Part 1.3

We arrive at Jeff's later than most. A pile of shoes block the door and we force our way in, adding our own footwear to the mountainous obstacle.

It appears I do know Jeff, or at least met him in passing. I had, as has become expected, forgotten his name immediately after we shook hands.

A large group of people have congregated in his room, sitting two asses to a chair, crowding atop his mattress, standing awkwardly in corners. She and I sit up against the wall near his door.

I take my position as silent observer, speaking only when spoken to. This is a role I do not mind playing, one I used to reprise frequently at social events I was dragged to by my high-school-days lady friend.

"You don't have to stay here with me if you want to socialize, you know," I say to her. "I'm a big boy."

"Believe me," she says with a smile. "If I wanted to be out there I would be. I will be. But sitting here with you right now is just fine with me."

"Okay."

Across the room, a lanky, long haired boy eagerly stuffs weed into a bowl and begins passing it around. When it gets around to us she dutifully declines but waves it my way.

I take it and, well... when in Rome.

Soon, a young man by the name of Brett, the other lead in tonight's canceled performance, makes his way to the center of the room with a clip board. He is probably under the influence of something or another, taking frequent pauses in his speech to stretch his eyelids and cock his head to the left. Jeff stands with him, and another long haired, this time bearded, fellow sits in a folding chair nearby.

"If we could just take a moment," Brett is saying, "to talk seriously to you all about something we've all been thinking about."

"Yes," says Jeff.

"Because we are all very serious about what we are here to discuss."

"Yes."

Pause. Eyebrows raise, head ticks to the left, and we continue.

"There are five of us, myself, Jeff, Billy," he motions to the beard in the folding chair, "and two others thinking about moving into a house--"

"A commune," adds Billy.

"Yes, sure, a commune of sorts, this summer. Through next year. We are looking for people--"

"Artists," adds Billy.

"Yes, sure. Yes. Artists of all different walks and fields--"

"Painters, sculptors, photographers, actors, writers--" adds Billy.

"Yes--"

"We are looking," says Jeff. "To start a revolution that will bring students and young artists to the forefront of the Minneapolis art community. We are looking for people interested in and serious about this goal who would maybe like to come live in or work with this house to mold a studio space, rehearsal place, and gallery space to get this ball rolling."

"Yes," says Brett.

"Right," says Billy.

"Cool!" someone chimes from the crowded mattress.

Spatters of applause.

People begin to talk excitedly about the prospect. Jeff and Brett explain a little more, but I tune out.

She looks at me. "I could never do that."

"Me neither."

"Yeah, fuck it."

"Yeah."

She smiles. "It's kinda cool though."

"Yeah, I just could never operate that way."

"Me neither."

"Kinda cool though."

"Yeah."

She rests her head on my shoulder. "Welcome to my world."

I laugh. What's funny is as I look around the room I can easily attribute names to all these faces I see that match up with friends I have back in Chicago.

It's interesting to see all these people in the same room. Back home I run into everyone in smaller pockets at various gatherings. It's strange comparing the artsy community here to the one back home.

It's also strange that I refer to Chicago as home now. But that's fine with me. Just strange that the change has become so definite in the last year.

But a real niche has arisen from the traditional college experience at the U of M so much more concrete than what has come out of art school. There's a greater urgency here. A need to define oneself as an artist. Whereas, at Columbia, it's something always apparent and easily taken for granted.

I don't know which I prefer.

Brett approaches the two of us and crouches next to her. "I feel like we should do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Create something."

"Okay."

"Okay..." He looks around. "Any ideas?"

"Nope."

"Okay..." He stands up and spreads his arms. "Hey, uuuh... people? We should like... do something."

"Yeah!" someone shouts.

A large mass of people arise and rush out to the living room.

She looks at me and smiles. "Welcome."

Time passes, she's talking to a rotund queen about why he hated her play and he's blushing and laughing and trying to convince her he didn't hate it.

I get up and wander out to the living room, curious about the laughter that has begun to drift down the hall.

I'm feeling pretty okay still and as I squeeze through the crowd another bowl is thrust my way.

Cheers.