This is the biography of an artist born in the Twentieth Century, 1972. It is the year 2009. The events I am about to relate, which begin the fall of 1994, all happened. And are still happening I suppose, played out in the crevices and cracks of the psyche of the artist in question: myself.
After completing my final year of General Education for UC Transfer eligibility in Santa Cruz, I’d decided to pursue my undergraduate work in English Literature. Mostly in my consideration to do so was the cost and the fact that I could continue to live in the mountains, where I was raised. But I’d also read that the University I decided to attend possessed a highly rated English Lit program. That summer I picked out the courses which seemed of most interest and would also allow me to work full time, which was necessary as I was wholly uncomfortable in the thought of taking out extremely large loans to support myself. I had no intention of living on campus. I was eligible for a Pell Grant, which paid for most of the tuition. I took a position working at a bar and grill in the town where I was raised, where I’d worked on and off since high school.
Among the courses I picked, besides some requisites required by my degree, were American Novel I, a course on some of Shakespeare’s comedies (I forget the actual course title) and Modern Literature. The last intrigued me, as it was coined as a review of notable literature from that century. At that time, I had only begun digging into “contemporary” literature: primarily, the works of Charles Baudelaire and Arthur Rimbaud. If I was reading anything else, I don’t recall what it might have been. I’d become engrossed by Rimbaud after finding a used and worn copy of his “A Season in Hell/Illuminations” in a local bookstore. So, I was looking forward to the course quite a bit.
I’d spent the last six months of the spring semester sleeping on the couch of two friends from Tahoe, my sister’s best friend and another girl we’d gone to high school. To be honest, one thing I remember clearly about a decision to move had to do with having watched a program about End of the World catastrophes on the History Channel: one scenario which they covered was the one where massive earthquakes sink much of California into the Pacific Ocean. They displayed a map, showing what the West Coast might look like after this possible tragedy, and I swear I could identify a little oval shape where my home was nestled in the mountains surrounded by a newly expanded Pacific Ocean and radically altered coastline. Later, in recalling my thoughts and recollections about this kind of catastrophe happening about this to a friend: I joked that we’d have skiing and surfing all within a short driving distance.
Now that I’m recalling this, I suddenly remember where I lived and that I had been reading Emerson’s essay “The Poet.” It was the recalling about telling this friend, someone I worked with at the bar and grill, that jarred those aspects loose. I’d managed to secure a house rental through my parents–actually across the street from them. The reason why I’m relating this is that I’d wondered momentarily how I could have tackled the school course load I had: in the past, my living situations typically involved numerous roommates and environments that weren’t exactly academically inclined. The remembrance of having been captivated also with “The Poet” released another memory that I think is significant to many of the events which I will forthwith recall. As I said, I worked at a bar and grill, as a short order cook. Money was okay, tips were good and the work generally enjoyable.
One night, while washing a mountain of dishes, dumping the remains of meals in the trash, and maneuvering the hanging spray hose to blast chunks and water every, I had meditating on Emerson’s statement that we are all artists, from the woman washing her clothes to the…well, the short order cook combating a riotous army of dirty dishes and pans. I know that is not one of the descriptions he provided. I was heavily in thought, and working at an incredible pace. The summer crowds kept us busy, as anybody knows who has either visited or lived in Tahoe, which is a seasonal destination resort: summers the people just swarm all over.
I recall just being very centered mentally, listening to the music (we generally played a lot of Minor Threat and Fugazi)–I would say it is the most meditative state of mind I’ve ever achieved. I might have been thinking of the day’s events, rejoicing in the flow of work, thinking about my art–any number of things. Suddenly, within my mind, it was as if all the beads and threads of thought and image coalesced into a bright light–but that may not be true. I no longer heard things around me directly, but as if from within a lucid dream. And all that centeredness suddenly burst in what seemed like a thousand angels singing.
This is one private event in my life that I don’t often recall, but am totally enthralled by. I recall being overcome with a tremendous joy and remember smiling. It lasted, I don’t know, a number of seconds or less. It was like a sudden orgasm of thought wonder and music that was completely one reality bathed in incredible beauty.
That was the summer before I started my fall courses. I dated a girl I’d worked with the summer before, which ended before the summer was over. We continued through the years to be friends and occasional lovers. I had a brief engagement with a girl I’d dated the summer before: she was drunk and I was being stupid. I moved into the house I rented with another friend from high school. We played in a band. We got another roommate who rented the master bedroom painted bright purple. The rest of the walls in the house were a groovy green. The furniture, as the house was furnished, easily dated back to the 1960s. August came nearly to a close and I began the semester.
Biography of an Artist 