Paddy Johnson, the wonderful blogger who runs Art Fag City, has set up a fantastic Google Map for the upcoming art fairs in NYC this March. Check it out!
Art Fag City is your guide to the Fairs
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Thursday, February 26, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Blog Fights
This morning, I was reading through my Google Reader feed when I came across a new post by Edward Winkleman to his blog. He was responding to a comment left by an anonymous poster regarding Winkleman's previous post "Brandeis: Art = Cash"
Here is the comment left by the poster:
Yes its a shame, but perhaps its time that the tail no longer wags the dog. Don't forget that the donors get a nice fat charitable tax deduction for the "fair market value" of the art. Remember former Brandeis Professor Maslow's theory-- we need to provide for our basic physiology and safety before we get to be able to worry about our self-actualization. I would suggest that our chemistry, biology, and physics graduates have a better chance of improving the life of mankind than artists.
Quite frankly, this comment absolutely outraged me. Perhaps I've gotten a bit more emotionally invested in the Rose Art Museum crisis than many; however, I couldn't let this sort of flippant comment go without some response. Below is my response to both Winkleman and the anonymous poster. If I was out of line, missed anything, or whatever else, feel free to let me know. I think it's really important to engage in honest, open and thoughtful communication, and I really feel like this commenter was unwilling to and incapable of doing such.
Here is my response:
Edward,
Quite frankly, I think you didn't push the commenter hard enough in this post. What s/he said was not only short-sighted, but selfish, ill-conceived, and clearly comes from a place of severe insecurity and fear.
There are certainly many, many differences between the sciences and the arts as academic undergraduate departments; however, the point to close the museum thrusts both into some form of relationship founded in crisis. The absence of the museum would, ostensibly, benefit the presence of the science programs. But how? By providing more raw materials, better teacher salaries, higher-tech buildings? OK. Sure, one could make that claim, and thus continue by saying that the science students deserve these things to better support their decision to study.
But what of the humanities students? Brandeis is, above and beyond, a liberal arts university, although it does have strong ties to research. So, it appears to me that the commenter would rather the University renounce its ties to the humanities, thereby effectively making it Brandeis Tech, which would therefore allow for a higher dedication to the sciences.
OK, so that may be slightly too much of a stretch, but I suppose what this all gets down to is the equality of the student. One enters the college under a financial contract to pay $50,190 (according to the official website). That $50,190 does not mean anything more if you're a science major than if you're a studio art major. The simple fact is really that each student should be given the same opportunities, access to technologies, faculty and up-to-date facilities, and above and beyond the same level of respect, which thus means that for the studio art, art history, public relations, history, public service, and public policy majors (to name a few), the Rose Art Museum should absolutely be available as shining example for what art is capable of from a spiritual, emotional, economic, and cultural perspective.
I take a lot of issue with the commenter's lack of respect for the students at Brandeis University, and hope that s/he takes a long hard look at their priorities and re-evaluate if their heart is in the right place-- whether their devotion is to the student unequivocally, or only to those benefiting their immediate, insulated world.
One last point-- Brandeis' motto is "Truth Even Unto Its Innermost Parts"... it would be nice to see this anonymous someone working for the University believe in and uphold that rhetoric.
Here is the comment left by the poster:
Yes its a shame, but perhaps its time that the tail no longer wags the dog. Don't forget that the donors get a nice fat charitable tax deduction for the "fair market value" of the art. Remember former Brandeis Professor Maslow's theory-- we need to provide for our basic physiology and safety before we get to be able to worry about our self-actualization. I would suggest that our chemistry, biology, and physics graduates have a better chance of improving the life of mankind than artists.
Quite frankly, this comment absolutely outraged me. Perhaps I've gotten a bit more emotionally invested in the Rose Art Museum crisis than many; however, I couldn't let this sort of flippant comment go without some response. Below is my response to both Winkleman and the anonymous poster. If I was out of line, missed anything, or whatever else, feel free to let me know. I think it's really important to engage in honest, open and thoughtful communication, and I really feel like this commenter was unwilling to and incapable of doing such.
Here is my response:
Edward,
Quite frankly, I think you didn't push the commenter hard enough in this post. What s/he said was not only short-sighted, but selfish, ill-conceived, and clearly comes from a place of severe insecurity and fear.
There are certainly many, many differences between the sciences and the arts as academic undergraduate departments; however, the point to close the museum thrusts both into some form of relationship founded in crisis. The absence of the museum would, ostensibly, benefit the presence of the science programs. But how? By providing more raw materials, better teacher salaries, higher-tech buildings? OK. Sure, one could make that claim, and thus continue by saying that the science students deserve these things to better support their decision to study.
But what of the humanities students? Brandeis is, above and beyond, a liberal arts university, although it does have strong ties to research. So, it appears to me that the commenter would rather the University renounce its ties to the humanities, thereby effectively making it Brandeis Tech, which would therefore allow for a higher dedication to the sciences.
OK, so that may be slightly too much of a stretch, but I suppose what this all gets down to is the equality of the student. One enters the college under a financial contract to pay $50,190 (according to the official website). That $50,190 does not mean anything more if you're a science major than if you're a studio art major. The simple fact is really that each student should be given the same opportunities, access to technologies, faculty and up-to-date facilities, and above and beyond the same level of respect, which thus means that for the studio art, art history, public relations, history, public service, and public policy majors (to name a few), the Rose Art Museum should absolutely be available as shining example for what art is capable of from a spiritual, emotional, economic, and cultural perspective.
I take a lot of issue with the commenter's lack of respect for the students at Brandeis University, and hope that s/he takes a long hard look at their priorities and re-evaluate if their heart is in the right place-- whether their devotion is to the student unequivocally, or only to those benefiting their immediate, insulated world.
One last point-- Brandeis' motto is "Truth Even Unto Its Innermost Parts"... it would be nice to see this anonymous someone working for the University believe in and uphold that rhetoric.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Save The Rose Art Museum
I'm not sure whether you have heard about this situation yet, but since Monday it's been all over NPR, blogs and the news-- Brandeis University in Massachusetts has decided to close the Rose Art Museum and complete liquefy all of its assets and sell the collection.
The Rose Art Museum, seen as one of the most important university museums in America, has a collection of over 8,000 works, focused on modern and contemporary art, ranging from Andy Warhol, Willem de Kooning, Jasper Johns, and Roy Lichtenstein to Cindy Sherman, Matthew Barney, Nan Goldin, and Richard Serra. They've been an exemplar model for other university museums trying to restructure their collection and program of events.
The news came out of nowhere on Monday, when Brandeis' board of trustees voted to close the museum in order to help cushion the outcome of a 25% endowment deficit ($712 million to $549 million) created by the recession. However, as Artnet points out, the projected budget shortfall for 2008 only totals $10 million. None of the people working at the Rose, nor the Rose's board, were notified until the news became public.
The legality of the matter is being hotly disputed-- the Rose is financially independent from the university, save some meager operating cost for heat and lights (nothing that Brandeis wouldn't cover when they transition the museum in July to an academic center), and actually pays 15% income tax TO the university. Many of the acquisitions and donations made to the Rose have been restricted, so the decision to sell off the entire collection would result in some tricky legal finagling.
The question is: why sell the collection? The Rose is a model museum, lending out artworks to the Louvre, Guggenheim, Metropolitan, National Gallery, MOMA, etc. on a regular basis. They're financially secure and operate with a strong connection to alumni and donors. Their collection is seen as one of the most coveted for modern and contemporary art in the United States. They've given first-time exhibitions to the likes of Kiki Smith and Dana Schultz-- huge figures in the contemporary art world. When the contemporary art market is in the worst spot it has been in quite some time, why sell the works in an incredibly soft market? And if one is only trying to cover a projected $10 million deficit, why must the university sell ALL of the 8,000 art works? Even if the economic situation were to get worse, the shortfall would no where near the estimated worth of the entire collection of art ($350 million).
So, this begs the question: is it acceptable for schools to go straight to the arts when there are budget shortfalls? When an estimate of monetary value is placed on a collection of works held under the university, does that mean the eyes of the trustees should just see money signs? When does art get fought for instead of sold first or abandoned during any sort of crisis? Tyler Green has posed some fairly sensational questions on his blog, which I feel are a bit over the line, but they at least make one think about one's position on art. He writes, "It is no more logical that a university sell off the art in its art museum than it is logical that a university would sell the trees off this quad, the books out of its library, or the science labs in its engineering buildings. Why isn't Brandeis University selling off books out of its library or one of its science buildings?... [This] makes just as much sense."
This has created huge outrage from all corners of the United States, from the The AAM (American Association of Museums), ACUMG (Association of College and University Museums and Galleries), AAMD (Association of Art Museum Directors), CAA (College Art Association) to students from colleges and universities all over.
