN
AND GO WEST, YOUNG
MAN!!!! HOT DOG! Run up to
Mr. Hawley screaming “GIVE
ME MY MONEY BACK FOR
GODS SAKE!!!!” (Not
necessarily in that order) And
then, between the time it takes
for your refund to come back
from Raleigh, and Mr. Hyatt to
tell the cafeteria you can’t eat
there anymore, you’ve got to
FIND A PLACE TO LIVE! A
cave. A hole. A hovel. A brothel.
A cavern. A tavern. Excavating
for a mine
O.K., you’ve been lucky.
Raleigh came through. Hawley
came through. Raleigh and
Hawley came through. Mr.
Hyatt came through. Raleigh,
Hawley & Hyatt came through.
Ralei^, Hawley & Hyatt. Hmm-
mm... You’re going to get sixty-
five percent of your dorm fee
back. Good. That averages out to
roughly, say, two hundred and
eighty nine dollars and fifteen
cents, approximately. Enough
for a first month’s rent and a lot
left to “fix the place up” once you
get it (and believe me, you’ll “get
it”). So, what do you do. How do
you go about it?? Getting an
apartment, I mean. Do you
greedily scan the “Apartment for
Rent, Furnished” sections of Uie
Twin City Sentinel? Do you
devour the “Apartments for
Rent, Unfurnished” ads in the
Winston-Salem Journal?? Do you
beg a copy of “Apartments
Magazine” from the City Com
merce??? Do you?! Do you ask
the Dean of Student Affairs for
advice?!?? DO YOU ASK YOUR
OLD DORM COUN
SELOR?????? DO YOU GO TO
“FINANCIAL AID?!?!?”
WELL, DO YOU?!?! NO!!!
Dummy, you don’t! What do you
do? You do what everybody else
on campus looking for off-
campus quarters does; you listen
in earnest to idle rumors, and
gossip, and track down false
leads. Intentiy. Continually. It’s a
ritual. And WHY do you do this?
WHY?!? You do it because if and-
or when you DO find an apart
ment, you can, with an absolutely
clear conscience, say it’s your
apartment and yours alone
because YOU found it BY
YOURSELF! And it will be more
like HOME, then, you see,
because you ddn’t have to go to
the “newspapers” or any
“agency” for help in locating it.
Nope. You ran aroimd like an
idiot yourself to get it! So it’s
yours. Now does that make any
sense? OF COURSE NOT! But,
that’s what you’ll do. That’s what
we ALL do.
Now, for some incredible
reason, your luck is holding out.
After six false gossips from two
idle roomers, you’ve come across
a “PLACE.” A veritable Nir-
vanah of rats in the ceiling,
roaches in the floor, cracks in the
wall and a squeeky front door.
Not a table or a gable, and it’s
leaking like a sieve, and your
neighbor next door beats his wife
and kids. It’s dark, cold, and your
budget is slim. It looks like
somethin’ the cat dragged hi.
BUT you’ll tfdce it. And why will
you t^e it? Because all those
drawbacks, bad points, and
problems simply pale beside the
one great single advantage of this
throwback adobe abode. And
what is it?? Well, of course! It’s
within WALKING DISTANCE of
the campus, that’s why you’ll
take it. And you do. Ah, but now
comes the hardest part.
Prostrating oneself. The but
tering up. The pearls before. Tlie
kissing of. Clinching the deal.
Shaking on the agreement. Yep,
you guessed it. You’ve got to
“talk to the landlord” and not
act-sound like a “hippie.”
‘IT‘LL BE HARD. For at least
four years, it seems, you’ve been
constantly working on your
“individualism,” your “in
dependence,” your Oneness with
yourself and nature; cultivating
your hair, irrigating your
sideburns, excavating your
beard. Salting your speech with
“Hey, what’s your sign?” “Far
out” and “Oh man. I’m f-ked
up!” Working on a free spirited
open-mindedness, your “live &
let live” attitude. “Peace,
te-other,” “Let it Be., man” ‘Up
close, babe” Too much!”
“Boffo!” “Toke” and “So’s your
old man” And now, NOW, your
insides lurch and smash against
each other churning everything
to Cheddar cheese as every fibre
and fabric of your being grates
together in conflicting agony as
you desperately and shakingly
rummage & pillage through your
desk drawer and yank out those
OLD HORN-RIMMED GLASSES
YOU GAVE UP WEARING MID
WAY THROUGH THIRD YEAR
OF HIGH SCHOOL!!!! And,
degradation heaped upon
degradation, PUT THEM
ON!!!!!! Can one describe the
feeling of betraying oneself?
What goes through your head as
you defile your dresser looking
for a pair of semi-baggy pants to
wear? WITH NO BELLS?!? A
SPORT COAT!?!?!!! AGHAA!!
