After your stay at Twin Oaks, visitors post an Exit Letter to the O+I board (a message board in the dining hall, a place of snark and critical thought). For many, it's a tool to describe how they would act as a member. Here's mine.
Dearest Twin Oaks,
I’ve had a glorious time. It’s been an incredible privilege to visit here, and I feel blessed by the connections I’ve made.
MEMBERSHIP (Not quite yet.)
As I’m not applying for membership, I feel compelled to explain why. Primarily, I’m not ready. I have many commitments and relationships in the mainstream world that I must maintain. I have partners and friends whom I love… who live far from here. Membership at Twin Oaks would mute those bonds.
Living within a Community is deeply exciting to me – I’m one of the Oberlin people who think all meals should be cooked for a hundred people. However, the insularity at Twin Oaks is not one I resonate with. It seems very difficult to build outside friendships while living on the farm. While I respect that choice, I think it would dampen my ability to have a sense of scope or context.
WORK (I like it.)
As a visitor, my work made a deep impression… into my clothes.
Items that have stained my pants: mud, dirt, gravel, sawdust, ironweed, confusion, soap, broccoli, caterpillars that used to be in the broccoli, okara, mildew, sweat, ashes, canola oil, gratitude, fine Virginia red clay, and leaves.
I enjoyed the culture of work here, and the labor system is one I took a lot of enjoyment from. I love social jobs in which I learn, and was able to do many of them here. I deeply enjoyed all of the orientations, and felt grateful for the time put into them. I will try to pass on this information as best I can.
SOCIAL NORMS (Wildly ambivalent.)
To be frank, I don’t jive well with many of the social norms. I’m loud, extroverted, and demonstrative, and lived in small town Ohio for 5 years. I’m used to very different levels of friendliness. I’ve been socialized to greet everyone I meet, regardless of how many times I’ve seen them that day, or what particular social issues might exist between us. It’s always a pleasure to see them and know them. I’ve lived in communities with as much emotional intimacy and relationship shenanigans as Twin Oaks… in which there’s much more visible warmth.
That said, I feel genuine adoration for nearly everyone here.
GENERALLY (I love it.)
In my brief time here, Twin Oaks fostered a sense of gratitude in me. Twin Oaks inspires me to be more honest, both with others and myself. I learned a tremendous amount from any member who felt comfortable speaking with me, and truly value the connections I’ve made here.
I don’t think this is my last time here, as this is a lifestyle I find honorable. I felt truly grateful to spend Thanksgiving here, and would be excited to return.
CONTACT
If you’re so inclined, I’ll be in DC in January, then Cleveland in February and onwards. If you find yourself floating towards northeast Ohio, please don’t hesitate to drop me a line. I love hosting others and would love to pass the generosity I’ve encountered here onwards.
Thank you for your kindness.
Love,
Aries
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thanksgiving with Four Part Harmony and Feeling
“Before we get covered in mildew, I suggest we go get pancakes. All in favor?”
Kayte and I raised our hands quickly.
“Settled!” Rayne announced, and we bounded away from the tofu factory for fresh pancakes.
Thanksgiving started out golden, with vegan pancakes stuffed with chocolate and banana. After breakfast, we returned to the tofu hut, suited up, and attacked the strange molds that feast on soy.
While I’m happy that Twin Oaks has a tofu factory, working there is not my favorite task. When tofu is being processed, the factory is loud and muggy, with a hint of okara in the air. On my first tofu shift, I had a low level panic attack for 2 hours. Being around large garbage buckets of very, very hot water makes me very uncomfortable. Having to reach into the buckets is similarly troubling, even though the green elbow-length gloves we wear are incredibly sturdy.
Kayte and I raised our hands quickly.
“Settled!” Rayne announced, and we bounded away from the tofu factory for fresh pancakes.
Thanksgiving started out golden, with vegan pancakes stuffed with chocolate and banana. After breakfast, we returned to the tofu hut, suited up, and attacked the strange molds that feast on soy.
While I’m happy that Twin Oaks has a tofu factory, working there is not my favorite task. When tofu is being processed, the factory is loud and muggy, with a hint of okara in the air. On my first tofu shift, I had a low level panic attack for 2 hours. Being around large garbage buckets of very, very hot water makes me very uncomfortable. Having to reach into the buckets is similarly troubling, even though the green elbow-length gloves we wear are incredibly sturdy.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Visiting Twin Oaks
"Are you new in town?”
