The truth is, Kenyon Time is fake. Kenyon Time doesn’t follow the rules of nature. So when you leave campus, time stops. If you find yourself sitting in Peirce, wondering how break went by so fast and how you could possibly be sitting back at a New Side rectangle ALREADY, it’s because that week didn’t exist. Your Kenyon World with its Kenyon Time got put on pause, so it feels like you’re picking up exactly where you left off, because YOU ARE. The fresh haircuts on the boys in your 10:10 are blips in the space-time continuum. When you ask me, “How was your weekend?” I think of the last two weekends spliced together, with a perfect seam on a Saturday evening in John Glenn Columbus International Airport. I know this all to be true because I lived it. And, as a friend of a biology major, I can say confidently that science is on my side.
As I sat down to write this week’s catchup, I thought to myself, “oof this is gonna be tough, nothing really happened this weekend.” But, as I really reflected, I remembered more and more of the events from the past few days, and realized how perfect it all is. I’d describe the weekend as a collage. Or maybe a tapestry of life at Kenyon. An amalgamation of social spheres— a true microcosm of Kenyon’s student culture. Not only was there original musical theater happening in an art gallery, but there was an a cappella concert both nights, some Greek life cult events, AND some sort of sporting excitement that warranted hordes of loud drunk people around Hanna Hall at 10:30 in the morning. And finally, I’ll expose myself, with as little shame as possible, and say that I attended a murder mystery party and I didn’t hate it. THIS is the Liberal Arts. At Kenyon YOU WILL, GODDAMMIT.
Good lord. This weekend. It didn’t really break ME, but it surely broke some of my friends. The play I was stage managing went up this weekend (burtle flur by jacky silvertoe) and that was CRAZY. If any of you saw two lanky sophomores carrying pitchers of yellow liquid through the servery last week, those were my assistants stocking up for our stage beer. Turns out green tea is a very convincing substitute for beer, as proven by all the LOOKS they got during dinner rush. Closing a show always has its own sort of ~catharsis~ but OH BOY did that catharsis take a turn Saturday night post-cast-party (classic theatre kid bullshit, sorry, but also not sorry at all). Now let’s keep in mind that Senior Soiree was occurring at the same time that night. But I guarantee that the belligerent little boy I was supervising went unparalleled to any senior drunk off the school’s dime. But do not fret, he got tucked into bed at the end of the night, perfectly safe, albeit near tears about how beautiful Catcher in the Rye is. That was basically my whole weekend, but here’s my high/low/buffalo anyway:
Family weekend. Always *such* a treat here at Clown College: College for Clowns. This campus truly transforms with the influx of capital-A-Adults. The traffic patterns in Peirce somehow manage to get worse. You can’t get Wiggins. You can’t get a parking spot. You can’t get into Ascension without weaving around middle aged women marveling at the architecture. You can’t get a seat at an acapella concert (?!?!). You can’t even get into your scheduled office hours without having to wait for some parents to finish talking to the professor who hasn’t had their kid in class since Quest for Justice, 3 years ago. And of course, it’s prime time for anything that needs an audience. Nothing like a full audience of people who may or may not have any opinion on whatever they just saw, other than “well that was fun!” or, “my, that was sad.”
It is written in the contrails of airplanes slicing through the sky. It is written in the frown lines on your professor’s forehead when you ask a stupid question (yes, there is such a thing as a stupid question). It is written in jacuzzi bubbles rising to the water’s surface, breaking, releasing their hot air. Chris Raffa. Chris. Raf. Fa. Three perfect syllables. One perfect man. I’m here to wipe his record clean. He DOES think women are funny. It turns out he thinks I, specifically, am not funny. Fair point Raffa. How was your weekend?
“Terrible now that you brought me up again in a Catchup.”
“Chris it’s only because I want your attention.”