The SUB on campus is fairly subdued for a Thursday afternoon. Students stroll into the food court area carelessly and calmly. They come here to fill their bellies, but mostly to take a break from their stressful academic careers. The chatter of all the students’ words blend together to form one low jargon drone. There was sound, but not enough to make out an audible statement. People sit at tables in groups of threes, twos and some singles. They eat their sushi, salads and sandwiches while texting, reading books and listening to friends over friendly conversation. The popular outfit the girls seem to be sporting today are high leather boots, skinny jeans, oversized sweaters and sunglasses. It is sunny enough outside to need shades, but cool enough for a nice warm sweater. There are some guys sitting near Seattle’s Coffee Shop who wear a more formal attire, blouse, slacks and a tie, while others have hoodies and jeans. One girl in particular sits at the far table behind mine. My eyes are drawn to her. Possibly because she was in my hindsight, or probably because she reminded me of someone I once knew. She sits with her head tilted to the right, sunglasses resting on her blonde hair. With chopsticks in her hand, she smiles and laughs, nodding her head to the girl sitting adjacent to her. She seems very engaged with the girl she sits next to which indicates their friendship. They seem to be having an animated conversation, a dramatic one perhaps. They could be talking about the guy they met last week at Cutty’s, a boyfriend, or a troublesome roommate or even just about their classes and what the future may hold for them after graduation. I will never know what the girls spoke about, but I do know that for now, in this present time, they are eating lunch together, laughing and smiling. They are happy.
Through the front windows of Parker Theatre at SUNY New Paltz, students chat at tables and munch on their lunches of salads and sandwiches. The modern-styled lights that hang orange and red from the ceiling look warm and inviting from the outside, matching the fiery colored Mohonk Mountain that can be viewed through the windows on the other side of the building. As it is the autumn season, many late-teen, early-20s women wear fashionable scarves, as a typical way to decorate their apparel. It is a warm October day, where the sunshine warms the earth enough to make scarves unnecessary but sunglasses essential. A few students walk into Parker just to grab a to-go cup of coffee, as they head off to their next class or task for the day. The steps of the Parker Theatre porch are walked up and down on consistently throughout the day, as young people allow the music of their own iPods to fill their ears. Most of them walk independently. The tables outside of this long, flat building are all occupied by conversations that are enjoying the fresh Autumn atmosphere.
It was kind of the land of misfit toys. Four men sat around a table, each with a coffee in front of them. They looked well-acquainted, all sitting comfortably, slouched in that manly-bro way that makes them look cool. The most vivacious of the four wore a light blue dress shirt and slacks, looking out of place in contrast with the other three. Hel looked like he might have an important day ahead of him, but was starting off the day light so as to shake off some nerves. His formal attire didn’t seem to dictate his etiquette, as he would point and laugh and talk loudly as if he knew he was going to get that job he was about to interview for. The way he pointed across the room and raised his voice in familiarity gave off the sense that he was confident in his surroundings, both the people he was sitting with and the place he was in. Speaking of, the other three seemed younger, a little more—not immature, but juvenile. Then again, polish up any diamond and it’ll shine. They were dressed casually, a look their demeanor mirrored. The boy seated across from Business Formal At The Pub had an anxious leg shake thing going on under the table which was very distracting to watch, and a chin strap that made him look a bit like a tool. He was eating a bagel, and when he wasn’t, he cradled a coffee cup. His leg shake was really the only distinguishing characteristic from the other two who weren’t Business Formal, as all three of them slouched in their chairs and watched their leader point and laugh borderline ferociously. It seemed like they had gotten lost on the way to a day-drinking brothel, and Business Formal hadn’t changed from what he wore to last night’s board meeting. They seemed a bit out of place together, but familiar with each other in the same way. Watching them was weird, but entertaining. -Suzy Berkowitz
Straight ahead, past the pathway, is the quad with leaves around the edges where trees shed their fall colors. Boot heels clack on the concrete walkway in front of me and there’s a weird buzz as a bike passes. The buzz could be the thin tires on concrete or some unspecific rotations the bike makes to perpetuate the sound. Contract workers hammer and slam the building behind me. “She’s gonna get on my nerves,” yaps one tall girl in a slouchy beige vest to her curvier friend. They roll their eyes and walk on. Around every corner and crevice are pieces of hay left over from late summer attempts to grow grass before the cool weather set in. Adolescent trees supported by three wooden posts and metal wire line the outer edges of the quad. The siren goes off at the local firehouse. The sun comes out and casts a noon shadow on the trees. The leather on my back is hot. I throw my jacket on the flat rock next to me.