“I’m visiting Twin Oaks, out by Louisa.”
“Twin Oaks? What’s that?”
[I don’t say: “Ah, it’s an egalitarian income-sharing intentional community based in principles of non-violence, sustainability, cooperation, and equality.”]
I generally say: “It’s a community where people live and work together.”
“Huh. Are you moving here?”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m just here to learn.”
And I’m learning a huge amount, every day.
Describing Twin Oaks is difficult, much like trying to describe an entire country.
Try to do it. Say, with Belgium.
Personally, I would be flummoxed, and start screaming, “Waffles! European Union! Diamonds! Problematic imperialistic past! Dutch, Flemish, French, Walloons! Lovely buildings! Ardennes! The Congo! Tintin, Magritte, and Rubens! Brave little Belgium! Chocolate!”
It's hard to sum up a whole county.
The rules at Twin Oaks (called “norms”) are different from real-world conventions. There is a consciousness here, a mindfulness, that subtly spices every conversation: like a thin hint of cilantro, or a splash of lime. Twin Oaks has more flavor than the bread of the real world.
In many ways, Twin Oaks reminds me of communities in science fiction novels – the Fremen in Dune, their eye-whites turned blue under the influence of the spice, or the polyglot families in Ursula K. Le Guin novels. The effect is unsurprising: Twin Oaks was inspired from Walden 2.0, a novel by BF Skinner that mimics a recipe for the ideal Utopian community.
“Is it Utopia yet?”
“Nah, but you can see it from here.”
There are 92 people at Twin Oaks right now, with 12 children and 2 on the way. They are all different, but very kind. Very, very kind. Many are passionate about a specific cause – peak oil, gay rights, egalitarian consciousness, literature, print-making. Some are more devoted to just living simply without the annoyances of the “normal” world, free from taxes to traffic. Some are delighted to raise their children in a safe community, to make friends with all around them. Some enjoy living in community, without loneliness or isolation. Some want to practice what they preach – to be as truly sustainable as they can, to live an austere life, and to raise the food that they eat.
It smells so good here, with just that splash of lime.
For the past few days, I’ve been working very hard. As a visitor, I don’t really have the time here to learn the more complex skills -- cheese making, automotive repair, or animal husbandry -- but I’ve got the strong back to get any shoveling job done. I can rake and dig and clean. I can raise flowerbeds, plant garlic and daffodils, and saw wood apart. The members give us orientations on everything from Membership to Child-care. I can learn how the community works.
But the biggest type of learning is meeting all these people, hearing their passions, and learning how they all live together.
In DC, the city of networking, I felt as if my random conversations were always closed, as if I was trying to tease open the drawers of a very tightly-clenched bureau. Inside were fascinating clothes, but all shut up. Here, each conversation is a huge hallway of doors, all leading to different communities, different lifestyles, different countries. To Utah, to Germany, to England. Each day, there are more welcome mats in front of the doors.
I’m going to start opening doors soon. And soon, I’ll start making my own.
PS: (I love it here.)
“I’m visiting Twin Oaks, out by Louisa.”
“Twin Oaks? What’s that?”
[I don’t say: “Ah, it’s an egalitarian income-sharing intentional community based in principles of non-violence, sustainability, cooperation, and equality.”]
I generally say: “It’s a community where people live and work together.”
“Huh. Are you moving here?”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m just here to learn.”
And I’m learning a huge amount, every day.
Describing Twin Oaks is difficult, much like trying to describe an entire country.
Try to do it. Say, with Belgium.
Personally, I would be flummoxed, and start screaming, “Waffles! European Union! Diamonds! Problematic imperialistic past! Dutch, Flemish, French, Walloons! Lovely buildings! Ardennes! The Congo! Tintin, Magritte, and Rubens! Brave little Belgium! Chocolate!”
It's hard to sum up a whole county.
The rules at Twin Oaks (called “norms”) are different from real-world conventions. There is a consciousness here, a mindfulness, that subtly spices every conversation: like a thin hint of cilantro, or a splash of lime. Twin Oaks has more flavor than the bread of the real world.
