But wait, I was an old soul. Old souls don't hurry, let alone lose their cool with the ass end of a bus.
Cooling, I got back to conflict.
A sage once said: "Confronting conflict dissolves conflict. Putting conflict off, compounds conflict." No, you want to nip conflict in the bud, just fill your mouth with sage.
Ever since I was knee high to a grasshopper I'd been shopping for a new middle name. Now that I was up to my neck in middle age, it was time to make a purchase.
Anton Sage Celadon.
Channeling Sage, I found the darkness under the bus comforting. No, the diesel darkness wasn't black so much as blue--the very blue I'd hunkered under in my youth.
When I was knee high to a grasshopper I'd pull my blue blankie over my head, hide. And, no, I had no favorite place to sit. Any corner would do--as long as it was far from the pain-in-the-ass parenting.
But then those pain-in-the-asses brought home something new. I came out of blue to see what--I was hoping for a little brother to pound on. But, no, just a window box. I was going back to blue when the box came to life. That's the day I gave up my blankie, started sitting under the blue of the TV.
Back in the John Wayne '50's, every other show had cowboys in it. Whether black hats or white hats, these boys were in the business of driving wild horses into corrals. I had little to no love of horses, but I sure identified with something the wild horses had--spirit.
No, you want to give a kid a vocabulary, just set him under a TV. And for social skills, what better model than the TV Western. Nope, that's how adults made the rounds; shoot first, ask questions later.
Blowing smoke from my toy six-shooter, I'd ask: Why are all these adults trying to make an adult of me? I'd look around. Every adult was nothing short of a horse standing in a stall. Ya, a stall that was just big enough for a broken spirit to turn around in.
That was that then, no adults were going drive me into no corral.
Oh, what an education I gave myself, asking questions, looking around.
Take the question I asked having driven myself to college: What kind of corral had I driven myself into? I looked around. Clearly, college was for scorekeeping. You had your test scores over here. Your big-man-on-campus score over there. Further over, your hot-chick-in-the-sack score. No matter, the only score I kept told the real story--few had made it to college with their spirits intact.
Success.
In the '70's college went like this: During the day you'd learn big words. In the evening you'd look into the TV to learn how to apply said words. In "Introduction to Liberal Arts," I learned the word disenfranchisement. On the TV show Kung Fu, I learned just how disenfranchised I was growing up in America. Where I was free to purchase a cheeseburger and a side of fries, Caine, growing up in China, was issued a spiritual master and a side of martial arts.
Kung Fu went like this: Caine, raised in the Far East, ships off to the spanking U.S. where he has run-ins with the black hats of the wild west. What I liked were the flashbacks--flashbacks Caine has of his Master.
"Grasshopper," Master would say to Caine, then load Grasshopper's ear with sage words-to-live by. Of course, words-to-live-by didn't register with black hats of the wild west--black hats who were only in the market for words-to-die-by. So, in every episode, of course, reluctant Grasshopper has to go martial arts on their black-hat asses. Oh, that made for good TV; string-bean Grasshopper kicking burly butt from Deadwood to Dodge.
Staring into the blue under the orange bus, I imagined having a green grasshopper of my own.
"Anton Sage Celadon," I heard my grasshopper call me. Boy, that had a nice ring to it. Complimenting that ring was a clanging. Oh, it was the snow chains tied to the undercarriage of the bus.
"But, Grasshopper," I might advise, "pissing and moaning ain't going to get you out from under the bus--you got take responsibility for your life."
Perhaps Grasshopper didn't get my sage advice, for he scratched between his ears.
I recalled then how Jesus spoke in parables.
"Grasshopper, if you have ears in your head, listen: You can saddle a dead horse, but it ain't going to get you out of Dodge."
Perhaps a grasshopper didn't have ears in his head, for Grasshopper still didn't get it.
I laughed.
But, wait--we christ figures weren't supposed to laugh at green souls.
A good way for a christ figure to come down to earth is through pain. I snapped my hand up, thumb-nailed my lip so hard I jammed my thumb.