Like a primordial mating call, the reclusive SUNY student cautiously approaches another member of its species. They flit around one another, eyeing their flashy sunglasses, their fresh kicks, the logo they’re rocking on their snapback, in well-practiced dance. They sniff the air. Cut grass. Crisp autumn air. Reds. Newports. The alluring pheromones that are the catalyst of social interaction.
“Do you have a cigarette I can bum?”
As if in pantomimed cunnilingus, they gesticulate their demand lewdly. These are fresh smokers. Recently devirginized. The sort that took their first pull of ash at college orientation, struggling not to cough soot through their nostrils, to drop an ejaculatory bit of ash toward the concrete outside of Hasbrook dining hall like the season’s first snow with nothing more than a casual flick of their thumb.
That’s how it starts.
Now? They’re fiends. In the hours between classes, they lurk about in the windy path between the hollow shell that is the Wooster Science Building and the towering complex of Humanities. They’re searching for prey, for a mate, for an interaction enabled by nicotine.
Classes end.
A flood of students stream out into the architectural womb, calling, shouting, laughing. It’s a feeding frenzy. An orgy.
The girls have worn their best outfits. Trying already to make an impression on the older college students.
The boys try to look bored so that they appear cool.
The next bench over from me sits a boy with a guitar.
Playing unknown melodies that he comes up with in the moment.
He talks to his friend at the same time, always still strumming his fingers across the strings.
One of my fellow classmates sits not too far from me, picking at her fingers and trying to observe things others don't notice as they walk by, distracted by the thoughts of what they need to do today and getting to class on time.
Most students walking by to get to class strut around with their iPod headphones dangling from their ears. The universal sign for, "leave me alone I'm listening to music and don't want to stop and talk."
Those students miss the guitarist.
They miss hearing the giggles from the girls standing closely together, gossiping about a boy one of them met last night.
They miss the gentle hum of the lawn mowers in the distance. Do they even notice the warmth from the sunlight on their skin as they walk?
Three more walk by with headphones on. The guitarist keeps playing.
He pauses as the machinery starts up by the science building being reconstructed. But they don't stop him for long. As they start their pounding into the ground, he strums his fingers with a little more purpose and strength.
Some who walk by glance at him with some interest. Others glance at him as if he is strange for playing outside where others can hear him. He smiles at a few, never making it clear if he knows them or if he is just feeling friendly.
The sunlight disappears behind a cloud and he stops. His fingers frozen on the strings. He raises his head and looks up into the sky. As he does the sun re appears from behind the cloud. He lowers his head and starts the music again.
Positioned at the tables adjacent to Nesters food station in the Student Union Building, I have a perfect view of it all. Scattered groups of students make their way into the small cube of Nesters, and immediately halt upon seeing the lines that are measurable to those of roller coasters lines at Six Flags. Right before they make a full 360 out of the room, a spark of hope hits one of their faces and carries them towards the gourmet refrigerators. A Frozen mist escapes as she slides open the door while examining the assorted cold wraps and salads. A shiver and disappointment lingers as they close door. Nothing here tickles her fancy, so she retreats to next food venue in search of refuge. One of the only constants is the cashier, whose pleasant demeanor changes when cash or credit cards are presented as opposed to simplicity of meal plan swipes. This slows down her game. The line grows longer as she waits for the credit card to approve. She stretches to her left to gauge how far back her line goes. Anxiety sweeps her face as the student signs the receipt at a glacial speed.
The Farmers Market is the main attraction on the quad today. Five different stands are set up next to each other, selling various vegan and organic items. One man sporting a ponytail and heavy beard is selling organically grown sweet and hot peppers. The overturned barrels of tiny yellow, green, orange, and red peppers match the campus trees that are on fire with the flames of autumn. The farmer is standing on his skateboard behind the stand, gliding back and forth ever so slightly as customers come up and look at his produce. His cell phone is constantly ringing. As he talks he skateboards around his tent. He seems restless and so full of energy that standing behind his tent is almost torturous. Across from the pepper tent is the Vegan O’Brien Baking Company stand. A plain dressed man wearing a black hoodie and hiking boots is selling chocolate chip and pumpkin vegan cookies. “What makes it organic?” an older women asks Brien. His response is calm and gentle. “Organic flower, veggie oil substitute, potato starch, tapioca powder…” he lists his ingredients while offering her a sample piece. It’s 1o’clock in the afternoon, judging by the church bells ringing in the distance. Between classes the pace of the quad is much more slowed down. A girl with blonde and brown dreadlocks smokes a cigarette while talking to a man sporting American flag jeans, one leg stars, the other stripes.
