West Virginia University - Monticola Yearbook (Morgantown, WV)

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With hours absorbed hi persons and issues. Days straininfi for ' relevance, ' Catchinii imphcations of cybernetics, Apollo Jlii hl.s and Senator Fulbright, While cpiestioninii Vietnam, poverty, Injiation and ABM ' s. Researching this full-uttered cow Labeled ' Church, ' Quietly I thank God for the non-issued joys Of Andre Previn in Grant Park, The Boston Symphony at the Esplanad, Herb A I pert on a GTO ' s tape deck. Grateful there is Michii an avenue. A Charles river, an Oklahoma sunrise, Oregon trees, Colorado-wined air. West Virginia hills and San Francisco, The Grand Canyon suite. Graceful launches of 707 ' s, The fine se of actors and athletes: All Beautiful Things Made With Love In our issue-wrapped age. Fr. Richard Marold — Paulist From this Ea.ftered man I send you dark beer and monk ' s bread, beach dances and 707 ' s, warm embraces and blue splashed music, peace posters and cloister silence, pink orchids and beautiful coeds, baskets of ' elan and wine washed air — tied in clear strains of Alleluia and wrapped in love. Fr. Richard Marold — Paulist Circling the cinders Or missed hours on the pad Telegraph the third decade With aching muscles.

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THE HISTORY MACHINE IVIicn I first entered the assembly plant, I was immediately directed to the such-and-such room where I first came in contact with a fully ordained priest of higher education. He proceeded to describe the intricate details that I would follow during the assembly procedures. He tried to console me with the fact that, though they were difficult at first, the assembly procedures would become a natural bodily habit and thus would cause me little trouble. Finally the day of assembly arrived and before 1 knew it, I was engulfed by the den of confu- sion. The assembly workers, commonly referred to as professors, were all dressed in full battle array. In my hand. I held a proclamation which declared that I was to be a history machine. As you know, a history machine is made up of quite a few parts as is any educational machine. With this in mind, I began an assault upon the history assembly line. Finally after four hours of bar- gaining, I was i.ssued all the necessary unit parts. I rattled at the thought of only having two more days left before installation would begin. As I shuffied home, I had a slight feeling of hap- piness for I knew that I was well on my way to becoming an accepted member of the mechanical society. Soon the eventful day arrived and I proceeded to my first introductory session. As I entered the room, I took my chosen station area and attempted to look as distinguished as possible. Being impatient, I asked the person sitting beside me if he had any idea where the professor was keeping himself He replied that it was rumored that he would be late because of an overdue oil job. Soon our ears picked up the faint sounds of metal striking wood. The consensus of the mass was that he had been wound up too tight the previous day. As it entered the doorway, the entire congregation dropped to their knees and gave homage to the mighty mechanical mind. We then rose and began to sit attentively as the professor threw back his head and gargled in confusion. He then began to spit out bits o f necessary information regarding the installation of the such-and- such subject. Soon it became time to enter the apathy machine which was an established facility in every room. This is a time when all previous means of thinking fall into abstraction. We were soon on our way to the conquest of boredom. I ' m writing this story for the benefit of you the reader. Not everyone has to fall into the classi- fication of a machine. I made the mistake of declaring intellect ural curiosity. My advice to all of you is to sit at home and practice being a dummy. Maybe if you ' re lucky enough some day you will have the occupation of running me. For some, the University is a last defense, the last stop before facing reality . . . that absurd guise of the world. For others, it is a last place to look for something to respect and believe in. Here the re are those who .seek anonymity in a number . . . and those who seek themselves in the eyes and words of others. It is a place where the assured and confident can revel in their ambi- tion . . . and where the confused can come to rest . . . to contemplate their confusion. In a world ruled by practical men . . . where idealists are often outcasts . . . the University is a place where a dream can be the starting point . . . or the goal . . . a place where a dream can be. The University is a sanctuary of contradictions . . . an island for the confused . . . a .starting place for the determined. For the sum total of a University . . . its motive for existence . . . its life and being . . . are the confused, determined people who learn and teach there . . . the people who discover new ideas and define old ones . . . the people who uncover tomorrows with the un- likely device of youth . . . with the secure logic and knowledge of what has gone on before. Without these people, the buildings would stand mute . . . unable to mutter one idea of their own. Without these people, the University would have nothing to give but silence . . . the echo of unasked questions. Without their curiosity, the University would stand in stillness . . . a sym- metrical exercise in buildings and books. The University exists because they exist. They are the University . . . they are what it stands for . . . is what they make of h. The University grows only when they grow . . . when the ideas they find here are used to replenish and c hange the world about them. — Jay Slider

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But the vitality of Countless collegians Beckons a life Younger than age. Though never absent From suns which Draw one to maturity. The shell cracked slowly. Spring came late Budding In the warmth of Irresistable loves. Fr. Richard Marold — Paulist Monday Morning wears a veil of cold, gray drizzle. I have a vague feeling That God needs an Alka-Seltzer Farmington, W.Va., November 24 Seventy- eight men in a hole in the ground And nobody knows if they ' ll ever come out. The flys come buzzing. Hoping to land. Lusting to see. Drawn by the stench of dead and dying flesh — They covet the salt in the tears. The old brick road is a leach on the hillside Buih by the Green Black Red Blood of the land. It slithers past the ball park — A gift For the loss of a father. And on To the company store. Dead. But standing still, With its great gray fangs Buried in the throat of the hill. One wet dog Cuddles underneath a rain-soaked TV set, Waiting for someone to come home And play. Seventy-eight men in a hole in the ground. Wanting only water. Or one last gasp of air. But at the edge of town The sign still reminds that Coke Refreshes You Best. — Don Wildman 4