In many ways, Twin Oaks reminds me of communities in science fiction novels – the Fremen in Dune, their eye-whites turned blue under the influence of the spice, or the polyglot families in Ursula K. Le Guin novels. The effect is unsurprising: Twin Oaks was inspired from Walden 2.0, a novel by BF Skinner that mimics a recipe for the ideal Utopian community.
“Is it Utopia yet?”
“Nah, but you can see it from here.”
There are 92 people at Twin Oaks right now, with 12 children and 2 on the way. They are all different, but very kind. Very, very kind. Many are passionate about a specific cause – peak oil, gay rights, egalitarian consciousness, literature, print-making. Some are more devoted to just living simply without the annoyances of the “normal” world, free from taxes to traffic. Some are delighted to raise their children in a safe community, to make friends with all around them. Some enjoy living in community, without loneliness or isolation. Some want to practice what they preach – to be as truly sustainable as they can, to live an austere life, and to raise the food that they eat.
It smells so good here, with just that splash of lime.
For the past few days, I’ve been working very hard. As a visitor, I don’t really have the time here to learn the more complex skills -- cheese making, automotive repair, or animal husbandry -- but I’ve got the strong back to get any shoveling job done. I can rake and dig and clean. I can raise flowerbeds, plant garlic and daffodils, and saw wood apart. The members give us orientations on everything from Membership to Child-care. I can learn how the community works.
But the biggest type of learning is meeting all these people, hearing their passions, and learning how they all live together.
In DC, the city of networking, I felt as if my random conversations were always closed, as if I was trying to tease open the drawers of a very tightly-clenched bureau. Inside were fascinating clothes, but all shut up. Here, each conversation is a huge hallway of doors, all leading to different communities, different lifestyles, different countries. To Utah, to Germany, to England. Each day, there are more welcome mats in front of the doors.
I’m going to start opening doors soon. And soon, I’ll start making my own.
PS: (I love it here.)
Thursday, November 4, 2010
In Contact
THE PLAN
In the process of becoming a Real Adult, I need to determine my priorities, needs, and goals. The basics of housing, employment, and community are key, but I’ll be searching out the answers to questions like:
- What field should I dedicate my attentions to?
- How does one live a sustainable life?
- Is writing a viable path?
- How can one live an adventurous life that involves community-building and intellectual growth?
- Should I go to graduate school?
As these questions require research, I won’t be very stationary for the next while. I’ll be on the move, trying to learn as much as possible.
To get in touch with me:
1. Text
2. Call
3. Email (aries.indenbaum@gmail.com)
4. Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/iAries)
5. Carrier pigeon / abnormally attentive rat (subway, window, alleyway)
To hear about my adventures:
1. Twitter (http://twitter.com/iAries)
2. Blogging
a. livejournal, mostly locked entries (http://soullessthinker.livejournal.com/)
b. facebook, friend-locked entries (http://www.facebook.com/iAries)
c. public blog (http://go-aries-go.blogspot.com/)
Here is my life-plan:
Until Wednesday Night: Oberlin, Ohio.
(John’s birthday is November 1st. And I am a romantic.)
Until Friday morning: Washington, DC
(I am back for a day! It will be déjà vu a l’høver agaîn.)
Until December: Twin Oaks, Virginia
(An intentional community that will teach me about sustainable communal living!)
December 3-5: Washington, DC
(Bambloozled, a blues dance conference! I will have spare time, though I may be in a constant state of dance-gasm.)
Until February: UNKNOWN
(Possibilities: New Orleans, Washington DC, Seattle, or parts unknown. I could visit you, if you like!)
February: Cleveland, Ohio
(Probably. I’d like to work for a socially just organization.)
In the process of becoming a Real Adult, I need to determine my priorities, needs, and goals. The basics of housing, employment, and community are key, but I’ll be searching out the answers to questions like:
- What field should I dedicate my attentions to?
- How does one live a sustainable life?
- Is writing a viable path?
- How can one live an adventurous life that involves community-building and intellectual growth?
- Should I go to graduate school?
As these questions require research, I won’t be very stationary for the next while. I’ll be on the move, trying to learn as much as possible.