A white shirt???? God, the
humiliation. And now, the topper,
the crowning betrayal, the final
eating of crow, THE SUMMIT FO
TORTURE! APOCALYPSE OF
INJUSTICE!! DE ATHK-
NELL DEGRADATION AND
DING DONGED LAST
STRAW!!!!!! A BRIEF
CASE!!!!!! A NICE ONE!!!
SAMSONITE!!!!!! oh i can’t go
on but i will. Your beard is
trimmed, hair cut and-or com
bed, and you’ve lowered your
voice. You go to meet him. He is
an ass. You expected that. He is a
lush. You suspected that. He
seems to like you. You didn’t
expect that. You haggle on rent.
He wins. He questions you on
your, er, “habits,” your, ah,
“aquaintwces,” and asks you
what they really do at the School
of the Arts, I mean “really
do????” It is here that all
apartment hunters from the
S^ool; music people, dancers,
creative writers, faculty, yes,
even design & technicians,
become one with those frowned
upon egomaniacs, the actors,
because at this moment each are
called upon to give a convincing,
organic performance in front of
said landlord. And if he buys it,
you’re in! So you do and he does!
After assuring him you only
teach part-time at the School
(and “Carpentry” at that) and
attend all “Demon Deacon”
football games, and agree not to
“put any o’ them e-rratic (erotic)
pitchers on a’ walls” (an actual
quote from an actual landlord),
he tells you you can move in
Friday; at which time he’ll
collect the first months rent fee,
damage fee, turn on the elec
tricity fee, heat fee, water fee,
and fee fee.
So you sleep around ’til Friday
& beg food outside the cafeteria
door & tell everybody that helps
you you’ll invite them up for
dinner when you “get settied.”
Ha! “ ’tis a consummation
devoutiy to be wished.” To lie, to
eat, no way! If you DID invite
everybody up you promised, it
would make steak night in the
cafeteria look like Cream o’
Wheat time at Naomi’s Lunch.
No way!
You cajole. You bribe. You
connive to get a car & some help
to move your stuff from your
defunct dormroom to your
“PLACE.” Eventually it all
comes together. Friday rolls in
and you roU up the driveway with
a station wagon full of loved
garbage and wearing your
“straight suit” again. As your
landlord looks cockeyed at your
hippie friends moving your
possessions up the stairs to the
apartment, and you quickly
explain to him you’re only t^ing
to “convert them” by giving
them some “good, honest work”
to do, after which you’ll take
them to Ken’s Auto Body to
groove on camshafts and hemi-
under-glasses, & then wind up the
evening in your apartment
cutting eye and nose holes in
sheets, he spits in approval and
hands you the keys to your cave.
Your heart murmurs with joy! At
the thought, that, at last, and
through your own ingenuity and
inventivness, your own skill and
business sense, your per-
severence and literal HARD
WORK, YOU, of the chosen few,
ONE HUMAN BEING AMONG
THE REST, ONE MAN AMONG
BOYS, ONE OF GOD’S CHOSEN
RACE!! HAS BROKEN AWAY,
CUT THE UMBIUCAL CORD,
SEVERED THE GRASPING
HAND OF THIRD FLOOR D, and
become your OWN MAN,
CAPTAIN OF YOUR FATE!
LORD OF ALL YOU SURVEY!!
AND LEADER OF YOUR
PACK!!! Ah, it’s a great feeling.
And, as your hippie friends
drive away, expecting dinner
tomorrow night, and your lan
dlord slurs “See you next month”
and weaves away, chuckling, the
loneliness begins building up
around you. The weeks of
working, changing, decorating;
adding, subtracting, throwing
away; the money; adding,
subtracting, throwhig away, and
the size of it all hits you between
the knees. Now you can look in
any available mirror, chin out,
chest up, and say with absolutely
clear head and noble heart, and
with all the relish you can
muster, “I did it, myself, I did it,
MYSELF!”
epilogue
And so you spend your first
night in your uinfinished apart
ment, e:diausted, alone, in the
small unfinished bedroom;
thinking the gas heater will gas
you in your sleep, leaving a
window open so it won’t, free^g,
listening to the rats that sound
surprisingly like electric leslie
fuzz-wah feedback reverb
vibratostick guitar in the ceiling,
or the guy next door beating his
wife and kids who are yelling
through the general range of
human vocal expression, hearing
the endless party of some tenants
down the hall, or hoping a sex
fiend doesn’t find out you have a
squeeky bed. And even suicide is
denied you, because there isn’t a
decent letiial weapon in reach,
and although it’s high enough to
jump out your scenic front
window, who wants to die im
paled on opened garbage cans?!
So you can’t do away with
yourself. What can you do? You
can only bury your head in the
towel you’re using for a pillow,
and, thinking of those bygone
years on campus, blurt out these
four haunting, echoing words
gleaned from a distant feeling in
another time, another place,
another world “I did it
myself?”