The sky is blue with patches of white puffy clouds. The courtyard next to the library is quiet except for the pitter patter sound from walking students. The lip of a large cement ashtray is broken off into two pieces, still containing a sandpit of cigarette butts. The sun warms the earth around me and a cool breeze ruffles the pages of my notebook. The vibrant red leaves on the bushes dance as the wind goes through them. Flying insects buzz around flowers and can be seen on their journey through the sunlight. Birds let out different notes between the chirps of crickets who have survived the cold changes in weather. Rumbling construction vehicles growl in the distance. The electric hum of machines from the surrounding buildings can be heard if the ear listens close enough. The unnatural and natural noises blend together with the voices of students. A professor sits on a bench across the courtyard, reads his kindle and looks up every so often at the sky. A nervous student with crossed arms and a cell phone to his ear complains, “I re-read all those chapters,” as he bounds over the red and grey bricks. A group of visiting students walks from Coykendal to Smiley art building, exploring a place that is brand new to them.
Short kid with a mean look walks up the hill. He’s built with broad shoulders that swing his arms back and forth with authority. Determined to make this trip to class successful. His head bobs up and down nearly a half foot every step as he makes his way up. Behind him is a petite woman. A bag over each shoulder. She’s struggling. Every step seems painful. She can’t even look up the hill at the brick buildings where she'll end. She keeps her head down and persists. When she reaches the steps, she lets everyone know the weight she’s carried; her boots boom with every step, half second pauses between paces to catch her breath. She reaches the top and immediately pulls out her phone to send a text.While typing she’s still walking. Barely.
Nestled off of the main concourse between the Lecture Center and the Humanities Building is the “Rose Garden.” The gerbil tunnel connects the two buildings which blocks off the bulldozer noises coming from the crumbled Wooster Science Building. The rose garden looks frail and dry as four roses attempt to survive another cold October night. An ode to a former teacher of the Communication and Media Department rests in between the roses. “And a rose she lived as roses do, the space of a morn” is displayed under a brief description of Donna M. Davis. A grey wooden bench accompanies the roses that bask in the autumn sun. I close my eyes as the sun bathes my face in warmth while I hear students clap for the student who gave a presentation from the classroom above me.
The SUB on campus is fairly subdued for a Thursday afternoon. Students stroll into the food court area carelessly and calmly. They come here to fill their bellies, but mostly to take a break from their stressful academic careers. The chatter of all the students’ words blend together to form one low jargon drone. There was sound, but not enough to make out an audible statement.
ReplyDeletePeople sit at tables in groups of threes, twos and some singles. They eat their sushi, salads and sandwiches while texting, reading books and listening to friends over friendly conversation. The popular outfit the girls seem to be sporting today are high leather boots, skinny jeans, oversized sweaters and sunglasses. It is sunny enough outside to need shades, but cool enough for a nice warm sweater. There are some guys sitting near Seattle’s Coffee Shop who wear a more formal attire, blouse, slacks and a tie, while others have hoodies and jeans.
One girl in particular sits at the far table behind mine. My eyes are drawn to her. Possibly because she was in my hindsight, or probably because she reminded me of someone I once knew. She sits with her head tilted to the right, sunglasses resting on her blonde hair. With chopsticks in her hand, she smiles and laughs, nodding her head to the girl sitting adjacent to her. She seems very engaged with the girl she sits next to which indicates their friendship.
They seem to be having an animated conversation, a dramatic one perhaps. They could be talking about the guy they met last week at Cutty’s, a boyfriend, or a troublesome roommate or even just about their classes and what the future may hold for them after graduation. I will never know what the girls spoke about, but I do know that for now, in this present time, they are eating lunch together, laughing and smiling. They are happy.
Through the front windows of Parker Theatre at SUNY New Paltz, students chat at tables and munch on their lunches of salads and sandwiches. The modern-styled lights that hang orange and red from the ceiling look warm and inviting from the outside, matching the fiery colored Mohonk Mountain that can be viewed through the windows on the other side of the building.
ReplyDeleteAs it is the autumn season, many late-teen, early-20s women wear fashionable scarves, as a typical way to decorate their apparel. It is a warm October day, where the sunshine warms the earth enough to make scarves unnecessary but sunglasses essential. A few students walk into Parker just to grab a to-go cup of coffee, as they head off to their next class or task for the day.
The steps of the Parker Theatre porch are walked up and down on consistently throughout the day, as young people allow the music of their own iPods to fill their ears. Most of them walk independently. The tables outside of this long, flat building are all occupied by conversations that are enjoying the fresh Autumn atmosphere.
