The Forge

Dear Jesus,

We haven't really talked for a long time. I don't mean small talk--there have after all been the pre-dinner blessing rituals and anti-nightmare ceremonies--but legitimate, deep, heart-to-heart; well, it's just not been happening. Excuse the grossly inappropriate use of the cliche but, it's not You, it's me. I've been the one responsible for the disconnect.

That said, You probably wouldn't want to know what i've been up to. Ever since i stopped letting you check up on me, i've been getting into the sorts of things that You used to always tell me to stay away from. At first it was just standing there, staring at the tree. I didn't mean any harm, mind You, i just wanted to see what it was like. But, as You knew would happen, temptation gave in and i reached out and touched the fruit. It was so smooth, so devoid of obvious blemish, and i decided to take a bite.

One bite led to another, and before long i was devouring fruit after fruit, usually many times a day. It wasn't an easy diet, at least not at first. I would crave after the food i'd been eating before i started with the fruit, and would vomit. That stuff literally made me sick. But, for some strange reason, i couldn't take a hint. The nausea subsided and, day by day, week by week, month by month i forgot what it was like not to gorge myself on that forbidden fruit.

I'm not sure when it began, but a little while ago i looked down and realized that i had been...how to put this...well, there were roots. Lots of them. And they were wrapped around me, some of them jabbed deep within me, as if within me lay the source of their strength. My own blood fueled my entrapment, until the very idea of escaping meant wounding myself greatly, tearing from my very sinew the thing that had become my only happiness, or at least the illusion of such.

A few friends have come along, here and there, axe in hand. They've done their best to free me but alas, the edges of their blades became dull and had no effect on the vines i'd grown. I think, although i never admitted it until now, that i wanted them to fail. At the very least, i became convinced that the vines could not be destroyed by anyone, ever, and thus ceased trying.

Yet today i heard a voice whispering in the wind. Entrenched in this forest, my ears were inundated with the tale of another man, voluntarily bound to another tree. Unlike my gradual, comfortable enslavement, his was sudden and violent. Where numbness meets the places where my legs are penetrated by those hideous roots, his binding drew torrents of crimson. I am free to consume fruit to my heart's content; he was given vinegar to quench his thirst.

But there was hope in this voice's message. This unfortunate figure did eventually die from the wounds inflicted by his tree, but three days later he was seen walking and talking to old friends as if the tree had never had any grip on him at all. And the strangest thing of all is what he told everyone. He told them that, from that day on, people didn't need to be bound to trees anymore. He'd allowed himself to endure such suffering so that those ensnared in roots and vines could break free from them without all that pain.

Wow. What a sacrifice.

Anyway, after hearing the voice's story, i decided to try something. I reached down into my pocket and pulled out my knife. I tested its weight on my finger, staring down the blade to ensure it had retained its bite after all these years--it had. I gripped the handle of that tool, so long forgotten, in my right hand, and pulled a nearby vine towards me in my left. I closed my eyes, and swung down with all my might, unsure of what to expect. I heard a snap.

With one eye clenched tightly, i squinted at my hands. There was the knife, jagged as ever, and--intact! I opened both eyes widely now, gasping in delight at what remained in my left hand, the fibrous, severed end of a vine.

And that's when i knew it was time. It's time for me to cut loose from these roots, to turn my back on the revolting fruit, and walk out of this cursed forest.

And, well, i just thought You should know first. After all, if it weren't for Your still, small voice in my time of trouble, i'd never have had any hope at all.

Thank you for hope.

Thank you for sacrifice.

Thank you for friends with axes.

Thank you for whispering.

Thank you for everything.

Thank you.

Your son,

Adam

Weary and weak,--accept my weariness;
Weary and weak and downcast in my soul,
With hope growing less and less,
And with the goal
Distant and dim,--accept my sore distress.
I thought to reach the goal so long ago,
At outset of the race I dreamed of rest,
Not knowing what now I know
Of breathless haste,
Of long-drawn straining effort across the waste.

One only thing I knew, Thy love of me;
One only thing I know; Thy sacred same
Love of me full and free,
A craving flame
Of selfless love of me which burns in Thee.
How can I think of thee, and yet grow chill;
Of Thee, and yet grow cold and nigh to death?
Re-energize my will,
Rebuild my faith;
I will arise and run, Thou giving me breath.

