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corvaxgirlTake a number, wait while I twist your fate/ on the mating game . . .
I've been trying to figure out how to talk about my experience at Arisia, mostly because a lot of it doesn't parse well into words. I accomplished what I set out to do. I was changed by the experience in ways that I am still unpacking. But I want to share with you bits.
We drive for hours and talk for hours and we just know somehow by the time we get to the restaurant where there is lovely steaming plates of food that we will both get what we need.
I sat down in the front row and I waved and she ran over to me and we hugged and hugged and admired each other and teared up a bit, about how far we've both come, how we used to just be these girls from diaryland, she in Japan and me in New Jersey and we both knew we wanted something . . .more. She introduces me to her housemate who is wonderfully sweet and she runs to do her show and I sit and listen. And I allowed myself the experience, I allowed myself that feeling that Jacob describes so perfectly(But real love, at its finest, makes you feel like you are bursting open, like this: Like hearing a beautiful song, or reading a beautiful poem, or hearing a wonderful story, and the tears come and you don't know precisely why. It doesn't hurt; it hurts in a way that isn't hurting, that we don't have a word for. Largeness. Enormity. ). She reads the part where they are at the opera and she promises her that she will never hurt her or allow her to be hurt and the tears start falling. Before the sirene even asks I have already taken off my glasses and closed my eyes, as they did in the story and when she sings the opera, the tears come in earnst. I sit there, unashamed to be as moved as I was, feeling that perfect peace, that spiritual experience where everything is just as it should be and I let that awful beautiful sadness of the piece wash over me, both of them fitted together perfectly for the moment.
I am afraid, more than I usually am. Everything is so much bigger than me, but I have learned that being brave doesn't mean there is no short tiny breaths, the sickening thud of homesickness, and an uneasy tummy, it means doing it anyway and finding the courage to get what you need. She draws sigals on me in the bathroom with a soft eyeshadow brush and hand sanitizer. We strengthen my spine, open my heart, strengthen my hand for striking. I am brave. I am ready.
I had thought to only give her my card, but she invited me to sit down with her and her staff for their breakfast, surrounded by tiny jars of jam. I explain myself, carefully and they are kind and interested. We exchange cards, I carelessly put hers in my bag, not realizing who she would be next year until I look at it when I get home.
F. is the belle of the green room, everyone can't help but love her. I'm more reserved as I usually am, mostly contented to listen to her suitors pour out their hearts to me about their mad smashes on her. I was to network with people who could help me in what I was trying to do, a nearly impossible task it seemed until F. managed to spot a girl who attended my event. . .who ran the panel I needed . . .who knew the mother and daughter I needed to talk to as well . . .who told me that tea would be right before I left the next day. Sometimes Fate can kind, softly sewing us together.
We had been unceromoniously thrown out of our own room by the judges who swirl into the room with the pomp of the Little Miss Perfect Judges. We sit in the back room and start swapping stories, cracking each other up and it's like closing in retail or a restaurant again. Our fearless organizer gives us beautiful roses and we pop open champagne and eat organic strawberries while we dare each other to drink the clove and allspice cordial. The judges finally leave and we buzz through the room, cleaning and getting ready for the morning. Someone takes out a computer and starts putting on earworm music and we all start moving and dancing and laughing. She takes out the absinthe and we have a green fairy party in the green room, toasting each other and passing the cup. We go to the high school dance and only stay for a moment. We found the party we were looking for.
But I have left my id in the room where she was entertaining. My new friends howl with laughter as I am madly blushing and apologizing for interrupting. They drag it out just a little further, laughing all the way. I grab my id and we go to the party. I should have believed a little harder as to the awesomeness of this particular party and why it's hard to find for who could dream up a better party than a geek? We love the fantasy, the ceremony, we've watched the Matrix and Hackers and dreamed of somehow following that white rabbit to the party that we've always somehow just missed. Money can't buy imagination, going to Butter won't magically produce this experience, dreaming does. I walk in and my breath catches - they've taken a ninth floor suite and magically turned it into a gothic mansion. Armchairs, a big wooden throne chair, dance floor, gothic chandelier, the artwork. The bartender girls smile and are dressed as mad scientists as they gleefully squirt more shots into the blacklit test tubes. There are a coterie of girls, dressed Blair Waldorf style, very short black dresses, oversized pearls. The DJ is perfect, reading our minds for just what we want to hear, running us just hard enough before slowing it down. The view is breathtaking, the whole Boston skyline light up and the soft glow of the river. We walk in and I am no longer soft spoken Susy Cupcake from the green room with my tiny bloomers and lace top. We don't hold back and she's an amazing dancer as we dance close, me in black and her in her red wedding gown, her hair blowing from the open window like we're in a music video. I feel the energy rushing through me as boys and girls come to dance with me and flirt if they are feeling brave. We dance until it becomes a spiritual act, washing test tube after test tube down our throats. The boys with us are sweet, they dance with me and bring me drinks. She has a tiny glowing contact ball and is adorable in her fluffy vest we giggle and dance and she moved the ball around me as we sync our movements. I feel buzzing in my fingers. I feel alive.
The next morning I blearily make my way down to tea with her. We laugh with each other, and admire everyone's intricate outfits. I feel unembarassed of my traveling clothes. We listen to the big pickup band, resplendant in gramophones and I watch every smooth down their clothes and smooth down themselves and be kind to each other, whether or not they knew each other before. Everyone has tried so hard to look nice and be nice, it's impossible to not find the beauty in that. I remember why I do what I do as I nibble a scone.
I bid a farewell (for now) to my new coterie and make the trip home. I got everything that I needed.
