"Go write " she said. Her words still lingered in my mind as I wandered between buildings through unfamiliar halls of a building I vaguely remember from the first time I had been there. With no maps, no directions I some how managed to stumble upon the office of where I was going. You really don't need to know where I was going or what I was going to do there. It is not of your concern perhaps I only told you about the journey to get because it is important that I was in an unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar people. This experience was new to me.

As I made my return to the university for intellectual pursuit of some grand idea I had no guide. There was no clearly marked path to follow no set curriculum for study. What I began to embark on was some rollercoaster journey where they, those being the ones who for some reason liked what you wrote on your essay and saw your twenty slides that you scrambled to put together at the last minute, tell you to further define that thing you wrote at one o'clock in the morning the night before the submissions deadline, but you can't work directly on this big idea you some how must work around it. As though to arrive at your final destination you have taken twenty-connecting flights from each end of the globe. And me who has been stuck in the realm of professional practice have only been taking direct flights for the past two years.

The last time I had done this, took upon scholarly study at a university, people took you by the hand, sat you down and told you exactly what to do. I was pampered, my schedule of courses predefined, what tools or supplies I need to purchase was available at the campus bookstore in a nicely wrapped package with each corresponding course number. Readings were clearly assigned which pages to read and what you are to learn from it, even small five question quizzes that asked simple questions that if you had even glanced through the readings an high grade was easily in hand. I didn't complain then, I was more worried about finding some girl to have for one night. The feel of intoxication was more interesting than a beginner's course where some professor with a tweed jacket and leather patches who rambled on about the purpose of the three branches of the U.S. government. I didn't care much about some new student seminar where hundreds of students are gathered in a room and told the ins and outs of study habits, why one should make partying their last priority, how to read a book without falling asleep, self-diagnosing attention deficit disorder, coping with the freshman 15, and other mindless topics that left a glaze on the eyes of the students who were attending seminar that day still hung over from some late night binge drinking club experience that lasted till four o'clock in the morning. I slept in.
It's raining right now. I have never seen rain like this before. The rain here is unremitting I thought I could wait it out. It's been raining since Sunday morning, not that it matters much to you because you do not know what day it is. So perhaps I should tell you it has been raining for four days now. The day is a constant shade of grey; the windows of my apartment have been covered by the condensation of water creating a haze that doesn't allow you to see out in the morning. It is a new experience. You're wondering to yourself right now why is this rain so new? Have you never seen rain before? Where do you live that it doesn't rain? I have seen rain before. Just not like this. In El Paso it rains, mostly in the afternoon when large dark foreboding clouds fill the sky, and lightning zips from cloud to cloud illuminating the skies with a fireworks display, and then as the dust settles from the wild wind blowing it around, it rains. The size of the rain drops are the size of golf balls, large water droplets that feel and sound like hail giving the desert the nourishment it needs, turning dry arroyo beds into streams, some into rivers, they only last a few hours after the rain. Then as soon as it seemed to have started it ends, the clouds give way to the sun. Now in place of lighting rays of sunlight pierce through the clouds. The patterns of lights race across the city as the clouds move like. Off in the distance the dark clouds that hung over the city, the sky still rage with wild electricity. I really only rains like this once a year, every afternoon for a few week in the summer. Nothing like I have seen for the past four days here. I wish I had an umbrella.
I sit down on some nice bench and watch the rainfall. I hope that soon it will lighten up, or end. I don't mind the grey so much as I mind being wet. I still wish I could see out my apartment windows.

I haven't always been lost, or at least the feeling of being lost. I do know my way around town, but it is the metaphor of being lost, not knowing in what direction you are headed in, where to begin or how to get to the destination you need to get to. Even worse, when you don't quite know where it is that you are going to. Lost is perhaps the best description for the start of my return to the university system. Two years ago I was happy, more complacent than truly happy, but life was comfortable. I had everything I needed at the time, a job that gave me a substantial amount of money, the money which in turn gave me the ability to afford those things that I couldn't afford the first time I had been in school, the things that made me happy. I wasn't happy because something was missing. I didn't know at the time, what that was.