Working my thumb, I got further down to earth by taking a pedestrian interest in my grasshopper.
"Tell me, Grasshopper, what is it, exactly, that grasshoppers eat?"
"Sage," said the grasshopper.
See, that's why we wordsmiths carry on with the ass end of school buses and whatnot; that we might run a word through the usage mill. That was that then, for a middle name, Sage, out of the running for good.
Having parked on campus, I climbed out of my truck. Walking down to The Center I had to laugh at the writer in me; burning all his writing time trying to christen myself.
Anton Christ Figure Celadon.
In the course of hitting myself in the head, I noticed the work gloves in my hand--non matching gloves, no less. How unlike me; grabbing my work gloves when I had no work to do. No, running around like a robot was the MO of green souls.
Anton Grass Hopper Celadon.
A good way to keep a grasshopper from getting a toe hold, is to bend the grass blade of truth. Approaching The Center I spied the campus ashtray. There it was; the very work I'd brought along my gloves to do. Having shoved my clean hands into my dirty gloves, I took a stand over the campus ashtray.
The ashtray cleaned of butts, I did something new; I set a swirl in the sand. This would be my mark. The mark of a man of dignity.
Rounding the corner of The Center I walked with so much dignity I had to stop, quick-draw my pad and pen. "Who's the richest man in the kingdom? The pauper who, through true works, can afford to walk the land with dignity."
Wanting to get filthy rich with dignity, I pulled up to the Book Arts ashtray, set my mark there. No, you can always tell a man of high dignity by the low place he leaves his mark.
Anton Ash Tray Celadon.
I could see said mark-making was going to take some practice. What I was going for, in the way of swirl, was the same thing I strived for in my writing--controlled effortlessness.
Practicing, I harked back to college--back to something my writing professor had said to me: "Writing isn't about putting words on paper, Greenhorn. Writing is about hanging on while letting go." Like a lot of lessons in college, I heard the words, but didn't really get the lesson till I'd been out in the real world for the better part of a life. What my prof was getting at wasn't writing, exactly, but what was at writing's core--creativity.
Anton Gabriel Garcia Celadon.
In college I thought the creative act had to do with pouring insides out. Ya, like throwing up. Now, it was clear to me, creativity was more like light; a constant that was always happening inside and outside of me. Now, instead of shoving my finger down my throat to shed light on the world, I simply threw open the window on the universe, registered whatever light was in the offing.
"Here," I said, as if I were in a how-to video, "let me show you how it's done with the ashtray sand here." I made my swirl in the sand. "See how that swirl sucks? That's because I took to hanging on pretty good, but fell short on the letting go." I erased my swirl.
Reassembling my camera face, I continued. "A good way to do both, is to envision a zone. Ya, a zone where forces in control are battling it out with forces out of control. Now, putting your best foot forward, you want to step into that zone, and while in the zone, you simply record the battle."
I made a new swirl.
"There now; see how that swirl sucks? That's because I was talking to myself. No, if you want get off on the wrong foot where getting in the zone is concerned, just up and talk to yourself."
Practicing my finger swirl, I told myself the story of how I'd gotten off on the wrong foot with these campus ashtrays. Though we called the cast concrete receptacles ashtrays, they were more like ashbarrels. There were ten or twelve of these ashbarrels on campus, and I held a grudge against one and all.
My first year at ACCW, Hayward ordered me to remove the ashbarrel from the gallery patio--the Metals students weren't supposed to smoke there. Well, a barrel of cement weighed a ton. The school had no equipment for the job, of course, so I got out my maul, started busting said ashbarrel up. That's when Hayward came storming up. "You primate; you're destroying The Permanent Collection."
I didn't know what that meant, of course, so Hayward educated me. Turned out these ashbarrels were bona fide art, commissioned along with the iron gates, ornamental downspouts and whatnot when the college was first built.
Let me tell you, that first September at ACCW was like summer football practice. No, I'd kept a lot of ground at a lot of nonprofits, but keeping the grounds of an art and craft college was a whole new boot camp.