I've been trying to figure out how to talk about my experience at Arisia, mostly because a lot of it doesn't parse well into words. I accomplished what I set out to do. I was changed by the experience in ways that I am still unpacking. But I want to share with you bits.
We drive for hours and talk for hours and we just know somehow by the time we get to the restaurant where there is lovely steaming plates of food that we will both get what we need.
I sat down in the front row and I waved and she ran over to me and we hugged and hugged and admired each other and teared up a bit, about how far we've both come, how we used to just be these girls from diaryland, she in Japan and me in New Jersey and we both knew we wanted something . . .more. She introduces me to her housemate who is wonderfully sweet and she runs to do her show and I sit and listen. And I allowed myself the experience, I allowed myself that feeling that Jacob describes so perfectly(But real love, at its finest, makes you feel like you are bursting open, like this: Like hearing a beautiful song, or reading a beautiful poem, or hearing a wonderful story, and the tears come and you don't know precisely why. It doesn't hurt; it hurts in a way that isn't hurting, that we don't have a word for. Largeness. Enormity. ). She reads the part where they are at the opera and she promises her that she will never hurt her or allow her to be hurt and the tears start falling. Before the sirene even asks I have already taken off my glasses and closed my eyes, as they did in the story and when she sings the opera, the tears come in earnst. I sit there, unashamed to be as moved as I was, feeling that perfect peace, that spiritual experience where everything is just as it should be and I let that awful beautiful sadness of the piece wash over me, both of them fitted together perfectly for the moment.
I am afraid, more than I usually am. Everything is so much bigger than me, but I have learned that being brave doesn't mean there is no short tiny breaths, the sickening thud of homesickness, and an uneasy tummy, it means doing it anyway and finding the courage to get what you need. She draws sigals on me in the bathroom with a soft eyeshadow brush and hand sanitizer. We strengthen my spine, open my heart, strengthen my hand for striking. I am brave. I am ready.
I had thought to only give her my card, but she invited me to sit down with her and her staff for their breakfast, surrounded by tiny jars of jam. I explain myself, carefully and they are kind and interested. We exchange cards, I carelessly put hers in my bag, not realizing who she would be next year until I look at it when I get home.
F. is the belle of the green room, everyone can't help but love her. I'm more reserved as I usually am, mostly contented to listen to her suitors pour out their hearts to me about their mad smashes on her. I was to network with people who could help me in what I was trying to do, a nearly impossible task it seemed until F. managed to spot a girl who attended my event. . .who ran the panel I needed . . .who knew the mother and daughter I needed to talk to as well . . .who told me that tea would be right before I left the next day. Sometimes Fate can kind, softly sewing us together.
We had been unceromoniously thrown out of our own room by the judges who swirl into the room with the pomp of the Little Miss Perfect Judges. We sit in the back room and start swapping stories, cracking each other up and it's like closing in retail or a restaurant again. Our fearless organizer gives us beautiful roses and we pop open champagne and eat organic strawberries while we dare each other to drink the clove and allspice cordial. The judges finally leave and we buzz through the room, cleaning and getting ready for the morning. Someone takes out a computer and starts putting on earworm music and we all start moving and dancing and laughing. She takes out the absinthe and we have a green fairy party in the green room, toasting each other and passing the cup. We go to the high school dance and only stay for a moment. We found the party we were looking for.
But I have left my id in the room where she was entertaining. My new friends howl with laughter as I am madly blushing and apologizing for interrupting. They drag it out just a little further, laughing all the way. I grab my id and we go to the party. I should have believed a little harder as to the awesomeness of this particular party and why it's hard to find for who could dream up a better party than a geek? We love the fantasy, the ceremony, we've watched the Matrix and Hackers and dreamed of somehow following that white rabbit to the party that we've always somehow just missed. Money can't buy imagination, going to Butter won't magically produce this experience, dreaming does. I walk in and my breath catches - they've taken a ninth floor suite and magically turned it into a gothic mansion. Armchairs, a big wooden throne chair, dance floor, gothic chandelier, the artwork. The bartender girls smile and are dressed as mad scientists as they gleefully squirt more shots into the blacklit test tubes. There are a coterie of girls, dressed Blair Waldorf style, very short black dresses, oversized pearls. The DJ is perfect, reading our minds for just what we want to hear, running us just hard enough before slowing it down. The view is breathtaking, the whole Boston skyline light up and the soft glow of the river. We walk in and I am no longer soft spoken Susy Cupcake from the green room with my tiny bloomers and lace top. We don't hold back and she's an amazing dancer as we dance close, me in black and her in her red wedding gown, her hair blowing from the open window like we're in a music video. I feel the energy rushing through me as boys and girls come to dance with me and flirt if they are feeling brave. We dance until it becomes a spiritual act, washing test tube after test tube down our throats. The boys with us are sweet, they dance with me and bring me drinks. She has a tiny glowing contact ball and is adorable in her fluffy vest we giggle and dance and she moved the ball around me as we sync our movements. I feel buzzing in my fingers. I feel alive.
The next morning I blearily make my way down to tea with her. We laugh with each other, and admire everyone's intricate outfits. I feel unembarassed of my traveling clothes. We listen to the big pickup band, resplendant in gramophones and I watch every smooth down their clothes and smooth down themselves and be kind to each other, whether or not they knew each other before. Everyone has tried so hard to look nice and be nice, it's impossible to not find the beauty in that. I remember why I do what I do as I nibble a scone.
I bid a farewell (for now) to my new coterie and make the trip home. I got everything that I needed.