I will arise, repenting and in pain;
I will arise, and smite upon my breast
And turn to Thee again;
Thou choosest best,
Lead me along the road Thou makest plain.
Lead me a little way, and carry me
A little way, and listen to my sighs,
And store my tears with Thee,
And deign replies
To feeble prayers;--O Lord, I will arise.

~Christina Rossetti

Explanation: For some reason, last year, i decided i really enjoyed Phil Collins' music and ended up buying the Genesis Platinum Collection on iTunes (something i heartily recommend, by the way). Well today i was listening to some of the tracks and i got to "Land of Confusion," which i truly love. It's such a relevant song, and the original music video is quite trippy. Recalling this, i went to Google Video in an attempt to find the original when i stumbled upon this Disturbed cover. McFarlane's artistic direction (the artist responsible for, in addition to the video's animation, his work with Spawn and many other comic book characters) is gritty and bold (his attack on the G8, for example) but for once i think i agree with the message being put forth by a band that has before been nothing more to me than, well, disturbed.

There's something that's been bothering me as of late.
It's how little i do.
I mean, really. I have friends and peers that spend numerous hours locked away in the bowels of the library, sleepless nights at the SAC, and are often unable to participate in recreational activities without severely rearranging their schedules (which is not even always possible). And yet most often i am sitting around complaining about not having enough to do. I can play video games, watch movies, take leisurely strolls, and yet my grades don't seem to really suffer. What have i been missing?

Well, i may have finally figured it out. Don't laugh--it is, i suppose, rather obvious--but i think the reason for all of this is partially because i am a freshman (and thus don't have access to advanced, far more demanding courses) and partially because my majors are simply different from those of others. I entered Grove City as an English Major, added Communications, and am now almost positive that English shall become my minor and take a back seat to Comm, right there next to the Theatre concentration that would be a major if they offered one.

Either way, my courses are simply not the same as those of my friends. The engineers and scientists have quite a bit to learn. They have preliminary courses in all the sciences and various technology classes. In fact, for the most part, they have little say in the schedules they'll suffer for the next three years. But such is the life they've chosen, one in which mistakes can't really be afforded.

When it comes to writing, much the opposite is true. Mistakes are common and, to a great extent, necessary in the process of creating truly excellent writing. It's all about experimentation, and Grove City's method of instruction takes on more of an imitation style than anything else. We study "the greats" in the hopes that we will find in them the technique and pizzaz necessary to set off our own powder keg of imagination.

So what is my homework like? For Brit Lit, it is simply to enshroud myself in the lush language of Wordsworth and Coleridge; to drink deep the tenets of Tennyson; to jump for joy at James Joyce; to languish in alliteration. For journalism, it is to write about the world around me--hm, never done THAT before--and, perhaps, to speak to and interview interesting folks whose lives are so intriguing that it seems far more a light conversation than an assignment. Public speaking finds me taking a podium and, of all things, talking uninterrupted for minutes on-end--again, can you imagine such behavior coming from me?! Perhaps it is Stagecraft where i am supposed to find work. Indeed, the hours demanded of me are long--thirty hours of behind-the-scenes work for this semester--but then as i hoist a window or a wall into place beneath the proscenium, i hardly feel as though i ought to be elsewhere.

In short, the work i have to do doesn't even feel like work. It's time-consuming, certainly, but it's not slavery. It's fun, interactive, and requires practically no time spent hidden away in a dusty, dank periodical room.

I suppose this too shall pass, but i'm definitely not going to look with dread into the future, awaiting such time's arrival. For all i know, the Disney College Program that i'm beginning to investigate may launch me into a perpetual career of escapism from the dark "reality" so many of my peers can't seem to get away from.

But then, who knows?
In the meantime, there are two Spring productions to work on. I'll update next week.

Over spring break.

Oh YES.

Oh that God might move his hand over northwestern Pennsylvania and seal forever the weather she received this day, ripe with sunshine, pleasant breezes, and refreshing evening strolls; that he would banish eternally the abysmal snowdrift that has for so long plagued her timid existence and wipe away all remnants of harsh Winter's cruel demesne in favor of Vernal lordship.

