USU Campus: The Worst Artist Date [Condensed]

Utah hates me.

The following is evidence of that which is claimed:

Ugh. Okay! It doesn't hate me. It just knows I'm meant for someplace else.
Let me add the disclaimer that I have met some very wonderful people throughout the entire state, and they are not what I'm talking about. Now, let us commence into negativity that has silver linings:

As we have already established, I was recalled to Utah after a two month stint in California. I did not want to be there. And by my second Friday, I had grown incredibly antsy with the situation and with other aspects of my life and needed to get out of my parents' house (which selling fell through, causing my Utah visit to be extended by a month. Joy..). I embarked on a quickly decided artist date.*

I popped over to 1st Dam in Logan. And after seeing the pond crowded with end-of-summer-goers and exploring the not-so-much-to-explore there (I had never been there as an activity), I felt at a loss for this valuable, "uplifting" time with my artist-child and drove off (...a cliff. Kidding!). Where should I go? My plans were foiled. I communed with my artist and wound up browsing Hasting's and then scourging the rest of the valley for shoes in stores I had not yet hit. Still, no luck with the shoes. Honestly, how could the selections in this entire valley feel like crap to me?*

Nighttime hit, and I felt extremely dissatisfied. Treat yo'self, clicked within me, though I didn't know what that meant with what options I had, so I wound up driving through nasty Arby's for a chocolate shake and curly fries, which I took to USU (Utah State University) campus. I settled on a cement bench at the top of the Old Main Hill stairs.*

I chowed and looked over as much of the valley as I could in the dark, lit only by street and campus lamps.* I pondered an odd experience I had riding through Main Street in Logan on the way to the Lagoon amusement park the previous Saturday. It was like the buildings recognized me and grew panicky. You're not supposed to be here. You left! YOU need to be gone, they rustled.

I don't know how else to explain it. It was very weird. And yet, it was so distinct and strong.*

I recalled sitting atop another hill (mountain, really) on Memorial Day the previous year when I hiked to the top of Gunsight Peak by Clarkston. As I looked over the entire Cache Valley, for the first time I saw the goodness of this place in a greater light. Having been wishy-washy about whether I really wanted to take the leap to California, I considered staying safe in this valley. However, the call for adventure and change snatched me, and I more determinedly decided to set up life in California.*

Interestingly, the next day set off events for my family to head to California and put the offer on the house we eventually bought by Sunday.


And now, here I sat on top of Old Main Hill, emotional and anxious from life, histories, and inciting incidents, taking the harder, more exciting, changing path and fearing any backward movement.

Having finished my snacks,* I decided to browse campus. I had feelings against it but put them away, considering that there may never be another time to walk through this campus I once knew.

I came upon the quad. A strange but familiar out-of-place feeling swept over me that I remembered feeling nearly every day I crossed this quad when I attended this university eight years ago while having incredibly outlandish experiences of being oddly ignored and feeling very alone. It was menacing. It was the same feeling I'd felt from the buildings along Main Street, only stronger. You're not supposed to be here, I felt. As uncomfortable as this had always made me, I sensed good intentions with it and decided to take this as a tool of communication that I should leave, that I am meant for things elsewhere, that there is needed growth and place for me elsewhere that I could not find here. This feeling was meant as a signal, as it was once before, when I'd determined to transfer to Brigham Young University. And now, I needed to not stay here in this place.*

I was grateful for this communication, telling the feelings they can leave now. I'll listen and take care of what needs to be done when I am able. They lingered. So, I continued my walking tour, remembering my schooling days and casual campus strolls with friends.

And then, I came upon the library's beds of flowers. What a pity, I thought, looking at the flowers, that they are only for looking but not taking and implementing their beauty into life.*

Take one, said my artist-child. I stopped walking and stared at a grouping. You're so down, and you love flowers. It will cheer you up.

But that's against the rules, I chastised. If everyone took one, there'd be none here for people to admire and to welcome them to the library.

Baby dragon caught in a mist

But you need one, my artist-child went on. If there was a moment you needed one, it's now!

I stared at the flowers, debating within myself. What a thing to debate. This is ridiculous. I am a grown man and should just walk on. Finally, though, my artist-child won, and I picked the most beautiful of all the flowers. It cheered me. And I smiled. I felt picked up, as I strolled away holding the base of the flower's long stem and admiring the beautiful blossom.

"Hey, what are you doing, dude?!" said a husky guy that had already been heading my direction. He motioned toward the flower and spoke with a passive-aggressive cowardly tremor.

We both slowed, but neither stopped. I remorsefully looked at my flower. "I don't know," I quietly admitted. My senses alerted. What was I doing? I walked away from him feeling very foolish. Why hadn't I picked it with a smaller stem and stuck it in my jacket pocket? Why had I picked it at all?! But now I'd been called out on it and how it wasn't appreciated.

I could have walked on without a care, but I was already weak. Spirits defeated, I threw the flower in a bush and briskly walked back to my car, crying my entire way and hating this place. As I cried in my car, I wondered what I should do for future artist dates or where to go to get away when I couldn't walk ten feet off my property without feeling like the very ground beneath me was screaming that I didn't belong there.*

When I got home, I felt like I should doodle something, following whatever impulse I had to make a line here, a dash there, the way I had doodled at church the previous Sunday to the avail of actually making a picture. I took a step of faith, and what unintentionally appeared on the paper was a baby dragon caught in a mist. That was me! I drew what I felt. ...I couldn't believe it! I could never have drawn that if I meant to. What an incredible find! I can communicate (with myself) through doodles. And what a beautiful representation it made.

Still, I wondered if it was a fluke, if I could only drawn something this one time or in extreme emotional states that would represent and reflect myself. But as I learned to trust myself, I found that wasn't true...


*Wait! This isn't all. For every (*) in this post, there is further explanation and background given in the unabridged version. If a (*) segment caught your attention and you'd like to understand more, I recommend the unabridged version of this post.