Author Addie Stuber

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Hippie House

Jun 8, ’10 5:07 PM

I am seated cross-legged on a tapestry rug. There is a hole in my left sock. The hole serves as an escape route for my big toe. My big toe curls towards a discarded composition book with a bent cover. The book cover’s pho-marble surface catches the shadow of a hooka stem. The hooka stem snakes around a pensive circle of bodies. The bodies are wedges together in the cracks of a futon, a love seat that has seen better days, and two overstuffed arm chairs. Behind the furniture are four walls. The four walls carry art. Each art piece bleeds together at its respective edges, forming one overwhelming scene of rats, long-haired boys, trees, neon globs, and bears with halos.

The kaleidoscopic scene holds up the ceiling, which, at the moment, appears to be made of smoke.

This is not your typical college home. Nor is this your typical college gathering. Tonight I am a guest of the Hippie House, one of TCNJ’s little-known off campus residences. Members of the house are hosting one of their weekly get-togethers – a poetry reading. Etiquette is simple: come prepared to recite or listen. I plan on reading a passage from a book by Roland Barthes. Other selections on the itinerary include The Raw Shark Text, a journal entry entitled “Room 314” and an essay called “Good Noses.”

“Good Noses” is written by Philosophy major Steve Klett. Klett is one of the house’s current occupants. Klett moved into the house in August of 2008. Prior to August, Klett lived in the College’s dorms. When asked what prompted him to relocate, Klett states “I felt daft. I forget what that word means but it seems to fit. There comes a time in which the rooster needs to fly from the coop and the chick needs to leave the nest. I was, you know, looking for a room of my own, to quote Virginia Woolf.”

Klett occupies one bedroom. The remaining two tenants are Greg Letizia and Leandre Bourdot. Bourdot is a Fine Arts major. Her creations take up a large portion of the dwelling.
Presently, she sits in a corner, penning ink drawings for a bookmaking class. Bordot claims that becoming a part of the Hippie House has been both a hindrance and a source of stimulation for her work. Glancing around the tightly packed room, she confides, “There are mornings when everything together is inspiring and there are also mornings where everything plays off each other and becomes stagnant.”
As for Letizia, he has taken a leave of absence from the College.

Nevertheless, he remains an avid writer, often reciting typewriter compositions via a voice distortion box. Out of all of the occupants, Letizia is the most elusive of the bunch. I ask him what the credo of the house is. Maybe it is because of a recent screening of Tim Burton’s “Alice in Wonderland,” but as Letizia speaks, he begins to resemble the smug, jargon-littered Caterpillar. Steam issuing from his nostrils, blue-tinted glasses perched on his nose, Letizia muses, “The essence of the place is the essence of the place and the goal is the goal. It is a place for I to be I.”

The overall ambiguous quality of the Hippie House is perhaps what attracts students to it. The crowd that frequents social events like Poetry Night range anywhere from five to eighteen people. Stationed amidst these individuals, I feel mellow and in same measure, completely absurd. Snippets of conversations filter into my ears. On the surface, topics are similar to that of most young people. Visitors tonight talk about:
Books,
(“That is completely convoluted in its contingency.”)
partying too hard,
(“Hey, I think I left my crown at your house the other night.”)
and music.
(“Could you hand me that singing bowl?”)
However, as illustrated, if you listen closely, discrepancies appear.

Ken Kesey, leader of the Merry Pranksters, asserted that “you are either on the bus or off the bus.” By coming to the house, I am choosing to embark on the ride. I believe it is for worthy reasons too. Some partial cynics (me included) may claim that sixties youth counterculture is officially dead, dissipated by the absolution of the political and social issues of its heyday.

Still, within the house there exists a smaller, equally valid resistance against the sameness of suburban college life. No one wears TCNJ sweats and Uggs. Of course, it wouldn’t be a problem if you did. Apparel choices are never judged.

In fact, clothing itself is considered optional.

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ON FASHION

Apr 4, ’10 7:07 PM

Sometimes habits lead to unintentional discoveries.

