I am a disgruntled Swattie. I am an irate swattie. I am constantly tired. I suppose that my fatigue is due to not getting enough sleep but I don't care. I have the greatest respect for sleep yet I hardly ever get more than a few hours. You might have trouble understanding this, but I don't sleep simply out of spite. It might seem inane to you, but it makes perfect sense to me. So what if I am only hurting myself? Let me get more tired!
I am writing these notes from my secluded hole working in the Underhill music library. I like it here because people rarely come in and bother me. I don't usually do work here, for I am only a student in the sense that I am enrolled at the college. I find it insulting for people to demand that I do work simply because I am told to do it. That I am virtually alone in this belief (and I can see you laughing at my views already) is symptomatic of one of society's problems. Most of the people in the world are completely content to simply do as they are told, in order to attain "success." I, howveer, am different. I am too busy thinking to act and grasp opportunity when the chance arises. If I have an exam, I spend the night worrying about whether by studying for the exam I am undermining my position against following the tyrannical will of others. Such is the dilemma of one who prizes thought over all other things.
I'll return to my thoughts on the music library for fear I may be oring you. Haha! I have just paused to read that last sentence and have recognized how silly it is. I don't care what you thing of these ramblings nor do I want to entertain you. I usually try to be as unpleasant as possible to everyone who comes in the library. Usually, I simply won't answer questions until I've been asked multiple times. Finally, I'll viciously snap at whoever is bothering me, answer their question, and then pretend not to recognize their presence. Showing others how inconsequential they are to me usually gives me a sense of satisfaction.
I have promised to be honest in these notes so I suppose I'll have to clarify that last statement. Oh, that it were that easy. If I could simply be the most malevolent and cruel hearted person in the entire world, I would be so much more content with my lot. But you see, the "satisfaction" I mentioned above is actually quite unsatisfying. I am not cut out for a life of nastiness and spite. In fact, I may even be inclined towards kindness to my fellow students. Yet by now I am too far estranged. After having derided those around me so much, I cannot go and be friendly with them. No, the idea is completely ridiculous.
My life at Swat has been like this since I've been here. I rarely talk to others or venture out of my seclusion. Now that I am a junior and have a single, my life is much easier. My freshman year I had a horrible roommate. His name was Zack. Good-looking, wealthy, athletic, popular with women, surrounded by admirers, just thinking of him makes me sick. Oh, to think of how I, an ugly estranged recluse, must have hampered his lofty social life. Frat boys continually trooped into my room, followed by a group of girls. (Or at Swat should I call them women? Even better, maybe womyn?) Oh, the girls were the worst. I could forgive Zack for being a boor, but I still can't forgive those hateful girls for adoring him.
I suppose Zack was actually rather nice, which is what made it exponentially worse. He was the only one who was kind to me. The others on my hall initially tried to be nice in their superficial way but I soon drove them away by staying in my room all the time. Zack I couldn't escape. Almost every day I attempted to muster up the courage to tell him how stupid he was, how transparent his life was. I rehearsed for hours in front of the mirror. He would walk in with his usual swagger and say hello in his manner that was both nice and condescending and I wouldn't even answer. I would just say:
-- You know, Zack. You are really one of the least intelligent people that I've ever met in my entire life. It's really quite fascinating. Your life is superficial and pathetic and you simply don't realize it.
Then, after allowing a few seconds for my terrible words to sink in, I would nonchalantly announce that I was going to the library and walk out of the room. He would be left in total despair as the impact of my words sank into his dense brain and I would leave the dorm in triumph.
Oh that I had gone through with it! Instead, he would walk in and I, paralyzed, would simple sit there attempting to make the words come out. But that was always the problem. As much as I wanted to hate Zack, to openly fight with him, to attack him and his lifestyle head on, I never could bring myself to do it. I was tortured by the fact that I couldn't be nasty to him. You probably think I am a pathetic individual, or perhaps insane. Well, go ahead and think so. I'm not writing these notes for you. I'm past needing anybody's sympathy.
Reading these notes, you might ask, "What do you do with your time?" Well, I then ask you, oh reader, what can I, a man enslaved to thought, self consciously do on this campus? I have never been an athlete, and am above participating in some inane game. How can one run around, playing with a ball, without thinking to oneself: why am I doing this? Am I simply feeding the atmosphere of action without thought which pervades society and puts such a high importance on sporting events?
