USU Campus: The Worst Artist Date [Unabridged]

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. For all I know it could just be a Cache Valley-Logan thing.
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 (almost panicky in my immediacy; I think it may have scared my aging parents some) before I would meet friends for a small get-together later in the night.

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? (Actually, I had found nice shoes, but they were like ones I'd had before, making them a no-go for me. Change and movement, remember?)

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. Annoying freshmen hogged the corner of campus I desired to go, where I could look out over the entire valley, so I settled on a cement bench at the top of the Old Main Hill stairs with companions of two couples -- one married and expecting, the other seemingly engaged.

Donning my new pink jacket, I chowed down, swinging my legs like a child as I lapped up the chocolate shake. I looked over as much of the valley as I could in the dark, lit only by street and campus lamps, and thought of that issue that pressed hard for my artist date to happen immediately. Patience is what I was instructed, as has always been the answer to this months-old issue.

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.

Gee, thanks for the warm homecoming, I sent back.

I don't know how else to explain it. It was very weird. I couldn't remember if I'd experienced anything like that before. 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 intention and beauty of this place I'd learned to love to hate. I saw God's vision for it and that it was good. For once, I truly appreciated it. And I wondered if my family's move had been held off that I might see this, that I might make an informed decision, that I would not leave bitter and pretentious. You can stay here and be a part of it, I felt impressed. You can become a realtor or go back to school to teach Kindergarten. You can be here. It will be safe and steady. But you will make it.

What of going to California and trying an artistic route? I inquired.

That will be harder. It will be more exciting and adventurous. It will be changing. It will be faster-paced. But you will make it, I received.

Having wrestled with these choices previously but not seeing this valley in this way, I admittedly had been ambivalent to what possibly might happen, despite my family's months of effort to attempt a California move. I considered each. And if I were to be fine either way, I chose the more exciting route. I sent that wish. And it was done. I had more resolutely made my decision.

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 got up to discard my trash just in time to miss the sprinklers turning on right where I had been sitting. With time to kill before heading to my outing with friends, 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, remembering True Aggie Night the previous year (when you kiss someone on certain nights on a podium near the quad to become titled a true Aggie). I can't remember what I was doing there, but there I ended up, in a large crowd, looking for friends that never showed or that I couldn't find. As a strange but familiar out-of-place feeling swept over me, I wandered for a while, searching for a random group I could join to make new friends, perhaps girls that needed a guy to kiss -- a suggestion from my ditching friends. It's college, after all. Random whatevers happen all the time.

I found a group of three girls. One wanted to leave from the lack of a fellow to kiss, while the others wanted to find a random guy. Bingo! "Do you need a guy?" I butted in. The one wanting to leave, though farthest from me, looked at me but turned her attention back to her friends. The other two didn't even flinch, like they didn't hear me. They continued talking about finding a guy, that there must be someone there that needed a girl. I told them that I was exactly that. This time one of the other girls looked at me but turned back to her friends to create a circle that blocked me out. Sick of them, I looked around for other people to harass, but as I did, they grabbed my attention again as they greeted a pug-faced, pimply wimp and ran off with him. Fine! Take the ugly boy! I screamed at them (in my head).

I attempted several other people, but most of them just stared at me without saying anything. I asked a few people multiple times in case they didn't hear me, but they then would turn their attention elsewhere without a word. Completely surreal, and yet, I don't exaggerate. Maybe they thought I was a random older creeper guy. But even that didn't make sense when I'm always mistaken to be much younger than I am. Not understanding, I left, trying not to be overcome by rejection and resolutely feeling like I was ready to leave this place and this night.

Now, I stepped out onto the quad and felt the same out-of-place feelings I felt that night and that I remembered strangely feeling nearly every day I crossed this quad when I attended this university eight years ago while having similar experiences I had that one True Aggie Night. It was menacing. It was the same feeling I'd felt from the buildings along Main Street, only stronger. I've heard that places have their own ambient feelings and have often wondered if it is what's left of the energies of the people that tarried and gave life there (living and dead), for we are all energies, coming and going (or came and gone if you're dead, which none of you are) and leaving impressions. So, shall we call these feelings 'the spirit of the place?' Let's do. And the spirit and vigor of this place grew to make me uncomfortable even stronger than it had those other times.

I reached out to it, for I didn't know what else to do than just tarry there and mope with it. And now, being open more to communicating with myself, though I always have been but have become more aligned thanks to The Artist's Way, I took in the message of this place, of its spirit: You're not supposed to be here. I wondered if it was a mean, vicious spirit, but no. It meant to make me uncomfortable that I would not stay here. It had high intentions. It was good. This was its communication to me 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. It was trying to help me. And it did, once, when I'd determined to transfer to Brigham Young University. And now, I needed to not stay here in this place but should take this communication as the tool it intended to be.

I thanked it for its communication, telling it that it can leave me now. I'll listen and take care of what needs to be done when I am able to. It lingered with me, though. So, I continued my walking tour, remembering my schooling days and casual campus strolls with friends.

Baby dragon caught in a mist

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. I suppose that's how many people view art -- the old entertainment vs. art argument. I know many people, especially around here, who miss the messages of art and view it all primarily as entertainment to pass time (especially films).

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.

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 in my pink jacket 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 the pocket of my pink jacket? 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 the very ground beneath me telling me I didn't belong there.

Now, in the very modern day (as in today, when this is published), I see that my entire ten years in all of Utah could possibly be summed as an experience not of being whole to myself but of not fitting the mold. If ever I felt out of sorts from even subtle social punishment by others or energetically, it was from not fitting the mold they desired to keep or project. What an interesting find. What an interesting, unique place, though I'm very sure this happens to nearly everyone in many different places. I suppose, C'est la vie, some would say. When this happens, learn to deal and navigate while holding true to yourself. But if possible, find where your true nature is most supported. It's out there.

Eventually, that night, I hung out with my friends, though my downed feelings lingered 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...