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SUPERIOR PROTECTION AGAINST THIEVES

Feb 3, ’10 1:50 AM

The current state of the economy seems to perpetually weigh on the minds and wal­lets of many. There is worry, a sense of uncertainty that makes us guarded, brac­ing for some sort of future hard knock that could throw us off kilter.

Soon to be graduating, I too have fallen victim to thoughts of unemployment and financial woes. However, recently I was re­minded of a simple truth: everyone deals with a lack of dough differently. Potential coping mechanisms include begging, bor­rowing, job multitasking or, as I experi­enced, stealing.

This past summer, I was the victim of an inattentive subway Pick-Pocket.

It was the type of crowd that accumulates after all down-town businesses spew their employees out onto the sidewalks at the end of a nine to five day. The release is short-lived. Almost immediately, all move en mass to the tube lines below. There, weary and in need of a decent dinner, we stood back to back, waiting on chipped concrete islands for a train that would take us to our next destination and, eventually, home.

Nothing separated the encounter from anything else I had come to consider nor­mal commuter chaos. Gritty metal smell, faint perspiration, someone breathing on the back of your neck as you push forward towards a yellow line, make a dash towards snapping doors. Inside, everyone plays some sort of unspoken etiquette game in which one is not allowed to make eye con­tact with other passengers. Instead, focus shifts to ads featuring beaming Chinese women, women who learned English as a Second Language in ONLY TWO WEEKS. Instructions on how to pull the dangling emergency brake cord (tempting, despite no crisis being imminent.) The flickering of overhead fluorescent lights. Movement of pixilated graffiti scrawled on uneven brick walls.

Though not allowed to acknowledge other passengers, one is allowed to stand close to them. A new rule, set to replace eye con­tact, states that where there is space, there is opportunity for another rider. It is under­stood that bodily boundaries are wasteful. Such borders could house another arm, leg, shoulder, torso, if the occupier would be so kind as to allow it. So, we allow it.

It makes sense that I wasn’t aware of a hand being added to the mix. It is also under­standable that I wouldn’t feel a subtle shift happening in my handbag, a stranger care­fully groping the last bit of untouched terri­tory in the cramped car.

My trip was short, my stop the second on route. I got off quickly, eager to get on my next mode of transportation: the bus. It was only after I had gotten back to my house that I noticed something was off. While search­ing for my keys, I realized that I had been unzipped. The interior pocket of my purse was wide open, its contents splayed out in all directions. I didn’t recall ever opening it myself, let alone hastily grabbing at what it contained.

It was then that I realized that I had almost been robbed. I say almost because what the thief managed to steal was of high utility but little cost to me.

He stole a maxi pad.

Why? I’d like to think it was a fluke. Per­haps he saw the bulging pouch and thought I was packing wads of cash instead of wads of thick, feminine products. But alas, I was a poor woman on my period, not a rich lady hauling twenties.

My mind reeled with plausible sequences that could have followed the encounter.

Did he realize his error and immediately drop it onto the grimy floor?

Worse, did he shove it into the front of his coat without a second glance?

Even worse, upon pilfering it, did he smile a little on the inside, watching me exit, know­ing I was none the wiser?

Did he make the discovery on the next plat­form, surrounded by New Yorkers who are not phased by anything – not even a dirty man, frozen with shock, holding a crumpled, pink-wrapped sanitary napkin in his out­stretched palm?

Did he remain unaware of his mistake until he was alone, back at the abode, ready to add it to a growing pile of embezzled items?

When he pulled out the pad, was he disgust­ed with himself more for what it was, or the fact that he accidentally pinched it?

When he pulled out the pad, did it make him question why he was a Pick-Pocket in the first place? That maybe this was the Universe’s way of telling him it was time for bigger and better ventures?

When he pulled out the pad, was he pissed at me?

I don’t know. What I do know is I am lucky he took the only disposable possession I had.

Future lessons gleaned from the experience would involve being less oblivious to my sur­roundings. Furthermore, I plan on continu­ing to stock my odd purse compartments with maxis. Enough with trite practices involving money hid in your socks. I recommend that all people, female and male, cram their pock­ets, wallets and bags with pads. Banks may fail, Stocks may crash, Recessions may occur. Nevertheless, as I have demonstrated, lady wares protect in more ways than one.

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