I recently attended Vibecamp, an annual event wherein ~500 loosely coordinated internet acquaintances engage in hijinks at a campground in rural Maryland. It was kind of like adult summer camp, but if adult summer camp required you to believe at least one of the following three statements in order to attend:
While there, I asked a member of the kitchen staff what he thought brought this particular group of people together. He lowered his voice a little and told me how the venue had always been accepting, how they hosted LGBTQ+ retreats before it was cool and never minded when teens wanted to indulge in a bit of marijuana. I think this was his covert way of saying, “Though it is hard to deduce exactly which weird thing bridges you all, it is not difficult to deduce that the thing that bridges you all is weird.”
2 Comments
In “Tea at the Treedome,” the third minisode in the pilot of SpongeBob SquarePants, SpongeBob visits Sandy Cheeks’ home. You probably remember how this goes. Sandy, being a squirrel, breathes air; SpongeBob, being a sea sponge, does not. He immediately begins to suffocate. The majority of the episode consists of him vehemently refusing to admit he is in the process of slowing asphyxiating to death. After a sequence of nail-biting denials, SpongeBob (and Patrick) completely dehydrate. Sandy returns from the kitchen to find their shriveled corpses (cue hyperrealistic photo signature to SpongeBob’s visual comedy) and resuscitates them by providing water helmets. Then, everyone has a good chuckle about it.
Supposedly this is humorous to watch. I find it agonizing, both now and when I first saw it as a child. I need it, shrieks SpongeBob, finally accepting the reality of his dependency on water. Holy fuck, our time on earth is bound by mortal constraints, five-year-old me suddenly realizes, and I worry that I am failing to act with the corresponding amount of care or urgency. Or something like that. I recently celebrated my one-year anniversary back in the States after two years living in rural Japan. I wrote the first of these pieces the week I returned. I wrote the second this morning.
I. By the time I awaken from my jet-lagged slumber, it’s too hot to run. I've been getting a full eight hours, just at the wrong time: 3 in the morning until 11. In California, the sun is golden but parched, not like the tropics, where I was before, where heat is first filtered through an everpresent wetness in the air. After organizing an event that, to everyone who witnessed it, probably went fine, I had a series of panic attacks. When the majority of my dread-causing responsibilities concluded, I expected to feel relieved, which only made me feel worse when I didn’t, and instead found myself crumpled in a heap next to the entrance of a parking garage, unable to put off dishevelling until arrived at a more suitable location. Frightened by the extent of my inconsolability, I journeyed homeward through a cycle of crying, then fast walking toward transport, then crying again, then sulking on the sidewalk before boarding MUNI.
By the time I made it home, my most prominent desire was to dial 911 and be carted away, but that kinda seemed like a lot, so I instead ate a bowl of microwaved noodles and willed myself in the direction of friends, inspired by all the self-help articles that promise companionship makes you feel better. Aware that I had more “best self”-demanding activity around the corner, the grittier parts of me opted to rally. Surrounded by revelry, I made it through exactly one hour of friendly banter before deciding that the articles were wrong – I did not feel better – and fleeing toward the nearest shade-providing foliage to begin hyperventilating under. I replicated the earlier cry/walk/cry/transit combo back home, then completed variants of sobbing and pacing in my room, then contemplated losing my mind in the company of an understanding friend. In the absence of one of those, I called the Alameda County crisis hotline, occupied with problems more pressing than taking a moment to locate the SF County counterpart, and talked to a nice man who said smart, gentle things in a soothing and validating way that only hundreds of hours of professional training can teach. I thanked him and meant it truly, then fell into a sticky sleep. I am on a trip to Washington DC, which means I am spending more time alone than I typically do: dining out as a party of one, gazing mock-pensively at nineteenth-century daguerreotypes to impress no one, going on solo quests for late-night gelato while mosquitos nip at my ankles.
Solitude makes me hyperaware, and hyperawareness invites wonder. As I wander the well-foliaged, Victorian-lined streets of DC awed and inspired by the great big world and my great big fortune to exist in it, I reflect on how far I have come in my ability to function as a fully-formed human. In addition to having the fortitude to make phone calls without rehearsing beforehand and being able to describe what a “nest egg” is, I am learning how to excel at navigating leisure as an individual, which is to say that I’m getting better at structuring my elective experience of the world in ways that are pleasant and satisfying rather than merely assigned or advised. Six days after I met Octo for the first time, I invited him to move in with me.
On paper, inviting a stranger to live with you is a dubious and potentially dangerous idea. In practice, it’s tremendously exciting, lots of fun, and a rare chance to learn about yourself in an accelerated, yet low-stakes environment. It also makes for a good story, particularly if you’re both fresh off somewhat hackjobbed international moves, receptive to indulging in mood enhancers, and navigating the first few weeks of fancy new jobs. Speaking for myself, moving in with Octo was weird and silly and special. Acting on our whims facilitated a slurry of lovely experiences: late-night cannolis and conversation, easy jogs along the Embarcadero, collaborative domesticity, reflections on power and how to wield more of it, one or two mutual confessions, a revival of my affinity toward clout goggles and mint it-it’s, and spirited conversation centered around acceptable uses cases for whole wheat tortillas (bad for burritos, good for wraps), the only two types of people in this world (cult leaders and cult followers), and how we plan to make the most of our limited, precious time on this earth. |
categories |