Inaugural Post

Welcome to the first post of my blog, The Red Mud. This will be a forum of discussion and expression of all manner of things that catch my eye and piqué my interest. Who am I? why should my opinions matter? Valid questions that I will answer thusly. I am a college educated person with an internet connected device. And in this day and age, that means that I have a voice and the opportunity to express my opinion in a public forum, thereby joining the discussion. The topics covered will be limited to the thoughts that occur within the parameters of my mind, which range from the permeability of public memory to the merits of chocolate covered gummy bears. Or thoughts such as the observation that is responsible for the title to this blog.  It was last week. I had to go up to Rutgers University to see a man about a horse. After my meeting I decided to go see some of my professors whom I had not seen since I had graduated last may. I hopped on a F bus at college avenue just as I had done a million times before on a million different days for a million different reasons. I immediately settled back into my old ways when I used to ride these buses as a student. As the bus creeped along Route 18 towards the Cook/Douglass campus I looked around the bus. Observed the people. You could always tell who was going to class and who was coming from class. Some were reading. Most were listening to music. Surprisingly few were talking. This is not what caught my interest however. My eyes were drawn down. To the floor to what looked like dried blood.  I saw it in smudged streaks and in smudged footprints all over the floor of the bus. All of a sudden, this sight elicited such a sense of familiarity and nostalgia that I once again truly felt like I was a student on my way to class. This kids sitting next to me were my compatriots. We were on the same plane. No longer was I a visitor I was a resident once again. All because of this red mud. And anyone who has been to Rutgers knows of this red mud, which makes its appearance after mostly after it rains. The red mud follows the rain at Rutgers as sure as moon follows the sun. Turns out this red mud is an example of continental drift. The red mud is also seen in Morocco, which was connected to northern New Jersey eons ago, and this is why the soil composition is somewhat distinctive and extraneous to this region of the state.  This got me thinking, if one were to write about Rutgers, they would have to include the red mud in some way. It would be a reference that would only be picked up by those who are familiar with Rutgers yes, but it would lend the story an air of credibility and authenticity, and therefore make it good. Ultimately this is true of all stories. All stories need the red mud. Some aspect that assures the reader that the writing is coming from some place real. It does not necessarily have to be a physical detail, such as the red mud, it could be word or phrase, an attitude, an emotion, whatever. David Simon was able to write authentically about Baltimore because he lived in Baltimore. Bret Easton Ellis was able to write about the American dream because he lived it. Taxi Driver so aptly captured the crippling and maddening isolation that can come of living in a city because it was written by someone who felt that isolation and madness while living in the city. Basically what I am trying to say is that the difference between an actual story and just plain bullshit is authenticity. Write what you know. That is what I will bring with this blog. I will write what I know. Whatever that may be.