Anyway, this is the biggest piece of news to hit the art world since the MOCA crisis of fall 2008. If you're at all interested in reading more about it, I've included some fantastic links that hopefully will give some more perspective on this story.
I hope you think about this situation and please-- tell me what you think! This isn't merely restricted to the art world, after all. While extreme of a viewpoint, there is certainly an argument to be made that a decision as such can be seen as a harbinger for the precedent of closing entire schools, which is becoming more and more of a reality with the shrinking economy. This collection isn't important to people just interested in modern/contemporary art-- this is about education, access to knowledge, economic corruption, and in the end, the human creative impulse.
xoxo
Peter
LINKS:
Tyler Green interviews Michael Rush, Rose Art Museum's director
Richard Lacayo of TIME Magazine interviews Michael Rush
Edward Winkleman says: "Brandeis: Art = Cash"
Paddy Johnson's coverage via ArtFagCity blog
CultureGrrl has fantastic updates on the struggle
Related: CultureGrrl chronicles the AAM call to transfer the collection to another museum
Greg Cook keeps us all updated
Students Rally for Brandeis Museum (Boston Globe, Jan 30)
COMESEEART: A Visual Protest (Facebook)
Save The Rose Art Museum (Facebook)-- now at 5,348 members!
The Rose Art Museum, seen as one of the most important university museums in America, has a collection of over 8,000 works, focused on modern and contemporary art, ranging from Andy Warhol, Willem de Kooning, Jasper Johns, and Roy Lichtenstein to Cindy Sherman, Matthew Barney, Nan Goldin, and Richard Serra. They've been an exemplar model for other university museums trying to restructure their collection and program of events.
The news came out of nowhere on Monday, when Brandeis' board of trustees voted to close the museum in order to help cushion the outcome of a 25% endowment deficit ($712 million to $549 million) created by the recession. However, as Artnet points out, the projected budget shortfall for 2008 only totals $10 million. None of the people working at the Rose, nor the Rose's board, were notified until the news became public.
The legality of the matter is being hotly disputed-- the Rose is financially independent from the university, save some meager operating cost for heat and lights (nothing that Brandeis wouldn't cover when they transition the museum in July to an academic center), and actually pays 15% income tax TO the university. Many of the acquisitions and donations made to the Rose have been restricted, so the decision to sell off the entire collection would result in some tricky legal finagling.
The question is: why sell the collection? The Rose is a model museum, lending out artworks to the Louvre, Guggenheim, Metropolitan, National Gallery, MOMA, etc. on a regular basis. They're financially secure and operate with a strong connection to alumni and donors. Their collection is seen as one of the most coveted for modern and contemporary art in the United States. They've given first-time exhibitions to the likes of Kiki Smith and Dana Schultz-- huge figures in the contemporary art world. When the contemporary art market is in the worst spot it has been in quite some time, why sell the works in an incredibly soft market? And if one is only trying to cover a projected $10 million deficit, why must the university sell ALL of the 8,000 art works? Even if the economic situation were to get worse, the shortfall would no where near the estimated worth of the entire collection of art ($350 million).
So, this begs the question: is it acceptable for schools to go straight to the arts when there are budget shortfalls? When an estimate of monetary value is placed on a collection of works held under the university, does that mean the eyes of the trustees should just see money signs? When does art get fought for instead of sold first or abandoned during any sort of crisis? Tyler Green has posed some fairly sensational questions on his blog, which I feel are a bit over the line, but they at least make one think about one's position on art. He writes, "It is no more logical that a university sell off the art in its art museum than it is logical that a university would sell the trees off this quad, the books out of its library, or the science labs in its engineering buildings. Why isn't Brandeis University selling off books out of its library or one of its science buildings?... [This] makes just as much sense."
This has created huge outrage from all corners of the United States, from the The AAM (American Association of Museums), ACUMG (Association of College and University Museums and Galleries), AAMD (Association of Art Museum Directors), CAA (College Art Association) to students from colleges and universities all over.
Anyway, this is the biggest piece of news to hit the art world since the MOCA crisis of fall 2008. If you're at all interested in reading more about it, I've included some fantastic links that hopefully will give some more perspective on this story.
I hope you think about this situation and please-- tell me what you think! This isn't merely restricted to the art world, after all. While extreme of a viewpoint, there is certainly an argument to be made that a decision as such can be seen as a harbinger for the precedent of closing entire schools, which is becoming more and more of a reality with the shrinking economy. This collection isn't important to people just interested in modern/contemporary art-- this is about education, access to knowledge, economic corruption, and in the end, the human creative impulse.
xoxo
Peter
LINKS:
Tyler Green interviews Michael Rush, Rose Art Museum's director
Richard Lacayo of TIME Magazine interviews Michael Rush
Edward Winkleman says: "Brandeis: Art = Cash"
Paddy Johnson's coverage via ArtFagCity blog
CultureGrrl has fantastic updates on the struggle
Related: CultureGrrl chronicles the AAM call to transfer the collection to another museum
Greg Cook keeps us all updated
Students Rally for Brandeis Museum (Boston Globe, Jan 30)
COMESEEART: A Visual Protest (Facebook)
Save The Rose Art Museum (Facebook)-- now at 5,348 members!
Friday, September 12, 2008
Honors Thesis Blog
Senior year is already in full swing, which means tons of papers, presentations, articles to read, and things to do. It's a bit overwhelming right now, but I know it will all calm down soon. I just have to get through September, and then things should be a bit less hectic.
The biggest project I have for this year is my honors thesis, titled "Body Language: The Presence and Absence of Cindy Sherman and Sherrie Levine, 1975-1987." I am co-authoring the thesis with my friend Joan Bowlen, a fellow senior Art History major. The project focuses on the ways in which Levine and Sherman, both artists that we feel fit into the postmodern movement, take issue with the perceived implicit culturally reproduced and esteemed male gaze. We're researching their art (mainly photography) from a specific period (1975-1987) by using a postmodern and feminist methodology in hopes to investigate some big topics such as authenticity, authorship, identity, and gendered power differentials.
Joan and I have started a blog where anyone can follow along with the course of our research. We'll be posting multiple times per week with critical essays, reactions to articles, pictures, potential interviews, and other random tidbits that will all help us to formulate our thesis this coming spring. You can find the blog here: http://peterandjoan.wmblogs.net/
We welcome all of your comments or advice on how to strengthen our project. We are both really excited about it, and can't wait to have something concrete (in its 200+ pages of glory) to show you in the late spring!
The biggest project I have for this year is my honors thesis, titled "Body Language: The Presence and Absence of Cindy Sherman and Sherrie Levine, 1975-1987." I am co-authoring the thesis with my friend Joan Bowlen, a fellow senior Art History major. The project focuses on the ways in which Levine and Sherman, both artists that we feel fit into the postmodern movement, take issue with the perceived implicit culturally reproduced and esteemed male gaze. We're researching their art (mainly photography) from a specific period (1975-1987) by using a postmodern and feminist methodology in hopes to investigate some big topics such as authenticity, authorship, identity, and gendered power differentials.
Joan and I have started a blog where anyone can follow along with the course of our research. We'll be posting multiple times per week with critical essays, reactions to articles, pictures, potential interviews, and other random tidbits that will all help us to formulate our thesis this coming spring. You can find the blog here: http://peterandjoan.wmblogs.
We welcome all of your comments or advice on how to strengthen our project. We are both really excited about it, and can't wait to have something concrete (in its 200+ pages of glory) to show you in the late spring!
Sunday, September 7, 2008
We Can Only Hold So Much Is What I Figure, Try and Keep Our Eye on the Big Picture-- And The Picture Keeps Getting Bigger
It's 10:20 PM on Sunday evening, and the air hangs heavy with the aftermath of the unsatisfactory Tropical Storm Hannah. I was planning on spending this weekend stranded around my apartment-- braving the weather only to get completely drenched-- letting the rain soak in between my toes, coat my forearms and mat my hair down, thereby forcing me to forget about my usual comforts and embrace the chance to be completely renovated externally by relentless sheets of rain.
The last time I was in a storm like that was on the last day of the 2008 Falcon Ridge Folk Festival. Sunday, July 27th. Between two hills at the beginning of the Berkshire Mountain range, near the place where New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut converge, creating a liminal space in which boundaries dissolve and all that is left is the air, the earth, and the beauty. The beauty of being without labels, of being wholly there-- without any interruption, social baggage, or name-- simply unadorned in a space that is just like 100 feet away from it, and even a mile away. But then you keep going, and the landscape changes, and the trees become shrubs, and the sky becomes golden, the sun sets and the coyotes begin to yelp, and then you let sand rush through your fingers as it trails behind you, falling in place and mimicking the role of what once was. Time shifts into the quality of air, the rays of sun, the sound of birds. It's everything and nothing at once.
