Fiction: Chapter Three: “Unconscious Transitions” :: Introduction

A fall day, slate gray skies, arousing the remnants of my soul, which part, or entity of it, I do not know. The wind tells the soul, "transition is coming." Most striking, as I sit here at this dugout of Van Cleve Park, to my senses - the brisk Canadian wind coming from places westward, too early to be an Alberta Clipper, but the wind sweeps through most of the state today; chilling. Nature itself, a constant transition, every second, Fall is just a major warning to the more unobservant. The canopies of the trees are swaying back and forth as a gust hits -- no matter to rush hour traffic a few blocks away, but the observers observe the tops of the trees emptying, another fall has arrived.

September rolls through to October soon. Transitions spanning from MBH to 1130, connected through 15th Avenue SE, the main artery, more than just seasonal. What was far is now near and vice-versa; a trip to the West Bank is loathsome -- there better be purpose. Back then it was a rare time to venue to Como Avenue, much less Hennepin, where the sounds of 35W can almost be heard and the commuting traffic in the mornings on the thouroughfare tells me there is still hope for an economy.

There is no hope for this fall to be much like those of the past, recorded now as it is coming to an end. Parties from 1057 still contain my freshman ghost -- each day I ride by it and the house becomes another abstraction, becomes any other forgettable object of the commute. Some days I don't notice, banking around the corner on slippery leaves or avoiding cars while riding without hands. Some days I hear the voices calling from inside, tempting me back inside to relive it one more time, barging in past new occupants, saying, as I'm reaching to the handle on Ari's old room, "this is where I brewed my own beginning and end."

As I sit in the dugout, watching nothing, but everything, finding time to observe the system in place of control in my own life, I get intense and passionate feelings about baseball from imagining a game going on in front of me. Invisible players; it is almost as though I have died and I can feel the souls of those around me who have played here on warmer days. Almost crying now, I think of the wood smoke that will be drifting in the air tonight.

As much as I fear consciousness to be slipping by me, one of many reasons behind all of this noveling, just sitting, looking and alone, a rush of memories fill my mind. Red Bull, we win Open Ice, the mind snaps to Calhoun in the snow, jumping to parties at 1202 down the street, revolving just to my right at Elmwood Properties; Amalia.

I contact Annie - plans are made for wine, it is time to stop dwelling on this new book of blank space crying out to be filled -- I must leave both of them alone.

Muse: Chapter 3: On Transition

Is it beat, maybe, for the customer who thinks the barista doesn’t want to be wished a good or even nice day in the path of their week, at this place? With Room for Cream I never known about courtesy, everything gets flipped on its head. They don’t work too hard, it is hard but easy to tip these people, the jar is right there, but the grand total was two dollars, you put the money in the cash register, took out the muffin, poured some coffee. I added the cream, which you did ask me if I wanted, so that is customer service, but I feel better when Room for Cream seems surprised to be thanked.

All around, either the greatest subculture lie or a lie to what I thought was my own reality of normalcy and academia and life in general. A subculture of actual reality? I am here? In colors, not black, without patches. I eat the same food. Breathe the same air. Where else does it exist besides here? Subcultures, loosely used, because the aesthetic of the place, without knowing the history of the geography of the West Bank has members here who signal themselves through a distinctive and symbolic use of style; black boots, angry patches, fixed-gears. They also are extremely leery of people in colors, which includes my own sense of fashion, and mannerisms, but maybe they just don’t like me watching them, knowing they are being researched and thought of while they work.

The study of these people, normal people really, are visibly affected by the Look, on purpose by some, others live it, I don’t know. This is the main phenomenological problem I have with them, I realize it does not matter if I find out if some ARE, some TRY, some DON’T KNOW. But it bugs me, because I am here at “their” place, a distinction made without saying, perhaps falsely, and I am myself, a member of a disillusioned yet dominant system, seeking to understand and interpret these symbols of authenticity through the "primacy of perception." I am done with stage one, that was perceiving the world through a sole perspective-- I’m on to round two, philosophically perceiving things. Perception, for the first time, aware as my body begins to perceive the world. So I am torn between the images I see, the people I see and what they may or may not represent, and what my body, the third episodic character, is deciding about the way this place is. The body stands between this fundamental distinction between subject (i.e., perceiving a whole spectrum of this aesthetic present around me) and object, ambiguously existing as both. Perhaps. As I study-via-waiting the phenomena of the people, social construction is in action, a manic mind mixing day-old muffins with philosophy, I think not as they appear to "my" consciousness, but to any consciousness, so if I was not me, but watching this beat old place unfold, what would people think of me thinking about this thinking?

