Into the Wilderness - 1969 and then Some - page 83

Into the Wilderness
COMPARE AND CONTRAST 17 th Century metaphysical poet Andrew Marvel to the appearance
and/or reality of the prosaic meter and/or iambic pentameter rhyme of Shoo-fly or Frogdick.
Filling a composition book stone-cold ignernt on a topic—any topic—felt natural. Loaded for
bear, a successful student of the times could view final exams as an exercise in superiority with
the mental dexterity most available to the young at heart. The view from the cloudbank led to
passing grades and a college degree with a major in huff and puff Or would that be puff and
huff? The 17 th Century metaphysical poetry professor wore a bow tie and a cheap suit for his
monotone lectures, extolling one stanza or another for exquisite meaning. Metaphysical poetry
in mid-Missouri? What an amusing juxtaposition!
We felt so clever, goofing our way to a college degree—but it was faculty mercy that got us
through. Professor Bowtie freely gave the C- to keep errant, goofy boys out of the jungle. Alas,
I passed my physical to become another college grad qualifying for house arrest. I scoffed at
the State University's invitation to graduation. What would they do? Praise my unique achieve-
ment? Predict leadership into the future? Assure brimful potential? Fock.
Running into an old flame from high school after four years of world-changing events felt
like a milestone. Our mutual worldly development gave rise to intimate discourse on topics
we'd hardly considered in high school, and the old familiarity of youth was a certain comfort
in challenging times. In a spirit of continuing discovery and repetition, we became friends all
over again. That's why many people marry. I had no choice but to keep real life on hold, to wait
things out, to hang around campus in limbo, working menial jobs, keeping up with the good
times and goofs.
We rented an attic apartment and lived over the Wendell family. Geoffrey Wendell seemed
old, forty-one already, and staid, with elbow patches, pipe smoking and chronic pondering. He
ran the Audio Visual Aids Department for the University and observed without judgment the
silly pursuits of wayward youth passing time. A prevailing theory of those days was that recre-
ational drugs were illegal, because they allowed people to pass time in non-productive pursuits.
Productivity seemed necessary for the war machine; such was the simplicity of our perceptions.
A successful goof would utilize recreational drugs in the pursuit of nothing but fun. One huge
success called for a card table setup near the street to display a dozen tinfoil cups filled with
dirt. We tended shop on folding chairs, and the sign out front said:
Hot Mud 10¢