Alma Mater Melancholy (at least the Kroks are still at it...)

An invitation to teach a class at ye ‘ole Alma Mater brought on a 24-hour walk through Disorientation Zone. The Puritan brick was the same but its insides were not. Apparently, the conveyor belt of a certain demographic has been in constant spin since I left, producing an endless stream of students who zipped around with all-out purpose. The place has been invaded by replicas of me and mine. I could have sworn I spotted what’s-her-name, what’s-his face, and that other guy. I almost yelled out a name or two in front of my favorite—“oh wait, it’s not there any more”-store. Twisters have barreled through and plopped Starbucks and luxury bag stores on top of my old haunts.




Source of Melancholy No.1: Utter dead-girl walking outrage. I mean, there is no trace of my having ever been there. Except when I pass by a tree where a British girl had thrown a shoe at me (or was it an earring?) (or was that someone else?) and told me I was a shit workaholic girlfriend. At the time I merely laughed and gunned another beer, but the last laugh was not mine. (Ears ring when exact item throw and words are repeated by mongrel girl in 2003 and lesson is repeated to self: flowers never get the girl back. Ever.)

But my favorite hallway had the same smell: a long, forgotten and seldom used basement lined with rooms of dingy old Steenbecks where I ate dumplings while toiling away nine months and a dying relationship, only to emerge in a new and single light. Bad habits were forming, but they worked. And they have proven to be reliable.

I passed by the theatre where, on one flower incident night during graduation week, I was champagne-fuzzy-fussy and decked in black tie and agitated. My teacher stared at my drunken agitation, confessed a crush on British girl and told me, hands stuffed in his tweed pockets, that he wished he and his girlfriend of 20 years had had kids but they had always chosen work. At the time, I didn’t know what he was talking about. But even through my haze, it stuck.

Two years ago he was wiped out by cancer, all in six months.




Source of Melancholy No. 2: Every few hours it seemed I was taken to the Faculty Club, and each time I was subjected to the same group of students singing about Baby Jesus and come all ye-whatever. I took a look around at the insides of the Alma Mater machine and see what I never saw in the yard protests. And as the belting choral voices continued bringing church to us all, I recall New York Times article about the Evangelical spread, which has even infested this once sacred place. And still they sang and no one noticed. They're winning...

Source of Melancholy No. 3: I finally found a track of my footprints in the departmental archives. That was nice. It was also nice that the students in my class were surprised by my date of graduation. Once I got over the (totally mod and renovated screening) room I babbled and screened away. Who knows what I said—all I could think about was how smooth their skin was (not a single crumple, line or indentation!), and how indignant that 19 year olds still exist (I felt this at 20, too). I could have sworn that the students, in lieu of sleeping, were drooling during my lecture. But bless their souls, they are savvy and flattered me.

Student #1: It's kinda funny that the actors in your film are like, 30-year old Goths.
Mitchissmo: You're totally right.

Despite what boredom was endured, it didn't stop them from passing me their business cards at the end of class, followed up by e-mails about possible post-graduation jobs. I do still have some smoke damage that could use some cleaning up...



Whatever yearnings I had to visit every once-was and see former soul-flames and drink every memory and relive relive relive, and as much as I adore the gut-wrench of bashing down memory lane again and again, it hits me for the hundredth time in post-childhood: there is no there there, just here... and even that’s receding pretty damn fast.

I fled to my car. Onward.