I never planned on going to Falcon Ridge for longer than Saturday afternoon. Dar Williams was scheduled to play on the Main Stage, so I figured that I'd head up north from Manhattan early in the afternoon so I could catch her set at 8 PM, and then still have time to get back to the city before midnight. It was only going to be a short stint-- a chance to escape the pulse of 2nd Street and Avenue A, beyond the sound of taxi cabs, running children, trucks unloading, busboys, painters, homeless men and women, used book stores, fire escapes, bars, and iPods. I just wanted the chance to get a break from the constant-- the way even though you try and slow everything down that it seems to only speed up around the edges of your fingertips, and then you doubt whether you can even control your own body. Do you become not only an actor in the scene of the Lower East Side, or is it a sphere in which you are merely a stitch that holds everything together, from which you're bound to exist and push against?
I didn't end up going to Falcon Ridge for Saturday. I went two days earlier, on Thursday, July 24. Four days before that I had gone on a date with a guy I had just met. We went to Veselka on Eleventh and 2nd Ave-- a Ukranian restaurant with a long wait for brunch and incredibly special pierogies. I was branching out, and all the while completely and totally aware of my vulnerability in the context. I barely knew anything about this guy-- I only was piecing together words, fragments, sentences and emotions, body language that came from the other side of a table, where his hands conveyed just as much as his mouth, and his eyes were full of a long history of stories, and I wondered how many I would get to hear before we no longer spoke and we had diverged to forge new paths, separate and distinct. I was trying to listen while I also was trying to be as thoughtful, intelligent, and kind as possible, but all I could think about was how I kept having to wipe my mouth in the fright that some mayonnaise or mustard had smudged across my face from my sandwich.
We then took the subway to the Upper East Side from Astor Place, where I had visions of how many times I'd seen that square in such different capacities and situations. How Stuart, Dan and I went to Border Burritos to see Phyllis sing, or how I had strolled through there on the day of the Hey, Hot Shot! panel review with Emily to pick up prosecco and pinot grigio, or even when I had taken the day to wander around the area looking for cool restaurants and a Wachovia ATM machine. But here I was, crossing the streets with a guy I was just getting to know, and I was hyper-aware of the intense present.
We went to the Whitney Museum of American Art to catch the Paul McCarthy and R. Buckminster Fuller exhibitions. I finally felt totally comfortable-- the first time since 2 PM when I had met him for brunch, sweating from the relentless humidity of a July in Manhattan. I was back at the Whitney, a place I had spent a full 5 hours in during the end of the Biennial exhibition only weeks before with my Sotheby's class. I saw the same Alexander Calder mobiles, groaned at the selection of Mapplethorpe polaroids for the small side show on the top floor, walked by the same Hopper paintings I'd seen on display during the retrospective months before at the NGA in Washington, DC. And I knew the lines-- I could recite the stories, the history, the technique-- I knew, for the most part, why I should care, or at least why I'm being told I should care. I also had the extreme pleasure of seeing Sherrie Levine's "After Walker Evans" photographs for the first time in person, and the fact that I could witness first hand works that I am planning on writing about for the next 6 months with my honors thesis was slightly overwhelming. Nonetheless, I felt comfortable. I felt, if not in charge, at least a level of desire-- that I could help enhance the experience of those around me, namely this man I was with, and perhaps shed a little more light on a tough subject than would necessarily be available.
It was only logical, then, to head to Central Park after the Whitney. I rarely spent any time this summer in Central Park. Dan and I tried to see a free show by the New York Philharmonic one evening when they were playing Tchaikovsky, but other than that I'd walked through only one one other occasion. I couldn't possibly admit this to the guy with me, because I had to present myself as someone who didn't need the encouragement of others to do things-- I had to be full of initiative and energy-- someone who seeks out the unfamiliar. All I could think about was how I hoped I wouldn't start sweating. We made it to the park without incident, and continued to walk for a bit before finding a spot on the lawn that seemed to be a nice place to feel the warmth of the evening sun, but without having any direct rays beating down upon us. We talked for a while, mostly about his job, and I listened, trying my best not to say something sappy, or look too needy, or convey too intensely the desire I had to get to know him more and see those eyes at least dozens more times. And then he leaned in to kiss me, and although it was perhaps one of the most romantic days I'd ever had, I couldn't help but feel there was some woman watching who would say a disparaging remark and thereby open up all the words, sentences, and thoughts from which I had tried so hard to strip power-- the intolerance and hatred that made me seeth and feel like I had no right to be happy in public-- the shortness of breath you get when you feel you have done something incredibly wrong, and will have to face immense consequences. At the same time I knew that I was overreacting and that I should enjoy the moment. After all, it was New York, and that sight is not in the least bit uncommon; however, I couldn't bring myself to speak, think, or feel anything after that moment that wasn't almost completely tinted by the vehemence of my reaction.
I did get over it, though, because we proceeded to talk for quite some time after that, and then decided to head back downtown to go to Havali, an incredible Indian restaurant in the East Village. I couldn't help but feel a little ashamed by my adolescent averse reaction to the incredible beauty of a Central Park kiss. But, soon it faded, and all I could see was him-- the man in front of me who spoke about cooking, lighting design, politics, New York, traveling cross country, and his family.
He stayed with me for the next three days before heading up to Hillsdale, NY to go to the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival. When he left on that Tuesday morning at 9 AM, I felt both freed from a 3 day reverie, but I also for the first time in a while felt a longing-- a remorse that it couldn't have lasted longer-- that I didn't get to say one thing or another that all of a sudden I'd felt was incredibly vital. But, the reality of it was that I had to be at work at 11 AM, and I had to think of a place for dinner that evening, and Dan and I had to laugh together, taking in the hours of New York-- the sounds, the smells, the time.
And then 2 days later at 9 AM on Thursday he called, and told me that if I didn't have to work the next few days that I should get on a train and come to Falcon Ridge. He had a big enough tent, and they had enough food for an extra camper, and the line-up of the festival was much too good to miss. Within 5 minutes I consented, trying to hold back the huge rush of excitement that cascaded through my brain and down into my limbs, making my fingertips pulse and my heart pump a bit faster than it should for so early in the morning.
I made my train, overpacked my bag with way too many clothes for such a short camping trip, and dug into a Joan Didion book, thereby trying to offset the glee I couldn't help but indulge at moments on my own. I took the 2.5 hour trainride to Wassaic, passing water reservoirs, abandoned buildings, deciduous forests, strip malls, and old train tracks on my way North. I stepped out of the train car and could feel the immediate shift in my body-- the air was more pure, the sun more welcoming, the earth more fragrant, the greens more bright, and the bird songs more crisp and joyous. I felt connected. I felt whole.
I felt excited. I was excited.
Four days later we started packing up the tents and breaking down the campsite. Bob, Elizabeth, Corinne and I pulled stakes out of the ground, packed away plastic plates and silverware, undid knots in the rope holding up parts of our site, poured out milk we wouldn't drink, finished off the remainder of the almonds, folded the clothes we'd laid out to dry earlier that morning, and went through the ritual of breaking down camp. Few words were exchanged, and we all soaked in the fact that in a few mere hours this experience would be finished, and that there wouldn't be any more camping on this spot for another 360 days.
That weekend I fell incredibly hard for a man I had effectively met a week beforehand. That weekend I learned so incredibly much about myself, especially through the lens of others, especially him. That weekend I let myself be wholly vulnerable by throwing myself into a situation with barely a guarantee that I would come away from it with everything I went into it holding.
That weekend I really started to get to know Joe.
It has been 20 days since I last saw him. In that time I spent a week at home and then packed everything into The Steed and headed South. I spent an evening at Joan's house, falling more in love with her family than I already was and also immediately sensing that she and I were coming into a new phase of our friendship. I couldn't label it, but we both were quietly changing in front of each other, allowing for ourselves to be both vulnerable and new, knowing that somehow we'd find a way to embrace the beauty of our progression.
In those 20 days I started my senior year of college. I've been to classes, bought groceries, cooked dinners, spend hours and hours with the Cleftomaniacs, bringing 4 new members into the a cappella group, relaxing with friends, trying to embrace the newness of my space, despite the fact that I've lived at 207 Cary Street, Apt B for three years now. In those 20 days I have done homework assignments and written papers. I've listened to Ani DiFranco, Tori Amos, the Weepies, Joni Mitchell and Paul Simon. I've written, read beautiful essays, rejoiced in gorgeous bottles of red wine, been to parties, and dreamt.