To get in touch with me:
1. Text
2. Call
3. Email (aries.indenbaum@gmail.com)
4. Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/iAries)
5. Carrier pigeon / abnormally attentive rat (subway, window, alleyway)
To hear about my adventures:
1. Twitter (http://twitter.com/iAries)
2. Blogging
a. livejournal, mostly locked entries (http://soullessthinker.livejournal.com/)
b. facebook, friend-locked entries (http://www.facebook.com/iAries)
c. public blog (http://go-aries-go.blogspot.com/)
Here is my life-plan:
Until Wednesday Night: Oberlin, Ohio.
(John’s birthday is November 1st. And I am a romantic.)
Until Friday morning: Washington, DC
(I am back for a day! It will be déjà vu a l’høver agaîn.)
Until December: Twin Oaks, Virginia
(An intentional community that will teach me about sustainable communal living!)
December 3-5: Washington, DC
(Bambloozled, a blues dance conference! I will have spare time, though I may be in a constant state of dance-gasm.)
Until February: UNKNOWN
(Possibilities: New Orleans, Washington DC, Seattle, or parts unknown. I could visit you, if you like!)
February: Cleveland, Ohio
(Probably. I’d like to work for a socially just organization.)
Sunday, October 31, 2010
The Jam Cellar: Kings of Swing
The dance scene in Washington, DC is intense- you can dance every night of the week. If you like salsa, swing, or blues, the district is your musicbox.
In DC, I was always told about new venues from Virginia to Maryland: Charm City Swing in Baltimore, the enthusiastic college crowd at GMU or UVA, Habana Village, Cherry Hill, bars in Ballston and Clarendon… everywhere. However, I mostly danced at Glen Echo Amusement Park, the Jam Cellar, and Chevy Chase Ballroom.
If I could dance every night, I would. To me, dancing feels like nothing else, combining my love of music, connection, movement, and touch. It satisfies my extroversion and my desire for one-to-one intimacy. When I dance, I grin like an imbecile, or I close my eyes and let my face relax. Dance is so instinctive now, and so pleasing.
Please, allow me to share?
THE JAM CELLAR
The tagline for the experience is: The Jam Cellar. YOU WILL LIKE IT.
They’re right.
When John described the Jam Cellar to me as a “swing club,” I pictured a basement of dive bar near Adams Morgan: low lights, strong drinks, hardwood floors, and mega-hot follows. Not so much. (Except for the follows. They are still hot.)
In reality, the Jam Cellar is more of a phenomena than a place. The event engulfs an entire house, a beautiful 19th-century mansion with ornate iron doors and hardwood floors. Originally, the building – the Josephine Butler House -- was proposed to be the home for the vice president. It’s easy to imagine one suite as the “Master’s Study,” or “Lady’s Library,” or “Butler’s Discretionary Area.” The house borders Meridian Park, a short (and convenient) walk from U Street, Columbia Heights, and Adams Morgan.
That said, the key part of the Jam Cellar is the crowd, rather than the locale.
CROWD
The Jam Cellar hosts dances with the crème de la crème, the rock stars of swing dance. Remember listening to Zoot Suit Riot, by Cherry Poppin Daddies, back in the 90’s? Some of these folk have been dancing since then, becoming the leading teachers and most exceptional dancers around. They built this city.
Their skills attract a big crowd. The Jam Cellar offers beginner and intermediate classes at fairly affordable rates in targeted areas: subtle movements, aerials, collegiate shag, balboa, vernacular jazz steps, and ridiculous shit. I took an entire class on “Texas Tommy” variations, a position-turn move that may have started as its own vernacular dance. As a follow, classes expose me to new moves, and often make me more aware of my limitations*.
When I do dance with one of the fantastic leads, it’s pretty surreal. When you’re a beginner/intermediate kiddo, dancing with Bobby, Paul, or David is like hooking-up with Beyoncé while riding a dolphin.
There’s a certain way that super-experienced leads move that is incredibly foreign to me, a delicacy and skill that I can register, but not respond in kind.
It’s like challenging a grandmaster to a spot of chess, when you are an excellent checkers player. Mercifully, most of the grandmasters apparently enjoy an occasional game of, erm, checkers. Very enthusiastic checkers. Yes.
Even without the Beyoncé-dolphin experience, I still have a fantastic time. I'm lucky enough to dance with leads who have far more experience than I, who push me to improve. And, most importantly, they're all fantastic humans. Like, super-freakin' nice and kind.
I was always excited for Tuesday nights.
