04 April 2005 ~19:00hrs (Raw Notes from Coalition visit)
Arriving at the classroom early, computer in hand, I decided to observe my surroundings since it was locked. Experiencing the Coalition for the first time in the daylight, I took note of the children climbing on the playground equipment. It occurred to me—while watching one of the children conquer the mountain-of-swingset—that we sometimes have the same aspirations at the same ages; at six-years old we are egocentric (according to Piaget anyways) and what better embodiment of ego than Arnold Schwarzenegger? This notion became cemented in my head as I saw the child straddle the top-level of the monkey bars and declare, “I am the Terminator!” The child flexing his pecks shrieked down to his beaten friend.
The voice mixed with innocence and power (as in establishing self in context of the power hierarchy) drew a stark contrast to the teenaged boys sitting on the apex of a rock-climbing set. There was a whole system I was privy to . . . thanks to dark sunglasses. One on watch (though not very effective), one lighting (what looked like a cigarette at first) cone-shaped joint and puffing, the last of the group sat next to the joint-holder constantly rubbing his hands on his jeans to clear the thin film of anxiety from his palms. Each of them rotated around these positions until the cone-shaped marijuana cigarette was gone.
At first I gave them the benefit of the doubt, I saw myself in their eyes and actions—the sweet anticipation coupled with the fuzzy feeling in my guts—the rush of getting away with something I knew I wasn’t supposed to be doing, but back then it was a Marlboro Red, not a cone-shaped joint of ganja (discuss escapism in context of Shelter Blues). I continued to observe the boys as their session ended and they filed onto the basketball court. I cannot fathom how they did not see me . . . perhaps they didn’t care . . . with fix achieved.
Standing in front of the Headstart trailer where the Prometheus class is taught, one of the residence (or so I assumed) came up and asked me for a cigarette. He introduced himself as “Diangelo” and proceeded to ask me questions about the class. He informed me that Dr. Scolaro ran into him one Saturday at the Ripple Effect, and asked that he come sit-in on a class to see what he thought. Diangelo told me that he is currently pursuing an A.A. in filmmaking at Florida Metropolitan University (FMU). Dabbling in that field myself from time to time, I asked if he had any script ideas ready. Looking at the ground, manipulating his feet, he replied with a grin, “Black Swans Journal . . . it is about a Marine that survived three wars, only to meet an unfitting end . . . .” An end which Diangelo elected to withhold.
At this point I informed Diangelo of my role with the Prometheus Project, and we started an exchange of information. He asked me what exactly the humanities are and I gave him my “humanities major push-button answer.” “The humanities involve taking a look across several disciplines like art, music, philosophy, literature—we use each of them to try and understand the human condition at some given point in history.” Diangelo seemed intrigued, but I wished to learn more about him. “So, are you a veteran? Is there any of you in that script?” He answered as eloquently as any writer would, “each of those characters are a part of me, but yes . . . I was in the Marines.” Then I asked if he was homeless, to which he affirmed; this new prod in an old ache made me blurt out explicatives as acutely as a Tourettes Syndrome-sufferer.
Unfortunately it was right next to the playground where the children were running around, so I apologized openly and freely to anyone offended, but no one listened or took note. “Don’t sweat it man,” Diangelo said as he pointed in the general area of the children, “they could teach you things.” I replied, “and I believe it! I jut saw two kids smoking a joint over there earlier.” Shaking his head, “see, that’s just the Coalition man, that’s why I don’t stay here . . . I’d rather have my space out there [pointing toward the gate] under the bridge.” Dr. Scolaro arrived with one of the staff and they opened the door. I started working on getting the computer set-up.
I took note of the attendance after discovering that I was knee-deep in yet another foiled attempt to get a computer installed—the new PC had no USB port to plug the printer into. Dr. Scolaro grinned and let fly a verbal-spear, “A small . . . oversight, ehh?” I took both PC’s out to my truck and contemplated kicking them around the parking lot, but instead I started exchanging parts, determined . . .but denied nonetheless. I decided to throw everything into the truck and work on it when I got home. I decided to relax and enjoy the lecture; figuring that if I waited until past midnight to work on them . . . it wouldn’t technically be Monday anymore.
The class was having an engaging conversation on Plato’s Theory of the Divided Line in context of Michelangelo’s Neo-Platonist depiction of a drunken Noah. The hierarchy of man’s choices in regard to freewill (per the blackboard): Intellectual is at the top of the hierarchy, considered angelic; next is Rational, associated with man; next is Appetitive, associated with beast-like behavior; finally, Vegetative is at the bottom of the hierarchy, associated with the worm.
This lecture was presented in context of Noah’s drunkenness—he was living as a hedonist in the Appetitive realm, dipping into Vegetative when he consumed so much he passed out. I found myself grateful that I did not dip into the Appetitive realm earlier by kicking computers around the parking lot.
I left at the break to head home and complete one computer from all outdated PC’s I collected from PTK members; I would not fail if it took me all night. While walking down the planked ramp leading from the classroom/trailer to the parking lot, I noticed a fire truck and then heard the blaring wail of an ambulance. I overheard one resident ask another, “What happened?” The man repacking his car replied, “Another goddamn overdose . . . man, fuck this . . . [slamming trunk shut] I’m going back to Maryland.”
I went home where four computers lie between me, and sleep.