Tomorrow Joe comes to visit. I'm picking him up at the Newport News airport from his 8:48 AM flight. He's only staying for a little less than 36 hours, but it's still 36 hours with someone with whom I have begun to build a path. It's a path that is equally forged by our hands, feet, and minds. It's a space that is uniquely ours, yet still allows us the ability to peer out at the world that is going to continue on pulsing regardless of what decisions he and I make. I feel at the same time like a 80 year old man and an 8 year old boy, full of excitement at the chance to see him but also aware that I have met someone who has made a profound impact on my life already.
I don't like to call it luck by saying I'm lucky to have Joe. I don't like to think that the situation has a structure and a language beyond my own involvement-- I don't believe it has a fate or a destiny that is beyond my control. It's also not that I feel fortunate to have him. I don't subscribe to the vernacular of charity or goodwill in this situation. I am merely joyous. I am simply elated. The hours have passed since July 20, and I have been both actor and spectator. I can only hope that I allow myself to be both vulnerable and connected-- to trust myself and act in a way that strengthens myself while giving as much as I can to our connection.
Very few times recently have I ever felt so overwhelmed by excitement that I have a hard time concentrating, speaking, or thinking. I used to get like this before concerts or CD releases when I was 15. I remember the night before Tori Amos' album "Scarlet's Walk" was released-- I was playing soccer and during the time I waited as the sweeper for the ball to make its way down to my side of the field I felt constricted by the promise of revelation and happiness.
I can only hope that this is going to grow into something intense, beautiful, and joyous. I can only know how I feel, and all I feel right now is excitement. And sometimes I just have to let it be and take in those moments. I have to let it completely saturate my being. So, here I go.
The last time I was in a storm like that was on the last day of the 2008 Falcon Ridge Folk Festival. Sunday, July 27th. Between two hills at the beginning of the Berkshire Mountain range, near the place where New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut converge, creating a liminal space in which boundaries dissolve and all that is left is the air, the earth, and the beauty. The beauty of being without labels, of being wholly there-- without any interruption, social baggage, or name-- simply unadorned in a space that is just like 100 feet away from it, and even a mile away. But then you keep going, and the landscape changes, and the trees become shrubs, and the sky becomes golden, the sun sets and the coyotes begin to yelp, and then you let sand rush through your fingers as it trails behind you, falling in place and mimicking the role of what once was. Time shifts into the quality of air, the rays of sun, the sound of birds. It's everything and nothing at once.
I never planned on going to Falcon Ridge for longer than Saturday afternoon. Dar Williams was scheduled to play on the Main Stage, so I figured that I'd head up north from Manhattan early in the afternoon so I could catch her set at 8 PM, and then still have time to get back to the city before midnight. It was only going to be a short stint-- a chance to escape the pulse of 2nd Street and Avenue A, beyond the sound of taxi cabs, running children, trucks unloading, busboys, painters, homeless men and women, used book stores, fire escapes, bars, and iPods. I just wanted the chance to get a break from the constant-- the way even though you try and slow everything down that it seems to only speed up around the edges of your fingertips, and then you doubt whether you can even control your own body. Do you become not only an actor in the scene of the Lower East Side, or is it a sphere in which you are merely a stitch that holds everything together, from which you're bound to exist and push against?
I didn't end up going to Falcon Ridge for Saturday. I went two days earlier, on Thursday, July 24. Four days before that I had gone on a date with a guy I had just met. We went to Veselka on Eleventh and 2nd Ave-- a Ukranian restaurant with a long wait for brunch and incredibly special pierogies. I was branching out, and all the while completely and totally aware of my vulnerability in the context. I barely knew anything about this guy-- I only was piecing together words, fragments, sentences and emotions, body language that came from the other side of a table, where his hands conveyed just as much as his mouth, and his eyes were full of a long history of stories, and I wondered how many I would get to hear before we no longer spoke and we had diverged to forge new paths, separate and distinct. I was trying to listen while I also was trying to be as thoughtful, intelligent, and kind as possible, but all I could think about was how I kept having to wipe my mouth in the fright that some mayonnaise or mustard had smudged across my face from my sandwich.
We then took the subway to the Upper East Side from Astor Place, where I had visions of how many times I'd seen that square in such different capacities and situations. How Stuart, Dan and I went to Border Burritos to see Phyllis sing, or how I had strolled through there on the day of the Hey, Hot Shot! panel review with Emily to pick up prosecco and pinot grigio, or even when I had taken the day to wander around the area looking for cool restaurants and a Wachovia ATM machine. But here I was, crossing the streets with a guy I was just getting to know, and I was hyper-aware of the intense present.
We went to the Whitney Museum of American Art to catch the Paul McCarthy and R. Buckminster Fuller exhibitions. I finally felt totally comfortable-- the first time since 2 PM when I had met him for brunch, sweating from the relentless humidity of a July in Manhattan. I was back at the Whitney, a place I had spent a full 5 hours in during the end of the Biennial exhibition only weeks before with my Sotheby's class. I saw the same Alexander Calder mobiles, groaned at the selection of Mapplethorpe polaroids for the small side show on the top floor, walked by the same Hopper paintings I'd seen on display during the retrospective months before at the NGA in Washington, DC. And I knew the lines-- I could recite the stories, the history, the technique-- I knew, for the most part, why I should care, or at least why I'm being told I should care. I also had the extreme pleasure of seeing Sherrie Levine's "After Walker Evans" photographs for the first time in person, and the fact that I could witness first hand works that I am planning on writing about for the next 6 months with my honors thesis was slightly overwhelming. Nonetheless, I felt comfortable. I felt, if not in charge, at least a level of desire-- that I could help enhance the experience of those around me, namely this man I was with, and perhaps shed a little more light on a tough subject than would necessarily be available.
It was only logical, then, to head to Central Park after the Whitney. I rarely spent any time this summer in Central Park. Dan and I tried to see a free show by the New York Philharmonic one evening when they were playing Tchaikovsky, but other than that I'd walked through only one one other occasion. I couldn't possibly admit this to the guy with me, because I had to present myself as someone who didn't need the encouragement of others to do things-- I had to be full of initiative and energy-- someone who seeks out the unfamiliar. All I could think about was how I hoped I wouldn't start sweating. We made it to the park without incident, and continued to walk for a bit before finding a spot on the lawn that seemed to be a nice place to feel the warmth of the evening sun, but without having any direct rays beating down upon us. We talked for a while, mostly about his job, and I listened, trying my best not to say something sappy, or look too needy, or convey too intensely the desire I had to get to know him more and see those eyes at least dozens more times. And then he leaned in to kiss me, and although it was perhaps one of the most romantic days I'd ever had, I couldn't help but feel there was some woman watching who would say a disparaging remark and thereby open up all the words, sentences, and thoughts from which I had tried so hard to strip power-- the intolerance and hatred that made me seeth and feel like I had no right to be happy in public-- the shortness of breath you get when you feel you have done something incredibly wrong, and will have to face immense consequences. At the same time I knew that I was overreacting and that I should enjoy the moment. After all, it was New York, and that sight is not in the least bit uncommon; however, I couldn't bring myself to speak, think, or feel anything after that moment that wasn't almost completely tinted by the vehemence of my reaction.
I did get over it, though, because we proceeded to talk for quite some time after that, and then decided to head back downtown to go to Havali, an incredible Indian restaurant in the East Village. I couldn't help but feel a little ashamed by my adolescent averse reaction to the incredible beauty of a Central Park kiss. But, soon it faded, and all I could see was him-- the man in front of me who spoke about cooking, lighting design, politics, New York, traveling cross country, and his family.
He stayed with me for the next three days before heading up to Hillsdale, NY to go to the Falcon Ridge Folk Festival. When he left on that Tuesday morning at 9 AM, I felt both freed from a 3 day reverie, but I also for the first time in a while felt a longing-- a remorse that it couldn't have lasted longer-- that I didn't get to say one thing or another that all of a sudden I'd felt was incredibly vital. But, the reality of it was that I had to be at work at 11 AM, and I had to think of a place for dinner that evening, and Dan and I had to laugh together, taking in the hours of New York-- the sounds, the smells, the time.
And then 2 days later at 9 AM on Thursday he called, and told me that if I didn't have to work the next few days that I should get on a train and come to Falcon Ridge. He had a big enough tent, and they had enough food for an extra camper, and the line-up of the festival was much too good to miss. Within 5 minutes I consented, trying to hold back the huge rush of excitement that cascaded through my brain and down into my limbs, making my fingertips pulse and my heart pump a bit faster than it should for so early in the morning.