It was kind of the land of misfit toys. Four men sat around a table, each with a coffee in front of them. They looked well-acquainted, all sitting comfortably, slouched in that manly-bro way that makes them look cool. The most vivacious of the four wore a light blue dress shirt and slacks, looking out of place in contrast with the other three. Hel looked like he might have an important day ahead of him, but was starting off the day light so as to shake off some nerves. His formal attire didn’t seem to dictate his etiquette, as he would point and laugh and talk loudly as if he knew he was going to get that job he was about to interview for. The way he pointed across the room and raised his voice in familiarity gave off the sense that he was confident in his surroundings, both the people he was sitting with and the place he was in. Speaking of, the other three seemed younger, a little more—not immature, but juvenile. Then again, polish up any diamond and it’ll shine. They were dressed casually, a look their demeanor mirrored. The boy seated across from Business Formal At The Pub had an anxious leg shake thing going on under the table which was very distracting to watch, and a chin strap that made him look a bit like a tool. He was eating a bagel, and when he wasn’t, he cradled a coffee cup. His leg shake was really the only distinguishing characteristic from the other two who weren’t Business Formal, as all three of them slouched in their chairs and watched their leader point and laugh borderline ferociously. It seemed like they had gotten lost on the way to a day-drinking brothel, and Business Formal hadn’t changed from what he wore to last night’s board meeting. They seemed a bit out of place together, but familiar with each other in the same way. Watching them was weird, but entertaining. -Suzy Berkowitz
ReplyDeleteStraight ahead, past the pathway, is the quad with leaves around the edges where trees shed their fall colors. Boot heels clack on the concrete walkway in front of me and there’s a weird buzz as a bike passes. The buzz could be the thin tires on concrete or some unspecific rotations the bike makes to perpetuate the sound. Contract workers hammer and slam the building behind me.
ReplyDelete“She’s gonna get on my nerves,” yaps one tall girl in a slouchy beige vest to her curvier friend. They roll their eyes and walk on. Around every corner and crevice are pieces of hay left over from late summer attempts to grow grass before the cool weather set in. Adolescent trees supported by three wooden posts and metal wire line the outer edges of the quad. The siren goes off at the local firehouse.
The sun comes out and casts a noon shadow on the trees. The leather on my back is hot. I throw my jacket on the flat rock next to me.
“Hey, do you have a light?”
ReplyDeleteLike a primordial mating call, the reclusive SUNY student cautiously approaches another member of its species. They flit around one another, eyeing their flashy sunglasses, their fresh kicks, the logo they’re rocking on their snapback, in well-practiced dance. They sniff the air. Cut grass. Crisp autumn air. Reds. Newports. The alluring pheromones that are the catalyst of social interaction.
“Do you have a cigarette I can bum?”
As if in pantomimed cunnilingus, they gesticulate their demand lewdly. These are fresh smokers. Recently devirginized. The sort that took their first pull of ash at college orientation, struggling not to cough soot through their nostrils, to drop an ejaculatory bit of ash toward the concrete outside of Hasbrook dining hall like the season’s first snow with nothing more than a casual flick of their thumb.
That’s how it starts.
Now? They’re fiends. In the hours between classes, they lurk about in the windy path between the hollow shell that is the Wooster Science Building and the towering complex of Humanities. They’re searching for prey, for a mate, for an interaction enabled by nicotine.
Classes end.
A flood of students stream out into the architectural womb, calling, shouting, laughing. It’s a feeding frenzy. An orgy.
Campus tours today.
ReplyDeleteThe girls have worn their best outfits. Trying already to make an impression on the older college students.
The boys try to look bored so that they appear cool.
The next bench over from me sits a boy with a guitar.
Playing unknown melodies that he comes up with in the moment.
He talks to his friend at the same time, always still strumming his fingers across the strings.
One of my fellow classmates sits not too far from me, picking at her fingers and trying to observe things others don't notice as they walk by, distracted by the thoughts of what they need to do today and getting to class on time.
Most students walking by to get to class strut around with their iPod headphones dangling from their ears. The universal sign for, "leave me alone I'm listening to music and don't want to stop and talk."
Those students miss the guitarist.
They miss hearing the giggles from the girls standing closely together, gossiping about a boy one of them met last night.
They miss the gentle hum of the lawn mowers in the distance. Do they even notice the warmth from the sunlight on their skin as they walk?
Three more walk by with headphones on. The guitarist keeps playing.
He pauses as the machinery starts up by the science building being reconstructed. But they don't stop him for long. As they start their pounding into the ground, he strums his fingers with a little more purpose and strength.
Some who walk by glance at him with some interest. Others glance at him as if he is strange for playing outside where others can hear him. He smiles at a few, never making it clear if he knows them or if he is just feeling friendly.
