Love, A Hangover

The rooftop of my condo provides no cover — from the elements, the neighbors, the construction war zone unfolding upwards next door. No solace can be sought in this town during The Quarantunnel; it appears that the entirety of The District is under construction, and inescapably so. I have endured the last six months suspended in a cacophonous netherworld that has seemingly disrupted the fabric of my being such that some days it is unclear whether or not the very molecular structure of my body actually remains intact. Topple onto this nightmare that my building’s HVAC malfunctioned in mid-June and has thus left its inhabitants without air conditioning for the whole of the summer season, and I often and actively wonder whether or not I am actually even living, in a waking life.

The past week has provided some reprieve from the heat, and on this holiday Monday morning I awoke early to sun myself on the rooftop, with a coffee and my thoughts. The condo under construction in the lot adjacent now blocks a swath of the northeastern view, but the war is under ceasefire until tomorrow. It’s quiet, perhaps for the first time in months.

I have a hangover, but I have not been drinking.

Love is many colors, and many shapes, and if we choose to recognize it, it is inherent in all actions, relationships, and ventures. I argue that if the intention is to pursue love, then every incremental experience along the spectrum that spans Hate-to-Infatuation-to-Reverence is a learned build unto Love. If the intention is not to pursue Love, then the experience is collapsed into any particular category that one assumes, e.g., Fascination is rendered loveless, and flat.

To experience the spectrum is to assume several iterations of The Hangover: to bump into walls and trip over steps; to forget words mid-thought and wonder aloud why the house keys have appeared in the refrigerator; to yearn for and cry out to; to desire respect and reciprocity and anticipate disappointment; to have reasonable expectations and feel bereaved nonetheless. The object of our affections is often irrelevant — a person, a place, a thing, an action or idea — as all of these have the capacity to leave our sentiments unrequited.

The idea of failure is definitive, but the experience of failure is subjective. We cannot know what we do not know, but we may also know much more than we are willing to disclose. Though the line between self-awareness and self-obsession is fine, that between self-awareness and self-deception is finer.

He is considerably younger than I am and I made no overtures to dismiss this reality. Eyes wide open, I suspended disbelief for the opportunity to be involved in a romance with potential longevity, and/or, to have an adventure; the expectation for both of these possibilities was that we would at least enjoy each other’s company. It is a useless endeavor to consider The Nuclear Third Option, though it always exists if only in subterranean cloaking.

“Flights are basically free right now, why don’t you come here.”

“What is your intention with that request?”

“…to go on some dates and see if we click. Your texts hit different.”

That last phrase was interesting to me, first because we had only been texting which is and should be a no-no to get to know someone, but we were getting deep in a way that was measured and did not appear to be reckless; second because it is a phrase generationally familiar to me outside the advent of text, and felt meaningful utilized in that particular conversation. Surprisingly, after this event, I began to hear this remark in quotidian turns, uttered by a younger generation with great frequency and pertaining to exactly anything. Perhaps I over-interpreted, perhaps I did not; not much matters in the aftermath, and my inquiries do not beg answers, externally.

I do much walking in DC, and since the Stay-At-Home order commenced in March, walking about has become even more imperative to the maintenance of my sanity. Through the months, I composed a multitude of mixtapes that serve as soundtracks to demarcate the sub-changes to the seasons in which we are in fact living but perhaps not realizing. Of these mixes: 1 to end the winter and to help me process the extended tumult of a conflict with a business partner; 4 for the springtime that churned hope into despair and included glimmers of Love Hangovers Past, one of which has lasted for nearly two decades; and 3 for the summertime that ran amok without me, but held space for something beguiling and substantial.

The dominating effect of Quarantunnel Vision dictates our awareness such that we perhaps rationally understand that time is certainly passing, but, through the tunnel, we are unable to discern exactly how it is certain that its passage is indeed occurring. Music has a way of tethering me to time, and to my body. Time is a heartbreaker, too.

Engagements with others in this town nearly always leave more to be desired, but in the absence of being-with-people and going-to-places, the experience of being-in-DC of my own devising has fostered the sense that no thing, myself included, is actually amiss. A contactless coffee and my thoughts I can have by myself in the eruptive, feral beauty of a city without others, by city ordinance.

I say this not because I did not or do not want others, but because the desire I have for others here is most often unfulfilled. Without the expectation for any kind of social engagement, I have been left to only have DC. Despite the strangeness of it all, I have probably physically enjoyed this town more lately than I ever have in the decade that I’ve resided here.

Turn and face The Strange, so David said.

Suddenly it was late August, the end of the eighth month of a bizarre year riddled with crises, confusion, carnage, solitude, loneliness, despair, anger, ambivalence, and absurdity. Time cares not for how we perceive it, nor does it wait for us to catch up to it. So, I dressed for a first date, donned a KN95 and got onto an airplane.