MUSIC
One thing that defines the Jam Cellar is the music selection: exclusively classic lindy tracks. No modern remakes of older songs, no Motown, no new swing music. You hear old-skool big band jazz: Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman, and Duke Ellington (who grew up a few blocks away).
To be honest, that took some getting used to. Vintage tracks rarely have the emotional resonance for me that more modern tracks do. I know all the lyrics to Katy Perry songs, but the lyrics to most swing songs escape me. Also, I like the invention of the subwoofer. The subwoofer was made for a reason. The subwoofer makes the beat really damn obvious. And while it’s a great challenge to have to noodle out the bass from the treble, it’s nice to not have to worry about losing it.
On the other hand, it’s taught me a lot, about finding and recognizing rhythms, and learning more about the roots of swing. At Jam Cellar, I realized that I knew nothing about swing, from the origins to the revival. It made me want to learn more.
The Jam Cellar.
So go to the Jam Cellar. You will like it. Observe this video for more clarification. Hint: it is silly.
In DC, I was always told about new venues from Virginia to Maryland: Charm City Swing in Baltimore, the enthusiastic college crowd at GMU or UVA, Habana Village, Cherry Hill, bars in Ballston and Clarendon… everywhere. However, I mostly danced at Glen Echo Amusement Park, the Jam Cellar, and Chevy Chase Ballroom.
If I could dance every night, I would. To me, dancing feels like nothing else, combining my love of music, connection, movement, and touch. It satisfies my extroversion and my desire for one-to-one intimacy. When I dance, I grin like an imbecile, or I close my eyes and let my face relax. Dance is so instinctive now, and so pleasing.
Please, allow me to share?
THE JAM CELLAR
The tagline for the experience is: The Jam Cellar. YOU WILL LIKE IT.
They’re right.
When John described the Jam Cellar to me as a “swing club,” I pictured a basement of dive bar near Adams Morgan: low lights, strong drinks, hardwood floors, and mega-hot follows. Not so much. (Except for the follows. They are still hot.)
In reality, the Jam Cellar is more of a phenomena than a place. The event engulfs an entire house, a beautiful 19th-century mansion with ornate iron doors and hardwood floors. Originally, the building – the Josephine Butler House -- was proposed to be the home for the vice president. It’s easy to imagine one suite as the “Master’s Study,” or “Lady’s Library,” or “Butler’s Discretionary Area.” The house borders Meridian Park, a short (and convenient) walk from U Street, Columbia Heights, and Adams Morgan.
That said, the key part of the Jam Cellar is the crowd, rather than the locale.
CROWD
The Jam Cellar hosts dances with the crème de la crème, the rock stars of swing dance. Remember listening to Zoot Suit Riot, by Cherry Poppin Daddies, back in the 90’s? Some of these folk have been dancing since then, becoming the leading teachers and most exceptional dancers around. They built this city.
Their skills attract a big crowd. The Jam Cellar offers beginner and intermediate classes at fairly affordable rates in targeted areas: subtle movements, aerials, collegiate shag, balboa, vernacular jazz steps, and ridiculous shit. I took an entire class on “Texas Tommy” variations, a position-turn move that may have started as its own vernacular dance. As a follow, classes expose me to new moves, and often make me more aware of my limitations*.
When I do dance with one of the fantastic leads, it’s pretty surreal. When you’re a beginner/intermediate kiddo, dancing with Bobby, Paul, or David is like hooking-up with Beyoncé while riding a dolphin.
There’s a certain way that super-experienced leads move that is incredibly foreign to me, a delicacy and skill that I can register, but not respond in kind.
It’s like challenging a grandmaster to a spot of chess, when you are an excellent checkers player. Mercifully, most of the grandmasters apparently enjoy an occasional game of, erm, checkers. Very enthusiastic checkers. Yes.
Even without the Beyoncé-dolphin experience, I still have a fantastic time. I'm lucky enough to dance with leads who have far more experience than I, who push me to improve. And, most importantly, they're all fantastic humans. Like, super-freakin' nice and kind.
I was always excited for Tuesday nights.
MUSIC
One thing that defines the Jam Cellar is the music selection: exclusively classic lindy tracks. No modern remakes of older songs, no Motown, no new swing music. You hear old-skool big band jazz: Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman, and Duke Ellington (who grew up a few blocks away).