Take the morning I'd come on campus to find the shrubs ill-watered. I looked into this and found some prankster had stuck cocktail umbrellas in all the sprinkler heads. Cursing, I postponed my planned work load and began the painstaking task of removing said umbrellas.
My bucket full of umbrellas, I heard someone yelling at me. I looked up to find Professor Ned's class stampeding towards me like a herd of wildebeest. Turned out they were making the rounds, critiquing student art projects. Next up: Lucy's so-called "site-specific installation" I'd just destroyed.
I loved Lucy.
Anton Ricky Recardo Celadon.
So there I stood, outside Book Arts, practicing my patented back-handed finger-swirl--practicing half-heartedly on account of wronging Lucy so. But then I remembered today was Monday, my Saturday--tonight was New York steak stew night. I always looked forward to New York steak stew night.
Salivating, I shut down my internal dialogue that I might better savor my stew. No, New York never tasted so good. I opened my eyes, took in the finger swirl I'd unconsciously made in the ash barrel.
"Ezra," I said, entering, "can I have a word with you?"
"Sure," Ezra said, eyeing my non-matching gloves.
"The other day Apolena had an appointment with you and she was late. I want to make it clear that it was I, and I alone, that made her late."
"Interesting," Ezra said, folding his arms. "That's the excuse she gave. You know, Anton, as a staff person, you shouldn't be conspiring with students to deceive us instructors."
"No, no conspiring." I waved my gloves. "At least I'd never knowingly conspire against you profs." Though a lowly groundskeeper, Ezra had shown me every respect. And now I was afraid of losing that respect.
"I'm just saying, Anton, these art students are creative enough without the sage groundskeeper contributing to their schemes."
Boy, that had a nice ring to it.
Anton Sage Celadon.
That Ezra, you couldn't help but like the guy. And our conversations; if we weren't taking on the mysterious workings of the universe, we were taking on the more mysterious workings of women.
"C'mon, Ezra, I just got to talking with that Apolena of yours. Hell, I didn't know she was supposed to be somewhere else."
Ezra laughed. "Just pushing your buttons. You know, for a sage, you sure have exposed buttons."
That Ezra, you couldn't help but want to pound on the guy. And that's another reason I liked Ezra; he was like a brother that way. All I ever had was a sister. Sure, my sister pushed my buttons, but you couldn't pound on a sister. Well, you could, but then she'd tell dad, and then dad would pound on you.
Anton Ezra Pound Celadon.
It was then a Photo student came in the Book Arts door, had some questions for Ezra. Waiting, I took a read on her body language. No, this teacher's pet wasn't asking questions so much as fine dining on the professor's bedroom eyes.
Anton Paul Newman Celadon.
Did I say, like? No, there was way more to hate about Ezra. Personally I hated his jaw. Ezra had one of those leading-man jaws, where my jaw was more on the order of jaw next door. I also hated that every girl on campus wanted Ezra. But even then, you couldn't help respect the guy. He and I hadn't really talked about it, but word had it, even with his leading-man airs, Ezra kept things platonic where student interactions were concerned.
Ezra's pet left, and I stepped up to the plate. "OK, Ezra, I know you got to get to class, but first I want your word that you won't take this out on Apolena. Sure she was late, but that was my fault." I paused for effect. "You sure can't blame a girl for hanging on a guy's every word." I paused for more effect. "Especially when said guy's handing out sage advice like there's no tomorrow."
"Sage?" Ezra laughed. "You know, Anton, had Apolena dropped any other name, I wouldn't have bought her excuse. But since it was you, well, yes, we all know how girl-crazy the aged groundskeeper is."
Keeping my cool, I assured Ezra I was not girl crazy. Laughing, Ezra assured me he wouldn't give Apolena a bad grade. I was about out the Book Arts door, when Ezra gave me one last tease about my inability to leave the young things alone.
Well, that did it. No choice now but to make a vow.
I turned around, slammed my gloves on the photo light table. A dust cloud smelling of cigarettes hit me in the face. "Mark my words," I said, spitting, "from now on, when it comes to that Apolena of yours, I'll never pass more than a greeting, sexy accent or no."
****
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