Though perhaps throughout society, our individual interpretations of The 2020 Strange may differ if not completely diverge, I would venture to guess that, irrespective of cause or denomination of origin, many of us through this time have experienced many of the same emotions with perhaps even the same level of severity. We tend to confuse empathy for sympathy, but diminish the prowess of the latter virtue. The reality is that we never truly empathize because our individual experiences are uniquely individual. Nonetheless, most all of us have an understanding of what feelings feel like. I say this not to undermine experiences, but rather to emphasize that there is an opportunity to understand something that we have not experienced if we coalesce about the emotions it evokes. The heart of the matter is itself the concern, not what may occur should we not address the concern.

He received me at the airport in a black, Miami Vice-era, beater Benz with a rag top that we couldn’t roll down for the tropical depression that was consuming my arrival. “This car is meaningless unless you can take the top down,” he mentioned, more than once. He has a lovable affect and a charming disposition. I felt myself loudly smiling, and comfortably folded myself into the bucket seat. I studied his face as he told me about the plans we had, with options, for every day of my visit. I took note of and appreciated the rigor of his participation. Integrity is elusive in modern dating.

My bags were heavy but he carried them up the stairs to the treehouse I had rented, anyway.

“Did you put weights in here?”

“No, but there’s a present in there for you.”

“Really? I have one for you, too.”

A box of biscotti for him for his birthday, and a Welcome bottle of scotch for me. “You seem like a whiskey drinker.” I have been, at various times in my life. We poured glasses, he took a cookie from the box. "Where did you get these?” “I made them.”

Conversation flowed with ease and carried myriad topics, some for depth and others for caching to revisit later. With a pause in the drizzle, we continued to talk while we walked to dinner.

We sat on a covered patio and considered the menu. I inquired of his desires and predilections, and he gave me his inputs but endearingly deferred to me to order. I ordered: oysters and bubbles; a whole roasted fish and glasses of rosé; a rib steak with bone marrow butter and final glasses of a heavy, chilled red; each made their way to us, in stages. We dug into heavier conversation with each course and the accompanying wine that I wasn’t finishing. When he excused himself to the restroom, I snapped a selfie at the table of our empty dishes and semi-empty glassware and sent it to my sister. She said that I looked happy. I was happy.

We closed the restaurant but they graciously allowed us to linger. The 36 hour fast that I would unintentionally embark upon following this particular feast would leave me in retrospect ever more grateful for having so extravagantly feasted.

“View from the vanity, is that you? Wrapped up in the bedsheets, is that you? How can I be sure of it? Memorize the taste of it.”

The years preceding this particular adventure have been for me on all my life’s fronts, complicated but curious, and in ways positive but still painful. Related, I have been single for a long time and when I speak of this notion, it is often met with: distrust (“what? why?”); skepticism (“something must be wrong with you”); dismissal (“you must not want to find someone”); or outright blame (“your standards are clearly unreasonable”).

Um, ok. Would you like to ask me a question about it?

Only after a dedicated deep dive into a real assessment of my situation and interests, that an inquirer is not readily performing, might I emerge from this inquisition understood. I want a partner who is intellectually curious, with emotional depth and maturity; someone who is interested to pursue a committed relationship built on respect and reciprocity, that’s rich and complex and intentional; I want real love. I am not interested in less, and unapologetically so. If I don’t find this with someone, so be it, I do not believe that my life will be rendered meaningless without a significant other. I also don’t believe that these are unreasonable requirements. I am well aware that relationships need time to unfold, and I have not been impatient about the process. The early part of this year held repeated promises of burgeoning relationships that all vanished in odd and unsettling circumstances that left me with other hangovers, and much to consider about Modern Love. I have been deeply craving affection, both in physical and metaphysical formulations. It has all been rather trying, and, painful.

Our present state of being is inundated with a constant stream of incomprehensible information; our modalities of communication are out of control, and in an effort to better direct them and make more efficient use of our own time, we fail to recognize how we disrespect that of our others. Our sense of time and place is riddled with conflict and confusion. And now, in the midst of a socio-politico-economic meltdown, driven by “an invisible enemy,” no one is truly taking the time to pose the question, with genuine interest, “what is your concern?” Rather, we light matches and revel in the chaos, dissatisfied, still.

We strolled back to the treehouse, deliciously tipsy in a torrid breeze. He confidently assumed his recently-familiar seat on the couch, and turned on the television. This was surprising to me, as I rarely, if ever, turn on a television. I may have giggled aloud at this event, for its optics as well as for its implications. I also assumed my recently-familiar position on the piece of shared furniture, opposite him. We continued our discussion, unstructured in its ebb and flow, disregarding the blaring, blue screen.

What he lacks in life experience he makes up for in a whole-hearted determination of presence. He’s a kind of romantic-contrarian-mosaic artist, and that speaks to my sensibilities in a rather profound way. His mouth is pillowy and his heart is gushy. He held me like an invaluable piece of treasure that he couldn’t bear to lose. Fumbles and bullseyes alike, it all felt like love.