To be honest, that took some getting used to. Vintage tracks rarely have the emotional resonance for me that more modern tracks do. I know all the lyrics to Katy Perry songs, but the lyrics to most swing songs escape me. Also, I like the invention of the subwoofer. The subwoofer was made for a reason. The subwoofer makes the beat really damn obvious. And while it’s a great challenge to have to noodle out the bass from the treble, it’s nice to not have to worry about losing it.
On the other hand, it’s taught me a lot, about finding and recognizing rhythms, and learning more about the roots of swing. At Jam Cellar, I realized that I knew nothing about swing, from the origins to the revival. It made me want to learn more.
The Jam Cellar.
So go to the Jam Cellar. You will like it. Observe this video for more clarification. Hint: it is silly.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
A Letter Home
The visits to Oberlin are hard to write about – they’re too intense, too wonderful, too concentrated. This one especially so.
First: the long distance relationship dream come true -- holding the one you love and realizing that they’re real. You didn’t dream them up. They aren’t an abstraction, a perfection, an invisible friend. They’re them, and all the silly little bits of them: homework, stuffed noses, messy rooms and math tests. No bread or skim milk in the house. Terrible vodka in the cupboard.
But those unpretty parts are the best. Hell, they’re more beautiful than you remembered. You kiss the salt on their skin, you touch their shoulders and recall sculptures of Adonis or Aphrodite. You watch them move, watch them dance, and the world just feels more right.
you kiss.
you hold.
you make love.
and everything is better. everything will be alright.
everything is just perfect. you love them.
(and i do love you.)
... But it was more this time – there were other salient details. You know when the sun hits a leaf, and the glow warms the edges and you can see the veins of the leaf? And it’s no longer simply beautiful, but very, very IMPORTANT. It’s staring at the sky in early fall, and knowing that this is THE horizon. This is the earth you live in. You want to tell the world about the way that a snake hurries away from you, then looks back, invitingly, inquiringly, before darting into the brush.
It is the details.
I’ve never felt much attachment to the architecture of Oberlin – though I do like architecture, and Oberlin’s strange unplanned landscape. The trees in Tappan Square evoke a stronger awe than elegant Talcott, the sandstone Disney magnificence of Peters, or the neoclassical Memorial arch. I don’t feel flushed by Cass Gilbert, or Silsbee, or the religiosity of the Science Center. But the stillness of the Reservoir gets me, every time.
It is in my friends, who make me feel real. They give me form, structure, and a valid self. I’ve grown worse at engaging large groups, but more amazed by the comfort in sharing time with one. When I visit, I always want more time to hold hands and walk with my friend-family, from cousins to siblings. They are so beautiful and they give me so much. (My name feels safe in their mouths.)
It is Ma’ayan’s face softening, thinking about the poster, thinking about the future and the past.
Harris reading Annie Dillard aloud to me, and poems like “Aubade” written onto scrap paper on his wall.
It is Amanda straddling a log, becoming a “sex panther” with me. It is Amanda, her hand on the small of my back, moving with me to Nina Simone, her eyes insatiable.
It is Greg, self-possessed, grounded: living, teaching, and playing.
It is a Gimlet. It is a sip of Guinness. It is a glass of milk after a day of dancing.
It is muddling through the basic of West Coast Swing, trying to move on the third beat of a triplet (that probably isn’t a triplet.) It is the classically-trained instructors, and their care for each other, arm in arm at the airport.
It is Kate’s face, covered in freckles, exuding comfort and calm.
It is Mari’s knee causing her pain, but the smoothness of the workshop easing her mind. Monica’s grace. Fiona’s charm. My inability to lead them, but simply stare at their loveliness and be overwhelmed.
It is Lily’s infectious grin and incredible warmth. It is Scout’s vibrant honesty.
It is Mineh's understanding that I am an immature pervert, and the way he leads me around.
It is Ali’s goofiness, her maddeningly gorgeous eyes, and how she and Patrick joke with each other.
It is Brandi's focus behind the wheel, her integrity so clear.
Jeff Hagan’s messy desk, even with Brandi’s tidying, and his enthusiasm for my future.
A crowd dancing. The circus on a Friday afternoon. A large coffee from Slow Train. The golden tree in Tappan, and the tree that belongs to Kris.
My friends.
I love them.