What People Are Thinking About as they Walk By

Charle declares his major as anthropology.
He has goals, will we see him fulfill these goals?
Travis has something to say but is withholding.

Something is weighing Cooper, I can hear it in his voice - his body language indicates that his mind is elsewhere.

I like holding onto this, it makes me more observant.
Note: Observe room entrances.

Excerpt

Last night, Bartlet’s house. Same shorts, same t-shirt as today. A walk to the Store in early fall, easily managed, taking Seventh street to purchase some beer, Red Hook, taste, thirteen dollars, walk back, beer in tow, collegially as a car payment could easily match the cost of a month’s worth of booze, proceed to start drinking. We get good and drunk before Mitch gets a call from Chris.

“I’m in dire need of obtaining,” he says. Supposedly Chuck drank all of the Miller High Life that was supposed to last them more than one night. Mitch goes out and buys case for these kids, begrudgingly at best, I think we share this sentiment of things like this that must change, or that I can’t do anymore.

“It’s just not our problem anymore,” he says, out the apartment door and whisked away in a car with fifteen minutes left before ten. He’s back in ten minutes, record time – and checking the phone while getting a ride from Lofgren it is 21:54, one of the last time stamps I can place from the previous evening.

Jordan drives us somewhere who is going to pick someone up at the Dome – Blarney’s first, spelled correctly now, located in Dinkytown, an old haunt of Mitch, myself, everyone from last fall when all friends began the inevitable 21sts. Old haunt indeed; some say it loses appeal very quickly.

Billy Mike comes across to me as an abstraction right now, visible, the scene, tired himself, the scene is bad and tired tonight but not necessarily because of him, belting songs on karaoke. No drinks ordered yet- we pick up SDS and head to Library. There we see Tim, an upcoming dignitary.

“I’ve landed a job,” he’s forced to shout over the crowd and general malaise of the stereo system.
“Where?” Barlett asks, inquisitive but drunk on beer.
“Somewhere,” and it is good enough for Mitch, who orders a vodka cranberry ($1.50) to appease the inside joke and his period with the waxing moon, claiming it to be his drink on the rocks if one exists. The four, five, six beers I have help ease hitting on the hardbodies and they seem interested. One blonde is cute while the others are simply part of the posse, out with themselves tonight.

“Best leave them alone,” stumbling, twisted and truthful in the upper part of the Bar, Mitch, “not much need to pick them up,” he finishes, fragmented as he eyes the girls himself before leading the charge to The Block Bar; where you and I have spent the second most of our inheritance money besides Downtime – more on this later, when the live band is in.

“How long are we going to be here?”
“No idea,” Mitch says, “how long have we been here?”

In that way that he asks it I cannot come up with a response, he sits down at the tables near the beer pong game, my best attempts at getting any were there, seeing two girls (unknown visages) and managed to buy them drinks. They, these visages, then head off and high tail it to quieter parts of the bar after I had managed to get in line for them while they, being short, and bitchlike, were not able to. Mitch picks up the tab for Sammy in repayment of the bacon and Bartlett for the lettuce and tomatoes of our prior sandwiches consumed with the Red Hook the other day- no, the same day as today. For dinner. At this point I meet Laura, and friend, graduate students.

“Wise to all sorts of tricks, appeals made by intoxicated undergrads don’t usually work there mate,” Mitch says as he orders another vodka cran from Jade. Little does he know that they are indeed hard to pick up but she did show some interest; my confidence was right about maxed out when I went and talked to Gulia, a friend of SDS.

“I’ll come over to your table and chat,” she lies, does not occur, I use the wrong line on her, I should have responded with “to come over and talk to use,” when she asks what SDS said about her instead of “kind of good looking,” smarmy, a probable drunken answer. I could tell I was too drunk and not thinking too clearly; self loathing began and I lost control of my thoughts, including advanced theses with the graduate students, managing to screw up.

When Laura asked me some thing about “what I was preparing to do,” after leading her on. “Allegedly it is getting late,” I think, not recalling if this was my true response but I had to get out of there before I spent any more fucking money. That much was certain. Time stamp on a drunk text to Liza was about 01:05.

Me: “Will you still be awake in an hour and a half?” I was planning on driving there immediately if she was quick with the response.

Instead I passed out by my phone and shoes, waking up on the floor with one Salomon shoe off. Crawled into bed with the other still on. I wake up around 09:55 or so to the dust and pounding going on around me. Charle sends me a text inquiring location, we go to his room, clear our heads. Thus begins the thoughts of the day.