After the first time I attended the university, unlike my colleagues with whom I had spent five years of my life with, I did not have a job in some big city where daunting skyscrapers puncture the horizon, somewhere bigger and better, more improved than where I was. I went home to live with my parents, at home in the desert. Not that El Paso does not have those things that my friends had in Dallas, San Francisco, New York, Washington D.C. it has some of them. But it is a large city that thinks of itself as a dusty desert town that still sits on the edge of the frontier just as it did a hundred years ago. I worked for the summer refinishing furniture. There is nothing more serene than this. If you are now thinking that this might be a possible career move the payoff is not financial rewards however it is in the almost meditative quality that one gets from the solitude of the noise of an electric sander, a drill, a table saw, whose sound drown out the rest of the world except for the noise that is in you head. Those thoughts that race across you mind, tumble around inside for a while, and quickly fade as they give way to another thought. ZOOM! One idea rushes inside your mind, pushing the previous one before. BANG! Another theory crashes inside your mind only leaving the other one, that you had been wrestling with for sometime, into tiny fragments; fossils of what was once something bigger than life. You usually don't hear this but when you spent three hours grinding metal to its bare finish, an aluminum like polished appearance, the sound of the grinder only leaves the sounds in your head. Most of the time these sounds are drowned out by the radio in your car, especially when you sing along, or the T.V. which if you are anything like me captivates all your attention not allowing anything but itself bounce around inside your head, or the conversations of others who surround you. The constant conflict of sounds all scramble through your mind hiding those great ideas that usually lay dormant. But white noise and silence allow those to flourish.

The smell of grinding metal is not pleasant either but is appeals to me for some reason. The same reason I would go see the circus freaks. It isn't pleasant but you are drawn to look at them in some sort of amazement. It is much like that, sparks fly as tiny rusted pieces of steel are thrown from the disc of the grinder, the glow of the hot metal disappears leaving behind some tiny cloud of smoke and minute shards of steel. That is what you smell. As the rust disappears the piece becomes something new, the same beauty of butterflies of that leap from their cocoon. Wood does the same thing. Most antique pieces you find have years of paint, stain, and lacquer covering what once was unspoiled. The job of one who restores furniture is to choose what era to peel back the layers to. Most often it is difficult to restore something to its original state. A wood that has been stained can never go back to its original color. Several people find the antique look where these layers are exposed and one can see the evidence of time appealing. I did not make something look antique, it is deceiving; most of the joy in restoration is finding that hidden beauty that has been locked away for years. It is an experience much like finding that twenty-dollar bill on the sidewalk; which may have happened only once to me but it is a precious moment.
The rain still falls without any sign of it letting up. I really don't like sitting here on this bench. Some foreigner sat down next too me a minute ago. I really can't tell you if he is Indian, Egyptian, Iraqi, or exactly where he is from, what I do know is he is speaking to be some sort of Arabic language, and judging by his physical appearance he is not American, he also smells. I recognize the smell of body odor, which is so prominent on most foreigners, who for some reason have not discovered underarm deodorant or for one reason or another may be aware of it things such as Right Guard but choose not to use it for religious or cultural reasons.

Once I went to Structure at the mall; this was back when I was in El Paso. I was shopping for dress slacks for work. I had left the freedom I had found in the field of furniture restoration, for the strict daily routine of a full time job. As I stood approached the line I noticed the saleswoman's face had some how scrunched in, that face you make right before you vomit as you try to hold down what ever it is that is attempting to come up. You know which face I am talking about because no matter how many times you have been sick, drunk, or even done this voluntary your body still makes one desperate attempt to hold down whatever is left in it. This should have been a warning not to approach her, but I still proceeded to the line. It hit me by a wave, that scent hit me like running into a glass door. You never see it coming until that last minute when you see your reflection in the glass, but you can't stop your bodies forward momentum and then SMACK! The odor was incredibly strong; I, like the girl who had been holding in her breath, had started to gag. What made the entire experience worse was he raised his arm giving directions to his friend, who like him had body odor but it paled in comparison, to get some more items of clothing for him before the saleswoman finished her totaling the bill. This action seemed to release a stronger odor that prolonged exposure would possibly cause permanent damage to my lungs. My eyes had begun to water, as he continued waving his arms in the air. Time seemed to have halted as I stood in line waiting for the man in front of me finish.