First: the long distance relationship dream come true -- holding the one you love and realizing that they’re real. You didn’t dream them up. They aren’t an abstraction, a perfection, an invisible friend. They’re them, and all the silly little bits of them: homework, stuffed noses, messy rooms and math tests. No bread or skim milk in the house. Terrible vodka in the cupboard.
But those unpretty parts are the best. Hell, they’re more beautiful than you remembered. You kiss the salt on their skin, you touch their shoulders and recall sculptures of Adonis or Aphrodite. You watch them move, watch them dance, and the world just feels more right.
you kiss.
you hold.
you make love.
and everything is better. everything will be alright.
everything is just perfect. you love them.
(and i do love you.)
... But it was more this time – there were other salient details. You know when the sun hits a leaf, and the glow warms the edges and you can see the veins of the leaf? And it’s no longer simply beautiful, but very, very IMPORTANT. It’s staring at the sky in early fall, and knowing that this is THE horizon. This is the earth you live in. You want to tell the world about the way that a snake hurries away from you, then looks back, invitingly, inquiringly, before darting into the brush.
It is the details.
I’ve never felt much attachment to the architecture of Oberlin – though I do like architecture, and Oberlin’s strange unplanned landscape. The trees in Tappan Square evoke a stronger awe than elegant Talcott, the sandstone Disney magnificence of Peters, or the neoclassical Memorial arch. I don’t feel flushed by Cass Gilbert, or Silsbee, or the religiosity of the Science Center. But the stillness of the Reservoir gets me, every time.
It is in my friends, who make me feel real. They give me form, structure, and a valid self. I’ve grown worse at engaging large groups, but more amazed by the comfort in sharing time with one. When I visit, I always want more time to hold hands and walk with my friend-family, from cousins to siblings. They are so beautiful and they give me so much. (My name feels safe in their mouths.)
It is Ma’ayan’s face softening, thinking about the poster, thinking about the future and the past.
Harris reading Annie Dillard aloud to me, and poems like “Aubade” written onto scrap paper on his wall.
It is Amanda straddling a log, becoming a “sex panther” with me. It is Amanda, her hand on the small of my back, moving with me to Nina Simone, her eyes insatiable.
It is Greg, self-possessed, grounded: living, teaching, and playing.
It is a Gimlet. It is a sip of Guinness. It is a glass of milk after a day of dancing.
It is muddling through the basic of West Coast Swing, trying to move on the third beat of a triplet (that probably isn’t a triplet.) It is the classically-trained instructors, and their care for each other, arm in arm at the airport.
It is Kate’s face, covered in freckles, exuding comfort and calm.
It is Mari’s knee causing her pain, but the smoothness of the workshop easing her mind. Monica’s grace. Fiona’s charm. My inability to lead them, but simply stare at their loveliness and be overwhelmed.
It is Lily’s infectious grin and incredible warmth. It is Scout’s vibrant honesty.
It is Mineh's understanding that I am an immature pervert, and the way he leads me around.
It is Ali’s goofiness, her maddeningly gorgeous eyes, and how she and Patrick joke with each other.
It is Brandi's focus behind the wheel, her integrity so clear.
Jeff Hagan’s messy desk, even with Brandi’s tidying, and his enthusiasm for my future.
A crowd dancing. The circus on a Friday afternoon. A large coffee from Slow Train. The golden tree in Tappan, and the tree that belongs to Kris.
My friends.
I love them.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Black Coffee
We ran out of regular espresso today. After much discussion with my manager, we decided to pretend that the decaf was not-so-decaf. Let the placebo effect work for us. But it still made me nervous, so after making some fancy cappuccinos, macchiatos or espressos, I’d linger and ask how they were.
An older couple responded extremely positively. “Delicious,” he said, with a hint of an English accent. “A very full taste,” she agreed, with another, harder-to-read accent, sipping her cappuccino delicately.
I jabbered about the new Lavazza machine, and may have clowned a little, my gestures big and silly. (I wanted to demonstrate my feud with the old machine, which had a tendency to spray milk wildly.) The couple laughed, the woman’s smile vast. She was very elegant, with a clear bright smile, and big brown eyes. He was older than her.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Originally California, but more recently Ohio.”
“Ah,” she said. “I am from Brazil. And he is from Pakistan.”
“Wow! That’s a ways away,” I said.
“Miss,” the man asked, “how long do you think I’ve been coming here?”
