Of Walks and Change, Part 2

Read Part 1 before coming to this narrative. I'm not sure it matters much, but I couldn't bear it if my three followers read things out of order.




Last night, I went on a walk. Wait, did I already say that? Well, it's true. I have the sore joints and blisters to prove it.

As stupid and clichéd as it sounds, I took a walk back to my past, to places that were so much a part of my life five or six years ago that it's nearly impossible to think that it's all so unfamiliar to me now. I went back to school.

I hadn't really intended on walking all the way to campus -- from my house, it's a good three or four miles, one way -- but I was grooving on my latest iPod playlist, and my feet just sort of involuntarily took me there, I guess. Whether it was because my first homebase for these excursions was on campus or because I must have set foot in the School of Music building every day for five straight years and after a while habit sets in, I'll never know. Whatever the reason, fifty-three minutes after I had left my house, I was peering into the newly-renovated SoM, a familiar window into a strange building.

The place was different, but not; older parts of the building, with which I was much more accustomed, were still in existence, but newer, shinier buildings and courtyards are what dominate the landscape now. Then again, the University of Oregon has always been a dichotomy of sorts -- although it is one of the most beautifully scenic and historic places in the entire state, there has always been a cutting-edge newness that, on occasion, serves only to uglify and taint the natural charm and beauty of an otherwise stunning campus; one only needs to see the ever-changing, revolting "streamline" uniforms of our football team to get my point. Still, that's neither here nor there, as I'm talking about the SoM.

As my always-a-bit-too-perceptive iPod pumped Bing Crosby, singing "It's Been a Long, Long, Time," into my earbuds, I made my way around the old building and catch a glimpse of the new student lounge. Now in its third incarnation since I started coming to summer camps here about ten years ago, the room is nothing like I first remembered it: the awful (yet awfully comfortable) 70s-style orange vinyl bench-sofas are long gone, with sleak tables and plush chairs, in a hue of non-offensive blue, in their place, the sketchy coffee replaced with Pepsi and rows of mailboxes. The combination of Bing and the mental image of those God-awful couches brought back a lot of memories -- surprisingly, from my high-school years. People I haven't seen in a decade came back to my mind as if we'd just had coffee the day before, and, as most people tend to do when faced with massive amount of nostalgia, I began to ponder what happened to those people I then called my friends. I'm sure they all are doing fine, or not -- how should I know? Even the people I've done my own special brand of keeping in touch with, I don't keep in touch with them. It's what happens when you're a loner -- but, then again, I've always been like that. People don't change.

As I walked the perimeter some -- marvelling at the new structure, remembering all the long years the administration had fruitlessly been hoping for this building before construction began last year -- I came across what might be, for me, one of the most familiar sights of the entire building. It was the window of the office of one of my professors -- well, former window, or former office, I suppose. It was at that point, where the selfish regret came in.

Not many people have been offered the opportunities I've been offered in life. I was raised by wo wonderful parents who had to deal with not only me (which you'll know is no easy feat, if you know anything about the way I conducted myself growing up) but my two brothers, who in their own special way were infinitely worse than me. Still, I can't complain about the way I was reared; if anything, Mom and Dad went above and beyond the norm to make sure that my interests were being attended to, and my fears allayed. I had great teachers throughout my schooling -- including a K-5 music instructor and a 4th grade homeroom teacher, neither of whom I will forget for as long as I live -- and by the time I reached high school, my musical talent, combined with my unique ability to string together more than one coherent sentence at a time, ensured that I could, essentially, attend my university of choice, in my field of choice. I chose to stay home at Oregon, mostly because I had decided that music was my calling, and I'd found a mentor in the professor with the former office window.

It would be hard to find a better student/professor experience than the one I got, at least from my end -- I won't presume that my constant presence was any great joy to him, but I'd like to think that I was at least tolerable to be around. He was -- and still is -- a remarkable teacher and player, and wanted nothing more than to impart his vast knowledge on his students; I was a raw talent, ready to be taught. My second year in school, I was placed into the big band he ran, considered by many at the time to be one of the better college bands in the country. In time, I ended up doing work-study for him, and it remains the best job I've ever had -- might be the best job I'll ever have.

As I looked up at that window, I remember the long nights I spent in that office, typing papers, transcribing scores, practicing solos for class, often to the dismay of campus security. As if on cue, the iPod plays one of the last solos I'd transcribe for his classes, a Dexter Gordon interpretation of "Love For Sale" which I can still hack out on my tenor, given ample warm-up time. No, time to switch the track, too many memories to be heard on that one. Cruel Fate dealt me "You Can't Always Get What You Want."

And so it is. What had I done with all that has been given me? I can make as many excuses as I want regarding why I left SoM for good -- lack of money, gimped hand, and unyielding depression are the top three -- but the fact is, I left. I left, and in doing so, I left everyone I knew behind me. Including the Windowed Professor. I have been given an almost infinite amount of chances to make something of myself and I've failed every time. I've failed the people who trust me. That I've failed myself goes without saying -- I'm the only one who has to live with the hot shame of telling people that I've been going to school part-time for almost eight years now and have no degree to show for it, and that I'm currently employed at a shitty job for shitty pay and shitty hours.

Is this who I really am? An apathetic Wal-Mart stooge? No. It can't be. I refuse to let that be my reality. Self-flagellation behind me, I left my old stomping ground and hoofed it to the bus stop to catch the last ride home; realizing that busses don't run on Sundays, I began the long walk home. Led Zeppelin greeted this change in plan with a rousing chorus of "Ramble On," thanks to my smart-ass iPod, which was being thoroughly unhelpful at this point.

As I walked home, I brooded a bit -- much of it courtesy of Johnny Cash's version of "In My Life" -- and then got to thinking about how I'm going to turn out. Although I live in a constant state of apathetic misery, at least as far as work is concerned, I'm genuinely excited to be going back to school full-time next week. Accoring to the plan, I graduate next spring with my history degree, then it's off to the UK for graduate school. But then what? I'd like to stay there, if I can find work, but what will be there for me? Who am I to just up and move to another country?

More to the point, who am I?

Am I the ambitious scholar, or the apathetic drop-out? The uncaring hermit, or the shy, oversensitive child? The Gregorian Monks blasting through my headphones weren't helping any, although Duke Ellington's "Madness In Great Ones" brought an odd sense of optimism to my current train of thought. It wasn't until I came across Chet Baker singing "My Ideal" that I realized that I don't even know what my ideal is. What do I want to be? What do I want to do? Who do I want to be? What would do? I had just started to go slightly mad(der) when Chet went off, The San Fransisco Gay Men's Choir went on, and for some reason, their (incredible) rendition of "Salvation is Created" signaled to me that I was home. And so I was. My thoughts would have to be put aside until my next walk, which I gathered would be sooner rather than later.

People don't change. They evolve.