The sunlight disappears behind a cloud and he stops. His fingers frozen on the strings. He raises his head and looks up into the sky. As he does the sun re appears from behind the cloud. He lowers his head and starts the music again.
Positioned at the tables adjacent to Nesters food station in the Student Union Building, I have a perfect view of it all. Scattered groups of students make their way into the small cube of Nesters, and immediately halt upon seeing the lines that are measurable to those of roller coasters lines at Six Flags. Right before they make a full 360 out of the room, a spark of hope hits one of their faces and carries them towards the gourmet refrigerators. A Frozen mist escapes as she slides open the door while examining the assorted cold wraps and salads. A shiver and disappointment lingers as they close door. Nothing here tickles her fancy, so she retreats to next food venue in search of refuge.
ReplyDeleteOne of the only constants is the cashier, whose pleasant demeanor changes when cash or credit cards are presented as opposed to simplicity of meal plan swipes. This slows down her game. The line grows longer as she waits for the credit card to approve. She stretches to her left to gauge how far back her line goes. Anxiety sweeps her face as the student signs the receipt at a glacial speed.
The Farmers Market is the main attraction on the quad today. Five different stands are set up next to each other, selling various vegan and organic items. One man sporting a ponytail and heavy beard is selling organically grown sweet and hot peppers. The overturned barrels of tiny yellow, green, orange, and red peppers match the campus trees that are on fire with the flames of autumn. The farmer is standing on his skateboard behind the stand, gliding back and forth ever so slightly as customers come up and look at his produce. His cell phone is constantly ringing. As he talks he skateboards around his tent. He seems restless and so full of energy that standing behind his tent is almost torturous. Across from the pepper tent is the Vegan O’Brien Baking Company stand. A plain dressed man wearing a black hoodie and hiking boots is selling chocolate chip and pumpkin vegan cookies. “What makes it organic?” an older women asks Brien. His response is calm and gentle. “Organic flower, veggie oil substitute, potato starch, tapioca powder…” he lists his ingredients while offering her a sample piece. It’s 1o’clock in the afternoon, judging by the church bells ringing in the distance. Between classes the pace of the quad is much more slowed down. A girl with blonde and brown dreadlocks smokes a cigarette while talking to a man sporting American flag jeans, one leg stars, the other stripes.
ReplyDeleteThe sky is blue with patches of white puffy clouds. The courtyard next to the library is quiet except for the pitter patter sound from walking students. The lip of a large cement ashtray is broken off into two pieces, still containing a sandpit of cigarette butts. The sun warms the earth around me and a cool breeze ruffles the pages of my notebook. The vibrant red leaves on the bushes dance as the wind goes through them. Flying insects buzz around flowers and can be seen on their journey through the sunlight. Birds let out different notes between the chirps of crickets who have survived the cold changes in weather. Rumbling construction vehicles growl in the distance. The electric hum of machines from the surrounding buildings can be heard if the ear listens close enough. The unnatural and natural noises blend together with the voices of students. A professor sits on a bench across the courtyard, reads his kindle and looks up every so often at the sky. A nervous student with crossed arms and a cell phone to his ear complains, “I re-read all those chapters,” as he bounds over the red and grey bricks. A group of visiting students walks from Coykendal to Smiley art building, exploring a place that is brand new to them.
ReplyDeleteShort kid with a mean look walks up the hill. He’s built with broad shoulders that swing his arms back and forth with authority. Determined to make this trip to class successful. His head bobs up and down nearly a half foot every step as he makes his way up.
ReplyDeleteBehind him is a petite woman. A bag over each shoulder. She’s struggling. Every step seems painful. She can’t even look up the hill at the brick buildings where she'll end. She keeps her head down and persists. When she reaches the steps, she lets everyone know the weight she’s carried; her boots boom with every step, half second pauses between paces to catch her breath. She reaches the top and immediately pulls out her phone to send a text.While typing she’s still walking. Barely.
Nestled off of the main concourse between the Lecture Center and the Humanities Building is the “Rose Garden.” The gerbil tunnel connects the two buildings which blocks off the bulldozer noises coming from the crumbled Wooster Science Building. The rose garden looks frail and dry as four roses attempt to survive another cold October night. An ode to a former teacher of the Communication and Media Department rests in between the roses. “And a rose she lived as roses do, the space of a morn” is displayed under a brief description of Donna M. Davis. A grey wooden bench accompanies the roses that bask in the autumn sun. I close my eyes as the sun bathes my face in warmth while I hear students clap for the student who gave a presentation from the classroom above me.
ReplyDelete