I made my train, overpacked my bag with way too many clothes for such a short camping trip, and dug into a Joan Didion book, thereby trying to offset the glee I couldn't help but indulge at moments on my own. I took the 2.5 hour trainride to Wassaic, passing water reservoirs, abandoned buildings, deciduous forests, strip malls, and old train tracks on my way North. I stepped out of the train car and could feel the immediate shift in my body-- the air was more pure, the sun more welcoming, the earth more fragrant, the greens more bright, and the bird songs more crisp and joyous. I felt connected. I felt whole.
I felt excited. I was excited.
Four days later we started packing up the tents and breaking down the campsite. Bob, Elizabeth, Corinne and I pulled stakes out of the ground, packed away plastic plates and silverware, undid knots in the rope holding up parts of our site, poured out milk we wouldn't drink, finished off the remainder of the almonds, folded the clothes we'd laid out to dry earlier that morning, and went through the ritual of breaking down camp. Few words were exchanged, and we all soaked in the fact that in a few mere hours this experience would be finished, and that there wouldn't be any more camping on this spot for another 360 days.
That weekend I fell incredibly hard for a man I had effectively met a week beforehand. That weekend I learned so incredibly much about myself, especially through the lens of others, especially him. That weekend I let myself be wholly vulnerable by throwing myself into a situation with barely a guarantee that I would come away from it with everything I went into it holding.
That weekend I really started to get to know Joe.
It has been 20 days since I last saw him. In that time I spent a week at home and then packed everything into The Steed and headed South. I spent an evening at Joan's house, falling more in love with her family than I already was and also immediately sensing that she and I were coming into a new phase of our friendship. I couldn't label it, but we both were quietly changing in front of each other, allowing for ourselves to be both vulnerable and new, knowing that somehow we'd find a way to embrace the beauty of our progression.
In those 20 days I started my senior year of college. I've been to classes, bought groceries, cooked dinners, spend hours and hours with the Cleftomaniacs, bringing 4 new members into the a cappella group, relaxing with friends, trying to embrace the newness of my space, despite the fact that I've lived at 207 Cary Street, Apt B for three years now. In those 20 days I have done homework assignments and written papers. I've listened to Ani DiFranco, Tori Amos, the Weepies, Joni Mitchell and Paul Simon. I've written, read beautiful essays, rejoiced in gorgeous bottles of red wine, been to parties, and dreamt.
Tomorrow Joe comes to visit. I'm picking him up at the Newport News airport from his 8:48 AM flight. He's only staying for a little less than 36 hours, but it's still 36 hours with someone with whom I have begun to build a path. It's a path that is equally forged by our hands, feet, and minds. It's a space that is uniquely ours, yet still allows us the ability to peer out at the world that is going to continue on pulsing regardless of what decisions he and I make. I feel at the same time like a 80 year old man and an 8 year old boy, full of excitement at the chance to see him but also aware that I have met someone who has made a profound impact on my life already.
I don't like to call it luck by saying I'm lucky to have Joe. I don't like to think that the situation has a structure and a language beyond my own involvement-- I don't believe it has a fate or a destiny that is beyond my control. It's also not that I feel fortunate to have him. I don't subscribe to the vernacular of charity or goodwill in this situation. I am merely joyous. I am simply elated. The hours have passed since July 20, and I have been both actor and spectator. I can only hope that I allow myself to be both vulnerable and connected-- to trust myself and act in a way that strengthens myself while giving as much as I can to our connection.
Very few times recently have I ever felt so overwhelmed by excitement that I have a hard time concentrating, speaking, or thinking. I used to get like this before concerts or CD releases when I was 15. I remember the night before Tori Amos' album "Scarlet's Walk" was released-- I was playing soccer and during the time I waited as the sweeper for the ball to make its way down to my side of the field I felt constricted by the promise of revelation and happiness.
I can only hope that this is going to grow into something intense, beautiful, and joyous. I can only know how I feel, and all I feel right now is excitement. And sometimes I just have to let it be and take in those moments. I have to let it completely saturate my being. So, here I go.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Woman, You Got Too Many Brambles. But I Always Liked a Good Storm
Indeed it was a sleepless night. But, instead of heading to see the Waterfalls I just did the dishes, made coffee and tea, read more of Jhumpa Lahiri's Interpreter of Maladies and went to work early. I cleaned the apartment and cleared my mind of those small things that get caught up in the thick of things and become larger issues with more weight than they ever should have been granted.
It's amazing what a day can do. At 6 AM I was feeling fairly confused yet very aware of my own emotions and the existing situation. Shortly in the wake, however, I began to be filled with an immense sense of possibility. I had a very productive day at work, came home and had an incredible yoga session, and then settled into some green tea and reading. I was feeling so calm that I even, like the old man I sometimes am, fell asleep with the book on my chest.
Now Dan and I have ordered Chinese food and are settling into some movies. Things actually are good. I feel like Dan and I are getting along really well recently, work is going well, and I'm starting to get going on my thesis after some time of neglecting it.
Things aren't always apocalyptic. Sometimes you just need to get things off your chest that you've been holding onto for way too long.
It's amazing what a day can do. At 6 AM I was feeling fairly confused yet very aware of my own emotions and the existing situation. Shortly in the wake, however, I began to be filled with an immense sense of possibility. I had a very productive day at work, came home and had an incredible yoga session, and then settled into some green tea and reading. I was feeling so calm that I even, like the old man I sometimes am, fell asleep with the book on my chest.
Now Dan and I have ordered Chinese food and are settling into some movies. Things actually are good. I feel like Dan and I are getting along really well recently, work is going well, and I'm starting to get going on my thesis after some time of neglecting it.
Things aren't always apocalyptic. Sometimes you just need to get things off your chest that you've been holding onto for way too long.
Can't Stop What's Coming-- Can't Stop What's On Its Way
It's 4:30 in the morning, and I'm still awake. I am at the crossroads of deciding whether or not I should don my flipflops and go for a walk over to see the Brooklyn Bridge and the Eliasson Waterfalls as the sun rises, immediately followed by a toasted bagel and green tea, or if I should stay up reading, or simply crash into bed.
I'm not usually faced with these decisions. When it's 4:30 and I'm somehow still conscious I'm usually drunk or getting ready to go to the airport. In the case of the former, I'm more than HAPPY to oblige the hibernation factor. In the case of the latter, I'm usually waiting to stop at WaWa so I can become a functioning human being, with a mix CD for the ride to Philadelphia and prepared for some of the most meaningful conversations I've had with my family to occur. Blueberry muffin in hand.
But, the reason that I'm still awake is that I stumbled into a really open, honest, spacious, frustrating, debilitating, frank, depressing, careful, daring, uplifting, relentless, gracious, and ultimately fulfilling conversation with Casey. The reason I just listed an egregious number of adjectives is because I'm still reeling from the whole experience. I am trying to be cautious and not attribute a value judgment to the whole thing, so I am not allowing myself the capacity of labeling it positive, negative, or both, but simply am trying to separate fact from emotion, both in myself and what I can try to perceive is coming from him.
I guess it really is no secret that this past semester was dually explosive and beautiful for me-- in a way full of much more calm and love than I have previously known in myself. Very often I would turn to Joan throughout the months and say, "I am actually happy right now. I feel connected. And for this brief second I don't feel bad about that." Or, I would say something along the lines of how I really was frustrated that I may be forcing myself to restructure things when I couldn't even accept that I actually thought they were good for me. Really, I turned to Joan more often than not throughout the semester to really be completely frank and honest because she was the safest bet. We had had some weird attraction to each other when we first met-- I totally had the biggest crush on her for a bit in DC and made it my goal to get to know her more. And then it fizzled, and I got caught up in the GW world with Chad, Will, Lauren, Joe, Alex, and Emily, and I rarely came by the W&M house. She went on with her life there, with Denisse and Tommy and all the people from which I was so active in distancing myself, yet we still remained close regardless of my ventures across town. Then we took a class together (Intro to Anthropology) during the summer, and she basically came over to my apartment every. single. day. to hang out and relax. She witnessed my July of Hell, in which I literally ran out of money, barely had a job, and found that a productive day was getting up the little motivation I had to get out of the house to mail a letter. I actually have a hard time looking back on that month because it's just absolutely awful for me to remember. I was so self-indulgent yet completely, for the first time since high school, without control of my emotional self and spiraled down into a really intense and unrelenting depression. But then came Africa, and I got on a regular sleep schedule and ate interesting things and met new people and went on an incredible safari and read Alice Munro's "The Moons of Jupiter" and discovered Tori Amos' song "Yes, Anastasia" and generally found myself again. And the best part about it was that I was so ecstatic about finally getting myself together. I've never felt so good about picking up the pieces. That's when I realized I was making progress.
