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.

Phantom Family Syndrome

The Problems
i. I’m terrible at living alone.
ii. I don’t think the status quo is healthy.
iii. I don’t fit into the status quo.



i.

I’ve never lived alone before.

(Well, okay: literally, I’m not alone.

In fact, I’m very lucky – I have a room and a lovely housemate in a safe area (Crystal City, Arlington, VA). I have a job – bartending at an Italian restaurant. I have some excellent friends in my region, and many more outside of the state. My family is caring, and understands me. I have a lot of interests, and there’s tons to do. I’m improving as a dancer. I’m not broke.)

But there’s still something painful in my otherwise acceptable life: I don’t have a community.

I don’t live with a partner, or with my family. I don’t have a neighborhood. I don’t wake up next to a warm, sweet person, who tells me about their dreams. I don’t walk down the street and see friends, or acquaintances. When I want to see someone, I need to seek them out. There are random meetings, but they are brief. I don’t know enough people to create a critical mass of random-friend-encounters.

I got used to being happy.

I’m used to buying two tickets for every show. I’m used to cooking eggs for two, used to brushing my teeth while someone else takes out their contacts, used to walking to a shared rhythm. I’m used to having a reason to read aloud. I’m used to hugging more than 20 people a day. I’m used to grinning and tackle-embraces, and the ease of total trust.

I've lived in Oberlin for 5 years. I've been in relationships, with only a few months of single-ness, since I was 14. Nearly a decade.

I miss my karass, and my many little duprasses. I miss the way every member of my friend-family laughs. I am missing many limbs: I have phantom-family syndrome.

Phantom Family Syndrome is draining, even for little ol' extroverted, optimistic me. Vacant little me. I need to push myself to do things. I need to build up my own momentum– I can’t count on my friends to push me onwards and upwards. A life without positive feedback loops is hard. There’s just me.

A lone girl in a new city.

Between Johnny and my friends, this summer was nearly perfect. I started to love friends I’d never had the time to properly appreciate, both in Oberlin and DC. I was never unhappy. Every day was a wash of joy. Each day, I woke up smiling, and fell asleep contented. I had the spikes of happiness, and the long calm of joy. If you sampled my blood, it would be as happy-sweet as maple syrup.

Then, the fall winds started up, and the flock dispersed for different climates. After so much ecstasy, I'm left with no serotonin.

Losing John hit hard, especially coupled with losing my immediate friends. It was a nuclear winter after the terrible first blast. The heart is vaporized, and the body grows lifeless.

I got used to feeling so warm all the time. The cold creeps in so easily now.

Definition: The Ones You Really Love

What do you call the people you love?

How do you define a relationship? Does that definition change when they’re not around?

What do you write on your love letters, or casual notes? Does it change based on their gender, or on yours? What happens if you’re not monogamous? How do you indicate that a person is a very close friend? How do you make distinctions between friends and lovers?

In short: what are your terms of endearment?


i. How do you define your relationship?

On my last run, I thought about all the names I call my special friends, both lovers and platonic. Words to indicate commitment and care, loyalty and intimacy, support and adoration. Words that I say to prove to someone that they are special, to let them know that I love them, and cherish them, no matter what.

THE ISSUE
I hate a lot of the standard terminology. I don’t like terms that are very possessive or gendered. I like words that imply intimacy and commitment.

Attempts:

- “Significant other” is too sterile.

- “Beloved” is cheesy and archaic.

- “Boyfriend” and “Girlfriend.” Gut reaction: I don’t like being called a “girlfriend,” or calling anyone my “boyfriend” or “girlfriend.” Bad associations. Veto'd.

- “Friend” isn’t strong linguistically enough. Too broad. “Good / Close / Dear friend” and other modifiers get it better. “Best friend” is very close to what I need for about five people.

- “Lover.” I should like the term lover, but it doesn’t imply (to me) that a person is special, or that there’s any aspect of commitment or prioritizing. To me, a lover offers a only sexual relationship, and I’m sappy enough to want more.

- “Limerent object” is too obscure and hopeless. Mutuality is not implied.

- “Apple of my eye” is too unreal, too idealizing.

- "Hook-up" or "fuck buddy" isn't classy.


THE BEST:
“Partner” is non-gendered, non-exclusive, personal, egalitarian, and loving. I like the ambiguity and the implied companionship. I like being a dance partner or a partner in crime or a business partner.

-




ii. What do you call your lover to their face (or their inbox)?

Well, besides their name. I like to give people nicknames, pet names, things that fit them better than their given titles. I want someone to know -- from just their name, and how I say it -- that they are impossibly special.


THE LIST OF ADORABLE NICKNAMES

Honeybee
Mon petit / ma petite chou
Dearest
Nightcrawler
Cuddlefish
Sweetpea
Little un’
Honey-bunny
Thailand
Clyde / Bonnie
Babe
Foxhole buddy
Adonis
Love
Kupo
Buttons
Japan
Buckles
MOSAD (Most Special and Adored)
Flower (a la Bambi)
Penny
Panda
Duckie
Faun
Cuddles / Snuggles
Anchor
Sweet one
Bestie
Wonderland
Lotus
Beautiful
Germany
Mittens
Dance partner
Invisible friend




So what do you like? What do you like to be called, and what do you like to call others? I want to know.


Love,
Aries

Love, love, love

Facts:
1. I am very happy.
2. I am a good waitress.
3. I am in love.
4. I have amazing friends!
5. I am aligning my priorities.
6. Everything is changing all the time, especially my luck.


*

Elaboration:

I am in love. I am very happy. I have a priority, a person. Johnny.

We spend a lot of time together, and have become companions. I am being a really shitty friend to my DC accomplices, and am sad about that, but my besotted state will only persist for the next two weeks.

When I was a kid, I marked off my height against the kitchen door in pen, with the date next to the escalating number. To encourage me, my parents showed me their numbers of getting taller and taller (which they fabricated). And I got confused. I correlated height with age – I thought I would just get taller, and taller, until I died.

One day, I would grow so large that I would no longer be able to fit through the doorframe. I would lay helpless and enormous in the living room, slowly starving to death. My giant form would dwindle to enormous bones. Alice doesn’t make it to wonderland.

I see the shelf life on this relationship, the expiration date when my affections swell, spilling out of my organs and in my marrow. It will seep into my blood, like some gorgeous sepsis. My heartbeat will skip and falter. The writing is on the door.

In two weeks, the relationship will be (mostly) over.

And dammit, I love this boy. I’ve passed from a mega-gross squee-fest to a more sedate, stable, but constant pulse of affection and care. I say we reflexively. The idea of being separate for the last two weeks of summer was unimaginable. Every time I see him, other things fade to monotone and sepia. His skin is satin, his ideals are vivid. I want him, constantly and intensely. It’s hard to get out of bed, to leave the warmth of our bodies. It’s hard to stop holding him in the morning. It’s amazing to wake up and realize I can hold onto this crazy dreamboy, and not have him slip away into dream-dust-in-the-eyes and bleary disappointment. Wonderland.

I will be different in two weeks. I will drink too much, sleep too little. More career-focused, more individualistic, a better friend. I will cry. My enormous form will dwindle.

The background will grow fruitful again, and I’ll be able to pick out the beauty of the fall as the incredible warmth of summer recedes. And I’ll visit Ohio to find that warmth again. I'll get the warm-and-fuzzies for Oberlin all over again.

But for now? I’m in love, dammit. I’m going to enjoy it. It’s a priority.