Walking out of This World

Eleven

Breakfast is rumbling in my stomach as I stumble through the door that stands guard below the numbers 207. It's my first class, Introduction To Philosophy.

I'm greeted by a large room. Metal chairs are anchored to ten or more terraced cement rows climbing toward the gray cement deck where I'm standing—stadium style. The room is dimly lit except for the area below at which all the rows of chairs are pointing. A gaggle of voices is swinging across the room where a large group of first year students are lounging.

The professor is standing in that halo area and is writing on a white board that stretches across the width of the room—his command center.

He turns and speaks into a microphone that powers his words out of a juiced up sound system, nearly sending the walls in to fits of vibrating acquiescence. Needless to say he has our attention.

"You will find the syllabus for this class and questions that we will answer on the web site." He writes the address across the board with heavy, black standup letters.

I silently slide into a chair resting at the top of the stadium and pull out the little tray, hanging on the right side, up and over my lap. I rest my laptop on the tray and boot up.

"First question. How do we use reason to make sense out of chaos?" His voice hovers in the room like a ghostly elocution.

I find the question and dutifully wait for the correct answer.

"Shhh. There is no correct answer—only the present moment."

Old Mr. Shhh must be whispering into another student's ear. I see a hand go up and a question confronts Mr. Professor. "What is reason?"

"What is your motive for asking the question?" Mr. Professor asks.

"My motive is to do a little shopping in your mind, sir," comes the reply accented with a slice of sarcasm.

"Shopping...hmm...would that be online or in store?" Mr. Professor throws the words back like the pop of a tennis serve.

A chuckle breezes through the crowd.

Ring the bell. The fight begins.

"Since we're all gathered here for this momentous occasion I'm suspecting in store. But, I'll certainly tweet out any wisdom you might convey that's worth the trouble," the interrupter throws back.

I can feel the whoosh of everyone simultaneously sliding forward in their seats, followed by a worrisome pause.

"Are you saying that reason is created by your social group and their collected opinions? Do you have a personal responsibility for making sense out of your environment?" Mr. professor asks.

The air hangs heavy in the room while everyone is waiting for the return serve.

Maybe this eager student is thinking about the grade all of this fuss will potentially stamp out on his transcript.

"I'll respectfully defer to you sir," he replies.

"The language we use reveals what we believe is happening around us—in our environment. The very words we use communicate our intentions to act on our beliefs. Words are the windows into our inner persons," Mr. Professor explains.

"Is that the answer to the first question?" The student replies, his huffing and puffing having subsided.

"Yes. And on that note we will retire from class. I will require you to use the rest of this hour to write a two page essay about what we've just talked about and email it to me," Mr. Professor throws the words out like a knight challenging his foe. He picks up his brief case and walks out of the auditorium.

One is rustling through the tapestry. Mr. Shh and he are weaving mind with some different choices.

The green cigarettes in my backpack are calling for a friendly visit.

I'm leaving the philosophy assignment in my backpack and searching out a quiet patch of grass in a secluded corner of State's abundant collection of various shaped buildings. My attention is focused on the business end of a wooden match applied to the waiting twirl at the end of a green cigaret. It surely will enhance my reasoning ability.

I gently inhale one small dry puff after another, allowing my lungs to savor every molecule and send the green fog to One's tapestry weaving project—green enlightening.

I'm dancing in green haze. The music of glowing grass and red waving off the walls... happy brick buildings... winding into the tapestry, the music of the spheres playing in the green fog.

I see him! He's walking across the glowing grass, cap pulled down over his bushy brown hair. His dark beard is gently flapping like a flag being teased by a light breeze. My eyes are following the long tweed coat. Gray, red and blue lines are crossing like tiny neon threads.

Green lightening is surging through my veins, holding hands with a healthy dose of adrenalin. My body begins to shiver like I've just taken a quick dip in ice water.

Now, the tweed coat looms in front of me, topped by a face where piercing brown eyes are sending a knowing look. I drink in a moment of silence behind a puff.

"Ya coming with me," he snarls, his lips twisting around the words. A white, silky thread pushes its way into One's tapestry.

"Yeah?" I ask.