Joan and I still have issues over the balance of our relationship. I often am incredibly abrasive, domineering, and needy. I intentionally play mind games sometimes to test the limits and provoke her. I will also incredibly bluntly and quite frankly without any tact demand that she be more open and talk and actually express herself verbally. But at the same time, I also feel comfortable saying that I've rarely ever celebrated, cherished, loved, or believed in someone so strongly as I do her. There's a reason she's living with me next year. There's a reason she and I are writing our honors thesis together. There's a reason that whenever I think of anything remotely interesting she's one of the people I immediately want to share it with.
So, tangent, yes. Back to last semester. I am starting to realize as the days go by how poorly I handled the whole situation with Tom. The night that he met me at a party near the end of January I had my eyes completely set on Sam's friend Justin, who was in town to visit and to get away from the craziness of the Obama campaign and national primaries. After three of my friends tried to hit on him with blatant disregard for any subtlety, I thought my chances were incredibly low, so I gave up and mingled. Which is when I met Tom, really, for the first time. We talked for quite some time, I had a blast, and somehow felt it completely OK to give him a peck on the cheek when I said goodnight-- was it good will? Was it attraction? Was it condescending? I'm afraid it might have been a combination of all three. And then it turns out that I did end up hooking up with Justin, which was amazing and incredible and exciting, and then falling for him completely and utterly foolishly.
The thing about Justin was the fact that I was so quickly forced to reconcile my, at the time, growing desire for a significant relationship with the perceived realization that I could not seem to attract anyone at William and Mary. I felt great when Justin chose me instead of my friends-- I guess it made me feel sexy in a way that I'd never known before at school. But I also felt awful, empty, and aching when I had to acknowledge that Justin was only in town for 48 hours, and after that he'd be gone.
So, it took me those 48 hours to be completely broken, fragile and wholly vulnerable. It took me not being able to move out of my apartment. To only think about him. To only think about the hours that we'd had. To only think of how I was getting further and further from finding anyone at W&M who I thought could see me as a worthy partner.
But, I bounced back so much more quickly than I have ever been able to, so I felt, once again, that I was making progress. I felt more refined, more mature-- more secure in my abilities to reconcile reality with emotions.
Then it came to my attention that Tom was actually very interested in getting to know me more, and so I made the move at the Pirate Dance Party at TDX and ending up spending the night with him, making out forever and generally being a big old grinning mess the next morning while Joan and I attended a cooking class at Williams-Sonoma.
What I've started to realize is that I didn't stick up for myself enough in my relationship with Tom, and I think the main reason was a fear that he may be the one and only chance I get at romantic success at W&M. So, I tried to cater to what he needed and wanted and I lost sight of myself in the relationship. I know, from other sources, that he has had a rocky coming out period, and that his relationship with his family is complex, and I know first hand that he's in a ton of high powered positions around campus. But I never, until the very end, successfully made the case for him to want to prioritize our relationship. I was more than willing to give him space when he needed it. But then when I appeared needy it was because I was indeed being just that-- and therefore having a weak moment of sorts. That, then, gave him the upper hand, I'm afraid, because I don't think he realized the sacrifices I was making almost daily to his overwhelming need to fulfill every single wish of the people around him and instead only saw when I reared my ugly relationship head and requested to spend quality boyfriend time with him. Tom is a gracious guy. He is kind, affectionate, passionate about what he does, he cares about the people around him, and he is also a natural born leader. But the thing is, I'm afraid he also feels obligated to be everything to everyone, and I just don't feel that way. I used to, certainly. But once I stopped being in every club and president of every organization (like I tried to be in high school), I started to realize that I didn't have to appease everyone and that I could take time for myself, and by extension my (non-existant at the time before him) boyfriend.
Blah blah blah. Things got really rocky for us, and then my birthday came and he went camping with TDX and all of my INCREDIBLE friends from DC and SAS and W&M showed me such love and joy that weekend-- to the point that I still feel I don't deserve it-- and he didn't even really say anything meaningful to me, but instead broke up with me and completely ended our relationship without really asking me or talking to me about how he was feeling before he'd decided to completely end it. So, he'd moved on and not told me, while I still was thinking we were, for all intents and purposes, together.
I think that's probably what triggered such a violent April for me-- the fact that I felt as if I had not been notified of his complete and utter dissatisfaction and getting over me and the relationship until way after it had happened. I had no chance to salvage it. I am of the belief that relationships are a lot of work, and if you actually try instead of run away from things, you can surprisingly fix quite a bit. No one and no relationship is ever perfect, but I really genuinely felt that Tom and I had redeeming qualities that far outweighed the cons. Yet, my vision was, apparently, separate from his, and by the time I became aware of this fact he had removed himself and wasn't looking back. I felt abandoned, cast off, and completely unable to do anything. I've never, ever, ever pleaded someone to try again or give it another go. I've never been close to begging for a second chance. Yet, I did. And I was. And I hated myself for being in that position.
It is the combination of doing just that mixed with Tom's mental moving on without ever telling me that made me, very quietly, fall to pieces in April. But, what is sort of interesting about the whole thing, I think, is that I never really totally felt outright anger and the aching that I'd known before. I was never at the extreme of emotions afterwards. But, every day there was a warning sign. I skipped classes I loved. I ate poorly. I would make really awkward and hurtful comments in one liners or cast offs to friends about the relationship. I resented the people who still saw him. I drank a lot more. I slept with people I had absolutely interest in besides getting out of my head for a few moments. I couldn't stop thinking about NYC and idolizing it as a saviour figure.
I think what it comes down to was I was actively avoiding being honest with myself on a daily basis. I am now sure that I was in a state of total denial. I wanted to appear fine and calm, yet I still needed to vent to Katie, Casey, Dan, and Joan about it. But even when I did that I was doing very basic venting-- not really driving at the issues that were getting to me. I stopped trusting them because I wasn't trusting myself to feel what I was feeling. I felt like an outsider to my emotions, and I both wanted to skydive away from all emotions that I could possibly ever have and also be in control of every single one available. The thing is that they weren't available because I wouldn't honestly look at myself in the face and speak what I was thinking at my deepest level about the relationship. And I think it's because at the end of the relationship it's about YOU. It's about you and your worth and your problems and your positives and negatives and childhood and blah blah blah. It's about You. It's the hours that you have to spend not pissed off at HIM but having to hold the hand of your heart and mind.
Oh my God this is such a roundabout and tangential way to talk about Casey and my conversation. I think, though, that it's good to exorcise things from the past, and it's good to realize, when you can, moments that you were totally off your rocker-- even if you can't go back. Even if there is seriously no future. And what I realize is that I think Tom is a great guy, but until he can really come to terms with his schedule and his center, even at an incredibly minor level, he's not going to be able to have a genuine relationship. I think he's afraid to let people in, which is just tough because I'm of the firm opinion that he has so much to give and so much to take in-- he's so passionate about life and people and he's one of the most caring people I've ever met. I really do wish him the best. And I feel honest about saying that.
Tonight, Casey and I confronted our history. By a very tangential route we starting discussing his past crush on me during the end of the semester and how he's totally gotten over it and moved on and such. It was actually very relieving to finally have it out in the open. The only reason, actually, at first that I had an inkling he liked me was because of a livejournal post that came to my attention from someone else. And then within the day I was mildly confronted by Josh and Jamie at the Green Leafe about the whole thing. I really felt blind-sided because I was unaware of his attraction. At that point I considered Casey a good friend-- someone who I had gotten to know that semester and with whom I thoroughly enjoyed exploring a friendship. The first time I met him was at one of Dan's parties. I thought he seemed very intelligent-- he was fairly poised and amiable, but he also was quite taciturn and it seemed that he was also slightly emotionally unavailable. It wasn't one of those connections where you know that that person sees eye-to-eye with you, or that you are just totally connected right away, or that you know you could never have a conversation with that person again. It was promising but also totally unpromising. I couldn't tell if he was putting up with talking to me because it was a party or if that was just who he was.
Time goes by, a few more uneventful meetings, and then I think the switch happened when he started drinking. I saw him twice during one of those weekends-- once at a party at my house where I was completely swamped and barely talking to anyone and just kept making cosmos without end-- and then next at the TDX Invitation Only party. I was, that night, so incredibly frustrated with Tom and so I spent the majority of the night in Aaron's room getting to know people, and it was then that Casey and I, again, had a great time talking and getting to know one another.
So April happens and Tom happens and the breakup happens and Casey and I are becoming closer and closer. I find he's really easy to talk to, but I'm also wary because he rarely ever talks about himself. I start to feel he's actually being judgmental by being such a listener, yet I have really no way of conceptualizing him because I don't understand his emotional reactions. I usually have a fairly keen sense of how people are going to fall in certain conversations or situations, but he completely threw me for a loop. So, I tried to remain open-minded and just let things happen organically so I could get an unaltered idea of who he was. And I felt like I was doing a great job, and I realized I was having a lot of fun with him and that I was glad I'd chosen such a cool person to get to know, even if he was a Freshman, because he was turning out to be a really great friend.
