Campus Commentary
An Open Apology To the
Editor
By Mark Keisling
Dear Michele the editor:
I'm sorry. I know I said that I would have a column completed and in
your hands by 8 am. today. I have failed. However, lest you think that I
failed just for lack of anything interesting about which to write, let me
explain.
It would be natural to think that after the four or five absurdities
which I have written for the Times, that either I would be out of absurdities,
or that I would have enough sense to just stop it. Wrongo.
See I got home last night and boy, was I stressed out. I think I need
a hot tub. Anyway, I was stressed out to start with, but then I checked my
phone messages, and the stress was magnified.
There were the usual messages. You know mom, dad, sis, the
Supreme Court, Janet Jackson, etc. So nothing new there. But the last
message was from Angie.
"Hi Mark, this is Angie. Just called to check in and see how you're
doing. Bye."
Okay, I'm pretty sure I don't know anybody named Angie. Don't get
me wrong. I've always wanted to, but I just don't. But, I figured I must.
Why would a stranger call me. It confuses me enough when people I know
call. It really looped me.
I thought and thought and thought, etc., and just couldn't think of
any Angles. Annies, Andys, Amys and even a Randi, but no Angles. I
started calling both of my friends. They had no clues, so I started calling
strangers radomly from the book (phone, not little black). No one had any
clues. Then I remebered that the Rolling Stones had a song called Angie.
Maybe this was Mick's idea of humor. Nah, he never calls any More. Sure, I
hear from Bianca occasionally, but never Mick.
So I decided I better relax. And what better way to relax than with
mathematics. So I started calculating Pi. Here's as far as I got:
3.1415926784936275859372541984756387289294857473
6254645768689798000098432334557663524254657, etc.
And even though I didn't finish, I felt better. There's nothing like
math to chill one out.
Calmed down somewhat, I went to get a soda from the refigerator.
My kitchen is kind of far from the phone, so I didn't hear the phone ring or
the my machine answer it. And just as I got back to the phone, I heard her
finishing her message and hang up. So I stayed up all night waiting for her to
call back. Or maybe I stayed up all night trying to think of an excuse for
why I have nothing interesting to write for this issue. I always get those
confused
Anyway, I'm sorry I couldn't get you a column by deadline. It's been
hell. By the way, if you know anyone named Angie, have her call me. We'll
d 01 u n c h
Attention All Capital Times Staff Members
The next staff meeting will be Thurs., Feb. 25, at 1:00
I .m. in W-129.
opics for discussion include: Deadlines, format for
übmission of articles, policy, next assignments, officer
ositions for next semester, and production schedules.
is will be a very important meeting and your awn
. ance is strongly urged. If you cannot come to the meet
ng please see Michele Hart sometime on the 25th or
P 6th.
I you would like to join the
,staff this would be a good
Dead Trees
by Brian Smith
A picture is worth a thousand
words someone once said. I have a few
words to share about some particular
pictures.
I'm referring to the paintings of
dead trees which decorate the third floor
hallways. The first time I looked upon
these desolate paintings I felt unnerved.
Dead trees. What an image for
a university: barren branches; fruitless
trees of knowledge. I thought of a few
reasons why there are dead trees painted
on the walls.
Perchance these dead trees were
painted on the walls after the nuclear
accident at TMI, to serve as fitting
reminder of how man's incompetence and
lack of social responsibility degrade and
ruin our environment. Such being the
case, the paintings ought to have been
labeled to identify their significance.
Maybe we can learn something from the
mistakes of others.
Perhaps the psychology
department had these desolate depictions
placed upon the walls as a study of
man's fragile mind.
Imagine the conversation which
took place in the meeting where this
grand experiment was decided upon:
"Dr. Ima B. Downer
begins: "Painting dead trees on the walls
will effectively subdue the subjects. It
is well known that the students attending
classes on the third floor have their heads
in the clouds. Dead trees is just what we
need to bring them back to earth."
"Excuse me,"
replied Ratch A. Nale, "but aren't we
overlooking the potentially harmful
subconscious thought patterns associated
with subliminal experimentation? An
experiment such as this could adversely
affect the grades of students taking
classes on the third floor."
"Precisely my
point," Downer retorted, "the psych
students take classes on the first floor
and if their grades are higher, the
department looks good. I say we vote."
You can plainly see that Ratch
A. Nale lost the vote even though he had
Belt R. Jugement on his side.
Suddenly light bulbs lit up my
brain. These trees are not a reminder of
TMI. Nor are they part of a hair-brained
psychology experiment. They are trees
The campus commentary page gives
the college community a chance to
let their voices 'be ltectrcl. Submis
sions should be type, double-spaced
and limited to 500 words. Copy can
be handed in at'the Capital Times
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Room 216
a Cruel Joke
of knowledge. They are barren because
it's winter.
Come the first thaw of spring
the SGA and the administration will
sneak through darkened halls late at
night and paint tiny buds on those barren
branches. The buds will be so subtly
painted that at first no one notices. But
as spring progresses, those tiny buds
will turn into sprouting leaves. While
the sun warms our hearts and spirits, the
sap of learning begins to flow.
The trees blossom and bloom
throughout the spring semester.
Branches of the trees grow into the
classrooms. From behind the leaves red
vested robins and skirted hummingbirds
sing lectures to their unborn young. In
passing time young minds are fertilized,
soon to crack their shells and emerge to
the safety of the trees.
Throughout summer months
the trees of knowledge are full of life.
From the nests we hear hungry voices
chirping "feed me." Bees begin to gather
round the trees. They light softly upon
nectar sweet blossoms. Knowingly they
pollinate the trees to , make, than fruitful.
Come fall the trees will be
adorned with fruit. The trees of
knowledge provide sustenance for all
mankind, and man sets aside a day for
thanksgiving.
The young birds nearly
developed will test their wings and fly.
They'll fly away, taking with them the
lessons of the trees. They'll gather in
various parts of the world. They'll find
other birds just learned in th art of
flying. They'll find a way of living
that's right for them. And they'll find
love. . •
Finally winter winds whisper
an icy chill about the trees. The leaves
change color and slowly drop.
Listlessly, silently, the leaves descend.
Once again the trees become barren.
And I am sad.
Listlessly, silently, the tears
descend.
These are not trees of
knowledge painted upon the walls. They
are but a cruel and chilling joke. Won't
someone please take them away.