You might think that I would then be interested in engaging in some political cause, an arena in which thought dominates. Oh, but this idea is perhaps even more sickening to me than playing sports. How can one spend hours working to muster support for, say, the freedom of Mumia Abu-Jamal, fully knowing that one's efforts are completely in vain. Students here engage in the political process simply to indulge themselves. Their actions are completely fruitless, and stand no chance of affecting the world. The worst thing, which makes me almost seethe with anger, is that they are conscious of their impotence. How can one engage in these activities, knowing full well that they will come to nothing? No, politics is no place for a man of thought.
I have spent many hours sitting in my room, trying to find some action or pursuit to which I could devote all my time. For a long period I tried to become a truly educated man, reading Kant and Milton and all sorts of other writings. Oh, I persuaded myself at the time that I was on a true quest for knowledge, for truth that would transcend my own mouse-like existence. Yet I never actually concentrated on my books enough to comprehend them in a scholarly fashion. After a while, I hardly read them. Instead, I brought them with me wherever I went, often clutching them conspicuously in front of me with the title showing, so that all my "peers" could see. I left books with my name on them in the hall lounge, so that others would come across them. But the worst of it all, which made it unbearable after a while, was that none of my fellow students seemed to notice. All the time I spent in my room, secretly plotting how to become branded as an "intellectual," did not produce the slightesst effect in those around me.
If only I had something to call myself. I would give everything to be a jock, to be part of a fraternity, to unify myself with others under a common banner. I could look myself in the mirror and to the question "Who are you?" which it poses, I could answer: I am a jock. The end of the answer is unimportant. I would be equally happy being a deadhead, a punk, a nerd, an activist, or even a SWIL member. I would do anything to escape the most dreadful answer: I am nothing.
Well, just to show you how irrational any effort of mine to associate with others would be, I'll tell you a quick story about one evening last year when I mustered the courage to spend time with Zack. It was Zack's birthday, and he was planning to drink with a few friends over at his fraternity. I pestered him to let me come along, finally getting him to agree.
We were supposed to meet at the fraternity at 9:30. Starting very early in the evening, I began to fret about the whole situation, wondering whether I should even go. I arrived at 9:20 and was admitted by a frat brother who told me to wait down in the basement and that Zack would be there shortly. I went downstairs and started to pace. I helped myself to the supply of alcohol in the fridge, although I rarely drank. My watch showed 9:45, then 10:00. Finally, at 10:15 they raucously walked downstairs.
We sat down to drink and converse. The conversation shifted in all sorts of directions, none of which I had anything to say about. Finally, realizing that I was completely silent, they started asking me questions in a condescending fashion.
"So what sort of stuff are you into here?" asked a tall football player named Rob.
"Oh, I don't know. I stay in my room, sometimes doing work," I meekly answered.
Their questions slowly turned more aggressive as the night progressed. To be truthful, I was also quite drunk by then, as I had been sipping beer since I first arrived. Finally, I was forced to acknowledge that I had never had a girlfriend. With this admission, their comments became sharper, with a hint of antagonism.
"Why haven't you ever dated anybody?"
"I don't know. I wouldn't mind. I guess I've never really bothered," I responded, intently staring at the floor.
"So you've never really gotten any? What's wrong with you, are you gay?" a thin faced guy names Tim asked, provoking discordant drunken laughter from the others.
"No. No. I... just... haven't," I managed to stammer, staring even harder at the speck on the floor. This reply caused more merriment, finally inciting me to state, "Well... I don't care what you think. You're all a bunch of morons anyway. I don't give a shit about you."
Silence descended on the room. Finally, the others started playing foosball, while I sat stoically in my chair, still staring downwards. They enjoyed themselves with the game, while I remained paralyzed and silent, consumed with humiliation. The agony ended when Zack and his friends decided to go to a party at Tarble.
I sat for a minute or two, wallowing in self pity, until finally I decided to try to catch up with the others at the party. I hurried through the rain, finally catching sight of them as they entered the building. As I approached, Zack turned around and gave me a withering look. Obstinately I plodded towards them. Before I could establish my meager presence on the periphery of their social circle, Zack heatedly shouted, "Look, why don't you just get the hell out of here. We gave you a chance."