Indeed, though the equinox remains far from pitiful human reach, and though we seem damned by seasonable unseemliness, Spring chose today to prematurely spring, and oh what a wonderful insight into the times to come it was.

May we, amidst curses muttered at impending snowfall, breathe praise of the Creator for smiling upon us this day.

We paused: the winds were in the beech:
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand-in-hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.
Then echo-like our voices rang;

-Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Tennyson described a far more somber occasion, that of Christmas visiting upon the survivors of a lost friend. Yet such was the setting of a far more euphoric event, taking place between the second and third hours of Saturday, March 1st on the steps of Pew Fine Arts Center.

The night had seemed innocuous enough. From three to six i assisted in the first of what will soon be many full rehearsals of Lettice and Lovage, wherein i once again take up my role of run crew member. At ten after six i was sitting in the second seat of a school bus, bound for Avalanche Xpress, the locale of choice for the celebration of twins Michael and Billy Kingzett having been born. Their father runs said establishment, so the festivities of the evening, including several hours of tubing, two slices of pizza, unlimited glasses of soda, and transportation, were entirely gratis.

Around eleven o'clock i returned to Grove City and sat with many friends in Misenheimer's room--his sister was visiting--and conversation lingered on; first til midnight, at which point she needed to leave for the female side of campus, and then onward until some indiscriminate point of time in my memory, between one and two.

Suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door (thank you, Poe). Said door was opened, and a voice called for me. I rose cautiously, vaulted between Trigger and Brad, and reached the threshold.

There i discovered a sea of faces, exceeding forty in number, shining brightly in my direction. Among them was Brad Volek, who quieted the murmur of the crowd and addressed me thus: "Adam Bogert, after careful consideration of your interview and application, we the members of Alpha Sigma would like to extend an invitation to join our independent men's housing group. Do you accept?"

Without the slightest hesitation i acquiesced, such action being met by a roar and thunderous applause. I ran to my room to grab a coat and shoes, then mounted the staircase to catch up with the group as they proceeded to acquire others, starting on the third floor of Hicks and moving on to find Brian by Memorial. At last the necessary members were rounded up and we moved on to the steps of PFAC.

We formed a three-row assembly on those steps, supposedly to take a photograph to commemorate the event. When a functioning camera failed to exist among our ranks, Simba ran back to Hopeman to get one. In the meantime, Jinks said "Gentlemen, at this time in our lives we are going to sing a song. . . any requests?"

After some suggestions flew around, he quieted us, and then asked for all the bass singers in the group to raise their hands. "Follow me," he said, and then began: "A-wemoweh, a-wemoweh, a-wemoweh..." Once they'd caught on, he addressed the baritones and tenors, most of whom (as myself) were unsure as to exactly which classification they belonged: "In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight..."

And so we the members of Alpha Sigma, both new and old, serenaded an audience of but One, with our own version of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."

Appropriately, then, we circled up just as Simba arrived. We elected to take the photograph afterward, and Brad initiated the ceremony. One at a time he called the new inductees forward to hand them a certificate of membership. Upon such reception we would then turn and give Levi, the president, a hug, before resuming our place in the circle.

It was then time to thank the Lord for, well, everything, and so with hands held and eyes shut we began to pray, whoever felt led to do so, in thanksgiving for what had been, what was, and what was to come. As i alluded to by quoting Tennyson, there was a moment between each person's prayer where all that could be heard was the rustling of the leaves in the winter wind. It was truly beautiful.

Finally we broke circle with a chorus of Amens, lining up once more on the steps to take several pictures, including one with only the new class of Alpha Sigma. The procession being over, we were let loose, though many (including myself) elected to return to the second floor of Hopeman to chat until the need to sleep became more forceful than the desire to converse, at which point i returned to my temporary home here on Hicks first floor Pew side (or as we have affectionately deemed it, 1HP).

There is, of course, a sad side to this. Although 1HP and IATHOD shall forever live in my heart, and although i by no means plan to reject they that have made my first year at GCC enjoyable and infinitely memorable, i shall inevitably be leaving the family for another, more Greek one. To commemorate my (and others') passing, we had an official retiring of our IATHOD uniforms. And so, to commemorate the end of IATHOD as we know it, a moment of silence is appropriate as we view these photos.