And then the whole actual crush from him thing happened, and I had no idea what to do. If I saw him anymore, would I be able to not be awkward? Did I have to mention something? Should I make a move? Should I not? Did I like him too? Had I been leading him on for a while? Was I sending mixed signals?
I think the answer, for me at least, is that yes I was absolutely sending mixed signals. I was internally devastated by the whole Tom thing and I loved the attention that Casey was giving me, because it was genuine and kind and thoughtful. But, I also knew that I couldn't even think, much less believe, of a relationship with absolutely anyone. I was incapable of that sort of connection, and when the whole thing with Casey happened I felt kicked in the stomach-- as if not being able to get over Tom wasn't enough-- now I had to handle being the dick in a situation where I had potentially led someone on and was being totally selfish and self involved and whiny.
The truth of the matter is I never got a chance to really evaluate how I felt about him. I was confronted with the whole thing, and tried to take a little bit of time to come to terms with the Tom situation, and within that very short period I'd read that Casey had chosen to move on and forget the whole thing and exorcise it from himself. And then finals came, and papers, and he wouldn't ever talk to me about it, so I once again felt like a stranger to my own emotions.
The thing I thought I'd realized about Casey is that he didn't really expose himself as emotionally vulnerable in the romantic arena, but I had no idea why. The frustrating thing was I wanted to talk about it. I don't believe in deadlines or forced closure and I'm fucking awful at being able to move on. So that fact, or rather perceived fact by me, of his utter ability to move on completely without fail and without any problem to me seemed unnatural and off-putting. But, I tried not to make a big deal about the whole thing and instead let things dissipate, because it was obviously his choice and since we hadn't actually talked about it I didn't want to make things awkward and bring the elephant out of the room but still keep it in plain view.
We've talking fairly consistently over the summer-- chatting on AIM and catching up and just generally being what friends are. And I'm very grateful for that. I feel like I am closer to him than before, so that's progress. I still feel like he doesn't really trust me, or maybe he just doesn't feel comfortable around me. I admit that I sometimes flat out don't understand him whatsoever, and that's really odd for me.
I am really pleased we had the conversation we had tonight, but it sort of made me sad because it made me realize that I, in some weird way, was slightly upset that I, like the end of the Tom relationship, had no chance to ever really speak up for my side. I know that that's assuming that I had the right to, but since so many of my close friends knew about it and the whole thing was negotiated through a third party, I felt like I maybe should have had to chance to actually live with it for a moment, rather than have everything decided and wrapped up yet still wholly in front of my face.
Gah. I've written way too much. It's now almost 6, and I most certainly am going to stay up and forget about the idea of getting any sleep before work. I still have some left over coffee grounds in the freezer, plenty of iced green tea, an amazing book and some emails to catch up on. I think I should probably stop reminiscing and exorcising and musing and such. I've already done enough damage.
I'm not usually faced with these decisions. When it's 4:30 and I'm somehow still conscious I'm usually drunk or getting ready to go to the airport. In the case of the former, I'm more than HAPPY to oblige the hibernation factor. In the case of the latter, I'm usually waiting to stop at WaWa so I can become a functioning human being, with a mix CD for the ride to Philadelphia and prepared for some of the most meaningful conversations I've had with my family to occur. Blueberry muffin in hand.
But, the reason that I'm still awake is that I stumbled into a really open, honest, spacious, frustrating, debilitating, frank, depressing, careful, daring, uplifting, relentless, gracious, and ultimately fulfilling conversation with Casey. The reason I just listed an egregious number of adjectives is because I'm still reeling from the whole experience. I am trying to be cautious and not attribute a value judgment to the whole thing, so I am not allowing myself the capacity of labeling it positive, negative, or both, but simply am trying to separate fact from emotion, both in myself and what I can try to perceive is coming from him.
I guess it really is no secret that this past semester was dually explosive and beautiful for me-- in a way full of much more calm and love than I have previously known in myself. Very often I would turn to Joan throughout the months and say, "I am actually happy right now. I feel connected. And for this brief second I don't feel bad about that." Or, I would say something along the lines of how I really was frustrated that I may be forcing myself to restructure things when I couldn't even accept that I actually thought they were good for me. Really, I turned to Joan more often than not throughout the semester to really be completely frank and honest because she was the safest bet. We had had some weird attraction to each other when we first met-- I totally had the biggest crush on her for a bit in DC and made it my goal to get to know her more. And then it fizzled, and I got caught up in the GW world with Chad, Will, Lauren, Joe, Alex, and Emily, and I rarely came by the W&M house. She went on with her life there, with Denisse and Tommy and all the people from which I was so active in distancing myself, yet we still remained close regardless of my ventures across town. Then we took a class together (Intro to Anthropology) during the summer, and she basically came over to my apartment every. single. day. to hang out and relax. She witnessed my July of Hell, in which I literally ran out of money, barely had a job, and found that a productive day was getting up the little motivation I had to get out of the house to mail a letter. I actually have a hard time looking back on that month because it's just absolutely awful for me to remember. I was so self-indulgent yet completely, for the first time since high school, without control of my emotional self and spiraled down into a really intense and unrelenting depression. But then came Africa, and I got on a regular sleep schedule and ate interesting things and met new people and went on an incredible safari and read Alice Munro's "The Moons of Jupiter" and discovered Tori Amos' song "Yes, Anastasia" and generally found myself again. And the best part about it was that I was so ecstatic about finally getting myself together. I've never felt so good about picking up the pieces. That's when I realized I was making progress.
Joan and I still have issues over the balance of our relationship. I often am incredibly abrasive, domineering, and needy. I intentionally play mind games sometimes to test the limits and provoke her. I will also incredibly bluntly and quite frankly without any tact demand that she be more open and talk and actually express herself verbally. But at the same time, I also feel comfortable saying that I've rarely ever celebrated, cherished, loved, or believed in someone so strongly as I do her. There's a reason she's living with me next year. There's a reason she and I are writing our honors thesis together. There's a reason that whenever I think of anything remotely interesting she's one of the people I immediately want to share it with.
So, tangent, yes. Back to last semester. I am starting to realize as the days go by how poorly I handled the whole situation with Tom. The night that he met me at a party near the end of January I had my eyes completely set on Sam's friend Justin, who was in town to visit and to get away from the craziness of the Obama campaign and national primaries. After three of my friends tried to hit on him with blatant disregard for any subtlety, I thought my chances were incredibly low, so I gave up and mingled. Which is when I met Tom, really, for the first time. We talked for quite some time, I had a blast, and somehow felt it completely OK to give him a peck on the cheek when I said goodnight-- was it good will? Was it attraction? Was it condescending? I'm afraid it might have been a combination of all three. And then it turns out that I did end up hooking up with Justin, which was amazing and incredible and exciting, and then falling for him completely and utterly foolishly.
The thing about Justin was the fact that I was so quickly forced to reconcile my, at the time, growing desire for a significant relationship with the perceived realization that I could not seem to attract anyone at William and Mary. I felt great when Justin chose me instead of my friends-- I guess it made me feel sexy in a way that I'd never known before at school. But I also felt awful, empty, and aching when I had to acknowledge that Justin was only in town for 48 hours, and after that he'd be gone.
So, it took me those 48 hours to be completely broken, fragile and wholly vulnerable. It took me not being able to move out of my apartment. To only think about him. To only think about the hours that we'd had. To only think of how I was getting further and further from finding anyone at W&M who I thought could see me as a worthy partner.
But, I bounced back so much more quickly than I have ever been able to, so I felt, once again, that I was making progress. I felt more refined, more mature-- more secure in my abilities to reconcile reality with emotions.
Then it came to my attention that Tom was actually very interested in getting to know me more, and so I made the move at the Pirate Dance Party at TDX and ending up spending the night with him, making out forever and generally being a big old grinning mess the next morning while Joan and I attended a cooking class at Williams-Sonoma.
What I've started to realize is that I didn't stick up for myself enough in my relationship with Tom, and I think the main reason was a fear that he may be the one and only chance I get at romantic success at W&M. So, I tried to cater to what he needed and wanted and I lost sight of myself in the relationship. I know, from other sources, that he has had a rocky coming out period, and that his relationship with his family is complex, and I know first hand that he's in a ton of high powered positions around campus. But I never, until the very end, successfully made the case for him to want to prioritize our relationship. I was more than willing to give him space when he needed it. But then when I appeared needy it was because I was indeed being just that-- and therefore having a weak moment of sorts. That, then, gave him the upper hand, I'm afraid, because I don't think he realized the sacrifices I was making almost daily to his overwhelming need to fulfill every single wish of the people around him and instead only saw when I reared my ugly relationship head and requested to spend quality boyfriend time with him. Tom is a gracious guy. He is kind, affectionate, passionate about what he does, he cares about the people around him, and he is also a natural born leader. But the thing is, I'm afraid he also feels obligated to be everything to everyone, and I just don't feel that way. I used to, certainly. But once I stopped being in every club and president of every organization (like I tried to be in high school), I started to realize that I didn't have to appease everyone and that I could take time for myself, and by extension my (non-existant at the time before him) boyfriend.