I was awoken in the late morning by the birds outside and a poignant refrain in my head:

“When am I gonna lose you? How will I let you slip through? Careless or unkind?”

I sat up in the bed to meditate, without disturbing him. He nuzzled my hip for those requisite 20 minutes of contemplation, and I kissed him before vanishing to the kitchen in a robe to make the coffee.

He appeared behind me and I handed him a cup. A lazy morning was spent sipping and talking, luxuriating in a new but familiar dimension that we were inhabiting together, exclusively. He took the cups to the kitchen, switched off the air conditioner in the other, empty room, and otherwise secured the perimeter of the treehouse before kissing me another many times with a promise to return to fetch me for the evening festivities, in a few hours.

I unpacked my bag. I fitnessed in the living room. The weather was heavy, but holding steady. I meandered about the muggy, subtropical tangle of flamingo pinks and aquamarines for an hour, bathing in the lushness of the evening before and the curious uncertainty of a tomorrow, in the intrigue, and in the adventure. To it all, I gave in; I skipped around unabashedly and had a silent disco to melancholy summer songs, in an unoccupied street. Returning to the treehouse, I showered and put my makeup on, lavishly un-rushed.

Then, the deluge. The messages poured in: the party is delayed owing to the weather, he’ll come to get me in another couple of hours; then, another couple of hours; then, it began without me, and in a manner that he didn’t anticipate, with guests he didn’t expect; he’s feeling unwell; he doesn’t want me to come and hyperbolically apologizes for cancelling, nebulously suggesting instead that we see each other the following day, which was on the agenda, anyway. In a rather ungenerous fashion, he neither ascertained nor addressed my concerns. More disconcerting is that he didn’t call, either.

I sat with it, in disbelief. The Nuclear Third Option had been deployed. Whatever emotions I was suspending, my sister with whom I was fervently communicating throughout this debacle, was embodying for me. “Sad!” she exclaimed, repeatedly. I went for a walk and weighed my options. I felt at odds with the idea of staying put and spending the remainder of the weekend there, with or without him. The adventure was for and about him, not the place, and given the rift in communication, it was unclear whether or not I would see him again. The wind picked up, brushing Type I Hurricane territory. I called the airline and changed my ticket.

This is how it ends? Really? He left me in a fucking treehouse. I walked back, re-packed my bag, and went to bed in a daze. The vacationing neighbor ladies were having drinks outside in the wind and kvetching funny quips about their husbands.

People meet each other, spend time together, and decide to marry, I thought. Curious, that.

In the morning, another message appeared out of the ether from the night before: fever, chills, apologies. Still in a stupor, I walked to a cafe for a coffee and a FaceTime post-mortem with my girlfriend in DC. The sun was shining but other depressions laid in wait. I gathered my things and my self, and sent him a sobering but heartfelt goodbye SOS on the way to the airport, and returned home.

DC was sunny and hot. The pervasive knot in my stomach began to dissipate into something like anger, slightly, but more like incredulity. More than 36 hours had passed since I had eaten. Bone marrow butter is fabulous rocket fuel.

My best guy who had also been on the receiving end of the weekend updates was coming over to be with me in my whatever state of unraveling, so, I went to the Whore Foods and bought dinner snacks: salumi and cheese, liver pâté, perhaps too many dates and walnuts, some olives, more than a bit of chocolate and too much wine. I paced, I gesticulated wildly, I crumpled into my favorite chair and stared blankly into space. We laid on the floor of my uncomfortably warm apartment, and I fell asleep on his chest.

The Hangover typically comes in waves and lingers indefinitely. It is futile to ignore it, but perilously unproductive to completely succumb to it, and so the sufferer is thrust between states of madness and indifference, at an uncontrollable pace until it has somehow worked itself out. And so went the weeks that ensued for me, in fits and spurts and mostly on the floor, staring at the ceiling. I never heard from him, and found myself exclaiming “SAD!” repeatedly, like my sister had on the telephone when I was suspended in animation. Disappointment is a consuming flood of woe that resides not in failed expectations, but in the removal of one’s agency to contribute something that may determine a different, more favorable outcome.

I’ll argue that with the emergence of ubiquitous modes of techno-communication, the generational divides have arisen faster and are more starkly apparent now than ever before. If the general modus operandi is to avoid conflict at all costs, and an act of confronting a problem becomes conflated with an act of aggression, then our whole of society will only find itself in irons. I posit that the way out is in sympathy — to recognize that some other may be feeling differently, and it may be possible to understand that other’s particular feeling if it can be conjured from our own bank of emotional memories. We cannot forget that we will die, but we cannot forget that we have also lived, and that we will continue to live until we do not. Where Love resides is in living, and in living there is conflict; to be brave is to confront it, not to light the match.