I stared at Zack for a moment, and hardening my jaw into an expression of stoicism, I turned around and hurriedly left. Outside, I sat down, stared into the night sky and broke into a fit of self-derisive laughter.
For at least ten minutes I remained, wallowing in my sadistic spite, without noticing a young woman sitting hardly twenty feet away. Looking over at her tear streaked face, I wondered why she had been reduced to the same pathetic state which I found myself in. After long deliberation, and partly in gleeful anticipation of being rejected by such a pitiful creatuire, I approached her and sat down.
After a moment's pause, I laughed and introduced myself. She raised her eyes from the ground, stared at me for a few seconds, and replied, "Well, my name's Laura. Now what's so funny and what do you want anyway?"
I laughed again to myself and answered, "Well... I suppose I'm funny because I'm so comically despicable. To answer your other question, I want lots of things, none of which explain why I'm talking to you."
She looked up at me and laughed. "Well, let's talk then," she said, wiping away a few last residual tears. "You're funny, but not despicable."
"No. No," I quickly interjected, "I really am despicable. I'll prove it to you." I proceeded to explain my entire evening to her, putting particular emphasis on the fact that Zack, who had humiliated me, was the closest thing I had to a friend at Swarthmore.
When I had finished, I again stared at my familiar shoes, waiting for her inevitable show of contempt. However, without saying anything, she lifted my head, put her arms around me, and hugged me. Oh to feel again that warm body, in which beat such a vigorous healthy heart! We eventually parted as she had another engagement. We made plans to see each other again in a few days. She was to come to my room the next Monday at 8:00. I walked home lightheaded yet worried.
I spent the next three days meticulously planning the details of our meeting and worrying nervously whether she would still like me. I went to the Co-Op to buy food and even walked to Borders in order to purchase a few CDs which we might listen to. (I owned no CDs and had hardly ever listened to music.)
By 7:00 on Monday, I had set everything up in my room and fell to nervous pacing. Sitting down on my bed, I thought to pick up the CDs I had bought and memorize the names of each song. How relieved I was that I had thought of doing so, for the thought of my unconcealed musical ignorance coming to light was unbearable.
Punctually, at 8:00, Laura knocked on my door. I invited her in and offered her a seat. She was in an extremely congenial mood, which made me suspicious. We fell to small talk, complaining about our work and discussing the weather.
Eventually our conversation stopped for nearly a full minute. Sensing this nervous tension between us, I slouched in my chair and stared at the wall, trying to ward off the embarrassment by ignoring it.
"This is one of my favorite books," she nervously commented, picking up my copy of Heart of Darkness and placing it on my bed.
"It was alright," I added, inwardly chuckling at her feeble attempt to make conversation. Silence again descended on the room.
"Well, what did you think of his imperialistic views? Have you read Chinue Achebe?"
I stared harder at the wall. "Pathetic," I intoned to myself, hardly audible.
"What?"
"I said 'pathetic.'"
"What? You mean Achebe's essay?" she asked, confusion spreading across her face.
"No. I'm pathetic," I mechanically intoned, still staring at the wall but now rising to my feet and picking up the copy of Heart of Darkness. I paused a while, contemplating the cover, then, my voice rising, I nearly shouted, "And so are you, and so is everything else too." Still staring at the novel, I tore it in two, scattering the pages, and slouched down onto my bed. She stared at me, speechless and terrified, as I sank further into my bed, putting my hands over my face.
"Robert, " she quietly began in a shaking voice.
"Laura," I interjected, still covering my face. "Just get the hell out of here. Just leave and don't come back." I clasped my face even tighter between my hands, feeling the pressure of my thumbs, and stared between my forefingers at an ancient oak tree looming outside my window.
She didn't reply. I heard her jacket being picked up, the door closing, and feet retreating down the hall. The oak stared back at me. I have never spoken to Laura again.
This seems as good a place as ever to end my notes. I hope I have kept your scornful attention, oh reader. You know how much I care about your damned opinion. You might see some more notes like these sometime later, for who knows what the future holds for a student like myself, a student bereft of life itself, a student living in an agonizing and eternal state of limbo. I shall go now, and write no more notes from the Underhill music library.