Blah blah blah. Things got really rocky for us, and then my birthday came and he went camping with TDX and all of my INCREDIBLE friends from DC and SAS and W&M showed me such love and joy that weekend-- to the point that I still feel I don't deserve it-- and he didn't even really say anything meaningful to me, but instead broke up with me and completely ended our relationship without really asking me or talking to me about how he was feeling before he'd decided to completely end it. So, he'd moved on and not told me, while I still was thinking we were, for all intents and purposes, together.
I think that's probably what triggered such a violent April for me-- the fact that I felt as if I had not been notified of his complete and utter dissatisfaction and getting over me and the relationship until way after it had happened. I had no chance to salvage it. I am of the belief that relationships are a lot of work, and if you actually try instead of run away from things, you can surprisingly fix quite a bit. No one and no relationship is ever perfect, but I really genuinely felt that Tom and I had redeeming qualities that far outweighed the cons. Yet, my vision was, apparently, separate from his, and by the time I became aware of this fact he had removed himself and wasn't looking back. I felt abandoned, cast off, and completely unable to do anything. I've never, ever, ever pleaded someone to try again or give it another go. I've never been close to begging for a second chance. Yet, I did. And I was. And I hated myself for being in that position.
It is the combination of doing just that mixed with Tom's mental moving on without ever telling me that made me, very quietly, fall to pieces in April. But, what is sort of interesting about the whole thing, I think, is that I never really totally felt outright anger and the aching that I'd known before. I was never at the extreme of emotions afterwards. But, every day there was a warning sign. I skipped classes I loved. I ate poorly. I would make really awkward and hurtful comments in one liners or cast offs to friends about the relationship. I resented the people who still saw him. I drank a lot more. I slept with people I had absolutely interest in besides getting out of my head for a few moments. I couldn't stop thinking about NYC and idolizing it as a saviour figure.
I think what it comes down to was I was actively avoiding being honest with myself on a daily basis. I am now sure that I was in a state of total denial. I wanted to appear fine and calm, yet I still needed to vent to Katie, Casey, Dan, and Joan about it. But even when I did that I was doing very basic venting-- not really driving at the issues that were getting to me. I stopped trusting them because I wasn't trusting myself to feel what I was feeling. I felt like an outsider to my emotions, and I both wanted to skydive away from all emotions that I could possibly ever have and also be in control of every single one available. The thing is that they weren't available because I wouldn't honestly look at myself in the face and speak what I was thinking at my deepest level about the relationship. And I think it's because at the end of the relationship it's about YOU. It's about you and your worth and your problems and your positives and negatives and childhood and blah blah blah. It's about You. It's the hours that you have to spend not pissed off at HIM but having to hold the hand of your heart and mind.
Oh my God this is such a roundabout and tangential way to talk about Casey and my conversation. I think, though, that it's good to exorcise things from the past, and it's good to realize, when you can, moments that you were totally off your rocker-- even if you can't go back. Even if there is seriously no future. And what I realize is that I think Tom is a great guy, but until he can really come to terms with his schedule and his center, even at an incredibly minor level, he's not going to be able to have a genuine relationship. I think he's afraid to let people in, which is just tough because I'm of the firm opinion that he has so much to give and so much to take in-- he's so passionate about life and people and he's one of the most caring people I've ever met. I really do wish him the best. And I feel honest about saying that.
Tonight, Casey and I confronted our history. By a very tangential route we starting discussing his past crush on me during the end of the semester and how he's totally gotten over it and moved on and such. It was actually very relieving to finally have it out in the open. The only reason, actually, at first that I had an inkling he liked me was because of a livejournal post that came to my attention from someone else. And then within the day I was mildly confronted by Josh and Jamie at the Green Leafe about the whole thing. I really felt blind-sided because I was unaware of his attraction. At that point I considered Casey a good friend-- someone who I had gotten to know that semester and with whom I thoroughly enjoyed exploring a friendship. The first time I met him was at one of Dan's parties. I thought he seemed very intelligent-- he was fairly poised and amiable, but he also was quite taciturn and it seemed that he was also slightly emotionally unavailable. It wasn't one of those connections where you know that that person sees eye-to-eye with you, or that you are just totally connected right away, or that you know you could never have a conversation with that person again. It was promising but also totally unpromising. I couldn't tell if he was putting up with talking to me because it was a party or if that was just who he was.
Time goes by, a few more uneventful meetings, and then I think the switch happened when he started drinking. I saw him twice during one of those weekends-- once at a party at my house where I was completely swamped and barely talking to anyone and just kept making cosmos without end-- and then next at the TDX Invitation Only party. I was, that night, so incredibly frustrated with Tom and so I spent the majority of the night in Aaron's room getting to know people, and it was then that Casey and I, again, had a great time talking and getting to know one another.
So April happens and Tom happens and the breakup happens and Casey and I are becoming closer and closer. I find he's really easy to talk to, but I'm also wary because he rarely ever talks about himself. I start to feel he's actually being judgmental by being such a listener, yet I have really no way of conceptualizing him because I don't understand his emotional reactions. I usually have a fairly keen sense of how people are going to fall in certain conversations or situations, but he completely threw me for a loop. So, I tried to remain open-minded and just let things happen organically so I could get an unaltered idea of who he was. And I felt like I was doing a great job, and I realized I was having a lot of fun with him and that I was glad I'd chosen such a cool person to get to know, even if he was a Freshman, because he was turning out to be a really great friend.
And then the whole actual crush from him thing happened, and I had no idea what to do. If I saw him anymore, would I be able to not be awkward? Did I have to mention something? Should I make a move? Should I not? Did I like him too? Had I been leading him on for a while? Was I sending mixed signals?
I think the answer, for me at least, is that yes I was absolutely sending mixed signals. I was internally devastated by the whole Tom thing and I loved the attention that Casey was giving me, because it was genuine and kind and thoughtful. But, I also knew that I couldn't even think, much less believe, of a relationship with absolutely anyone. I was incapable of that sort of connection, and when the whole thing with Casey happened I felt kicked in the stomach-- as if not being able to get over Tom wasn't enough-- now I had to handle being the dick in a situation where I had potentially led someone on and was being totally selfish and self involved and whiny.
The truth of the matter is I never got a chance to really evaluate how I felt about him. I was confronted with the whole thing, and tried to take a little bit of time to come to terms with the Tom situation, and within that very short period I'd read that Casey had chosen to move on and forget the whole thing and exorcise it from himself. And then finals came, and papers, and he wouldn't ever talk to me about it, so I once again felt like a stranger to my own emotions.
The thing I thought I'd realized about Casey is that he didn't really expose himself as emotionally vulnerable in the romantic arena, but I had no idea why. The frustrating thing was I wanted to talk about it. I don't believe in deadlines or forced closure and I'm fucking awful at being able to move on. So that fact, or rather perceived fact by me, of his utter ability to move on completely without fail and without any problem to me seemed unnatural and off-putting. But, I tried not to make a big deal about the whole thing and instead let things dissipate, because it was obviously his choice and since we hadn't actually talked about it I didn't want to make things awkward and bring the elephant out of the room but still keep it in plain view.
We've talking fairly consistently over the summer-- chatting on AIM and catching up and just generally being what friends are. And I'm very grateful for that. I feel like I am closer to him than before, so that's progress. I still feel like he doesn't really trust me, or maybe he just doesn't feel comfortable around me. I admit that I sometimes flat out don't understand him whatsoever, and that's really odd for me.
I am really pleased we had the conversation we had tonight, but it sort of made me sad because it made me realize that I, in some weird way, was slightly upset that I, like the end of the Tom relationship, had no chance to ever really speak up for my side. I know that that's assuming that I had the right to, but since so many of my close friends knew about it and the whole thing was negotiated through a third party, I felt like I maybe should have had to chance to actually live with it for a moment, rather than have everything decided and wrapped up yet still wholly in front of my face.
Gah. I've written way too much. It's now almost 6, and I most certainly am going to stay up and forget about the idea of getting any sleep before work. I still have some left over coffee grounds in the freezer, plenty of iced green tea, an amazing book and some emails to catch up on. I think I should probably stop reminiscing and exorcising and musing and such. I've already done enough damage.
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