It was a lot like the rain right now, never-ending. It has started to rain harder now. I can't see down the street, objects appear as faint silhouettes through curtains. I wish it would stop. The man next to me has left. Thank God, the smell of his body odor had begun to sicken me. I had thought about moving to another bench, but I found myself trying not to be rude by leaving immediately once he sat down and then relocating about five feet next to him. I waited him out; deep down inside of me I had wished he would leave. I willed it to be. I have tried imposing my will on this rain but perhaps the will of those who want the rain have only made the storm stronger. I thought about just making a mad dash across the campus to get to my studio, but I remember the last time I did something like that I was wet from head to toe and did not dry off for hours. There is nothing worse than working while you are wearing wet tennis shoes.

The first week I started to work was a new experience. Every office environment has social and political alliances this one had it fair share of them. I quickly learned who was the boss's right hand man; it was not by coincidence that he had adopted the boss's style of design, drawing, fashion, and even the same pen. There were those who were yes-men and those who were on the black list, and those who were on the black list were once those who were yes-men who had at some point in time failed in following those standards set forth by the boss, it only took once. I did not fall into either of these categories; I was not a yes man, I had a mind of my own with thousands of ideas that had grew while I sanded wood and ground metal for five months, I could not be placed on the list of those who did not meet the expectation of the boss because we had a symbiotic relationship; he needed my technical and visual abilities to create "beautiful" things for him, I needed the money and the experience of working in an architectural office.
If you are unfamiliar with architecture or what architects really do I will tell you: they create. Architecture is the act of creation; any craft project, artistic endeavor, written prose, etc. are all the simple act of creating. Much like giving birth to a child, even though I have never experienced this myself and have only been told about what great pleasure and amazement stem from this, I find that creation of architecture gives that joy. One has to be proud of their creation, to receive this satisfaction, if not the delight is quickly replaced by embarrassment and disappointment, and it lingers and hangs on you like cigarette smoke stays in your clothes after you've been at a bar.

Work provided me moments of beautiful feelings of nativity, but for every moment I celebrated I have two moments that had been tarnished by dissatisfaction. "I could have done better. I could have given the client more. THIS WORK ON MY DESK IS A PIECE OF SHIT! Who in their right mind would allow this?" These thoughts swam through my mind; they had replaced those ideas that once would crash into my head. In this symbiotic relationship I had to give in on occasion in order to win other battles. Some work became great work that inspired myself and others to continue to foster ideas. At other times I was forced to produce mediocre work that did not stem from any idea, the shear creation of the object was done for profit without any aesthetic consideration. The thought sickened me.

I tried to work on personal project in the evening: something to inspire me, to give me the faith that I once had in the act of creation. I failed. The sound of metal grinding didn't foster any return of those dreams that screamed through my head. It was just noise, only to add a headache to the thoughts of displeasure that existed from the daily grind of work. I tried the rigor of forcing myself to create objects of beauty, but this method fell short to excuses, "I'm tired. It's too late. Isn't there something on T.V. I wanted to see?" I have often heard the expression "the straw the breaks the camel's back." This was mine.
When was I happy? When was this thing that I once had pure? How do I get it back? "SCHOOL," I shouted, well maybe not out loud but that thought did sound loud in my head like a thunderous boom. I know this sounds ridiculous to the thousands to students all seeking to get into the real world, seeking some unattainable vision of freedom that the "real world" presents itself to have. As though being away from your parents for four to five years wasn't enough. Or it is the sheer joy that you will be earning an income, just like good old mom and dad do, and you will be free from financial support for the rest of your lives. But you own ten credit cards. I too had this vision, the allure of something beyond my education, but I realize that this was the time things were pure when the thoughts ran though my head freely; when I was satisfied with my offspring.

It's still raining. It's still grey outside.
It seems to be letting up slightly now.