This is a question I hear a lot from regulars, their favorite game with young servers. They generally lean back and reply some variant on, “Before you were even dreamed of.”
I grin nervously, and try to beat him at the game, “Before I was even dreamed of?”
He nodded. “Nearly 50 years. It was my first day in DC. I’d gotten a job with the World Bank, but I hadn’t found a place to live yet, so they put me up in the Dupont Circle Hotel. I was walking to work, and as I passed by this place, the aroma from the kitchen just… captured me. I was in a rush, so I promised myself I’d come back for dinner. I came back for dinner. And of course, the food was superb. And bless you, it hasn’t changed.
“So I came back the night after, and the night after that. At least once a week, every week of the year. I took all my friends, my family, and every girlfriend.”
His companion giggled, “So many girlfriends!”
“All of the women I wanted to be girlfriends. Sometimes, it worked out, sometimes it didn’t.”
The woman said something under her breath in Portuguese, and they both laughed.
“I even took my father, and he had a fabulous time. He was the first president of Pakistan, and in those days, he was treated like a king. He didn’t have to do anything for himself, all of the details were handled by others. And in America, of course, it was not so. And still, he loved it. He wasn’t used to food cooked in this way, and he was delighted for the whole meal. A meal for a near-king.”
The man took another sip of the cappuccino, the foam lingering a bit on his upper lip.
“But at the end of the meal, he ordered some coffee, and paused a minute after tasting it. On the table, there were five little shakers: sugar, red pepper, black pepper, salt, and cheese. My father reached out and grabbed the cheese shaker, and started tapping parmesan into his meal. At first a little, then more and more. I just stared at him as he sipped his coffee.”
He said to me, “Son, this place may have the best pizza in the world, but their coffee is wretched.”
The man tipped his cup to me, and took a long sip.
An older couple responded extremely positively. “Delicious,” he said, with a hint of an English accent. “A very full taste,” she agreed, with another, harder-to-read accent, sipping her cappuccino delicately.
I jabbered about the new Lavazza machine, and may have clowned a little, my gestures big and silly. (I wanted to demonstrate my feud with the old machine, which had a tendency to spray milk wildly.) The couple laughed, the woman’s smile vast. She was very elegant, with a clear bright smile, and big brown eyes. He was older than her.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Originally California, but more recently Ohio.”
“Ah,” she said. “I am from Brazil. And he is from Pakistan.”
“Wow! That’s a ways away,” I said.
“Miss,” the man asked, “how long do you think I’ve been coming here?”
This is a question I hear a lot from regulars, their favorite game with young servers. They generally lean back and reply some variant on, “Before you were even dreamed of.”
I grin nervously, and try to beat him at the game, “Before I was even dreamed of?”
He nodded. “Nearly 50 years. It was my first day in DC. I’d gotten a job with the World Bank, but I hadn’t found a place to live yet, so they put me up in the Dupont Circle Hotel. I was walking to work, and as I passed by this place, the aroma from the kitchen just… captured me. I was in a rush, so I promised myself I’d come back for dinner. I came back for dinner. And of course, the food was superb. And bless you, it hasn’t changed.
“So I came back the night after, and the night after that. At least once a week, every week of the year. I took all my friends, my family, and every girlfriend.”
His companion giggled, “So many girlfriends!”
“All of the women I wanted to be girlfriends. Sometimes, it worked out, sometimes it didn’t.”
The woman said something under her breath in Portuguese, and they both laughed.
“I even took my father, and he had a fabulous time. He was the first president of Pakistan, and in those days, he was treated like a king. He didn’t have to do anything for himself, all of the details were handled by others. And in America, of course, it was not so. And still, he loved it. He wasn’t used to food cooked in this way, and he was delighted for the whole meal. A meal for a near-king.”
The man took another sip of the cappuccino, the foam lingering a bit on his upper lip.
“But at the end of the meal, he ordered some coffee, and paused a minute after tasting it. On the table, there were five little shakers: sugar, red pepper, black pepper, salt, and cheese. My father reached out and grabbed the cheese shaker, and started tapping parmesan into his meal. At first a little, then more and more. I just stared at him as he sipped his coffee.”
He said to me, “Son, this place may have the best pizza in the world, but their coffee is wretched.”
The man tipped his cup to me, and took a long sip.
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