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.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment