To: Peyton

1-18-2018

From: Potter

1-13-2021

Hello there,

My name is Potter, and I’m you! You’re probably thinking “what?? but you have a different name! and time travel isn’t possible! and I would never write ‘hello there’ as the greeting in a letter!”. Well it’s been 3 years and a lot has changed (except time travel, that hasn’t changed).I’m here to give you some spoilers if you promise not to change anything, and it will be tempting you’ll see. The journey I’m about to take you on is specifically about the liberal arts experience, the Hampshire college experience, and trust me when I say things there are some very peculiar moments. That being said, I absolutely wouldn’t change a thing. But let’s start at the beginning.

You just got off of a phone interview with Hampshire college, the college that intrigues and scares you, the college I’m about to graduate from. You talked to a Div 3 named Zack, pacing in front of the window that took up practically the entire wall of that small room, watching the snowfall and imagining what the snow looked like there, picking dead leaves off your house plants. It’s been a long winter right? You’ve been inside a while and this phone call made you think of spring, made you think of the snow melting away and the sun coming out to warm the wood on the trees, releasing scent into the air. It made you imagine the sensation of wind rushing into a clearing to ruffle the surrounding trees, standing against it in the grass with bare feet. But like I said before, I also remember the fear. The fear you won’t get in and the fear that you will get in, scared of leaving but wanting it more than anything.

Your future is not all kittens and rainbows (though there are lots of rainbows and the occasional kitten). It becomes increasingly more complicated with every month that passes, building up to eventually spill over, in the metaphorical sense. But the complications are what forced the developments that brought me to who I am now, and the spillage often swept away what was no longer needed. The fear your mother had felt since receiving your acceptance letter, of you being so far, her fear which eventually festered and grew into an anger that became an obstacle, harder to pass as the semesters progressed. That fear set in standing on the grassy lawn watching the car pull away, knowing you were now as alone as you knew was possible

there’s this ache,

pushing at muscles,

at the thin layer of skin

protecting the chest, heaving

The ache was called longing.

You rarely cried anymore, but you did now, hurrying up the 4 flights of stairs and dodging every eye till you were alone, looking out over a quad of families unpacking and saying their goodbyes. Everyone looked happier, more prepared, individualistic, outgoing, creative, confident, accomplished; you’d come to find that often people were these things as you got to know them, but you would also realize you can become these things yourself.

the open window let in remnants

of Summer, the last weeks of August

spilling in as warm air, breathing in humidity

watching the shadowplay of sun rays streaming

through leaves, projecting green onto the white curtain

Orientation; how to not have a good time

Arrive earlier than you need to- we run on ‘Hampshire time’ here.

Don’t make small talk with anyone- it couldn’t possibly lead to, I dunno, friendships, right? Fear moving into a more comfortable position- because they’re watching your every move,

duh.

First week came and went, the traumatic adjustment period with it, and miraculously you even came out of it with friends. Classes started without much issue and nothing was overwhelming. For a number of reasons, this would be the most peaceful, the most normal semester you would have. But what even is normal? Why care when dysfunction and chaos are so much more exciting and entertaining? (y’see? This is what you’ve become.) A myriad of writing courses and a photography class, and I can confidently say that only 1 was critical for bringing me to what I study now; that class was intro to poetry. “Poetry?” you say “Like rhyming and haiku’s and shakespeare?…” No. At least that’s not what poetry is to me, not how I interact with it, not the words that drip from my pen. Poetry wouldn’t instantly become the core of your academic endeavors, you had to appease a committee which wanted to see a little bit of that exploration and diversity in coursework that’s advertised on the Hampshire brochure afterall. But in the end the exploration was good, because every course that didn’t strike you the right way made it more apparent when one did. As the snow of December blew in everyone left, classes finished in a panic and the ache came back as memories barely months old weighed like years.

cold mornings, rainy mornings

body pains too small to incapacitate

but large enough the provoke frustration

squash, carrots, tomatoes bruised with pests

afternoons spent in the soft grass, picking beans

the passing clouds so calming, a drink of water bliss

Every Tuesday and Thursday

The walk to EDH and back

Soggy feet, stolen umbrella

Huffing and puffing all 10 mins

Comically, irritatingly, inconvenient

hiking in sneakers, facing a mountain of ice;

fool. the fool made it up though, to the summit

looking out at a horizon slowly saturating orange

yelling on the edge, to the curving Connecticut below

Next semester began with a slap in the face (metaphorical) when everyone was met with the news that the newly appointed president of the college was attempting to sell or merge Hampshire with another school. My life flashed before my eyes; I had just gotten comfy, I had plans, ambition, a dream which was now under threat, so naturally all that remained was rage. But luckily Hampshire is a very politically active school (famously so, as the grandparents like to remind disapprovingly) so I had a perfectly healthy cause to help channel that rage. This event infected campus life and threw everything off balance. Half the professors I had were called away from class for meetings to decide the fate of the school, or at the very least prevent it’s ruin, and the others devoted space in their classes to support the efforts any way they could. I watched as the professor who I think the world of, the one who also arrived on campus at 17 and made a name for herself by following the same paths that I was now, broke down and showed her overwhelming worry and distress. A classroom of poets collectively held their breath, careful not to let their own emotions spill over.

finding solace in the wooden floors

a shiny surface, warm orange, inviting

gathered in circles, chattering and bubbly

music drowned out every noise, one rhythm

cotton socks slid in synchronization, the circles

breathed, morphing as limbs and bodies entangled

The class was called interior landscapes

which means writing the shit in your head

pictures of suffering, the rare soothing light

mostly dark clouds, inhaled smoke, trauma

loneliness, longing, lust

This was the semester when the complications began, the first time everything became so overwhelming; built up until it spilled over. Being a writer, a poet, now meant more reading, writing, and comprehensive feedback than I was capable. Mid-semester during a committee meeting I complained about this, like I complain about the rain, and they said that as they had predicted, I had taken on too much with 3 intensive writing workshops and 2 other classes. They said I had academic burnout, and there really was no solution since I couldn’t halt all activity and rest, so I focused on survival and what summer would feel like. The end came as a massive relief; the president was fired to the sound of a ringing bell and celebration, I started and ended my first relationship, the temperature of the rain rose, puddles turned into swimming holes, and classes came to an end with not only a release of tension, but the feeling that surviving the semester had forced a new development in my skills and motivations.

the wooden floor is quiet now 1 light on,

only 2 sets of feet, flirting around each other

bachata, sensual, pushed into a wall, escalate

into the night, a dark room, a repetitive rhythm plays

drowning, a distraction, a diversion, a coping mechanism,

laying awake that night, the curtains came alive with moonlight

faintly illuminating pale bare skin, littered with wounds that will fester

into the kind of wound that creates an unbalanced mess, curled in tight

She has short hair, kind eyes;

they widen with each new detail.

Her dogs name is Henry, he’s blind,

he naps next to me as I share my stories.

The window has a nice view, field with a path

cutting through it, flush with the soft green slope.

I’m not anxious talking, but still my throat closes up

bright pallid fluorescents

reflected on the shiny floor

sharp smell, migraine inducing

remnants of plant matter purging

sick with worry, confusion, and guilt

increasing each second, room spinning

acting as a last hope is a powerful stimulant

From here onwards there was a desperate need for social activity, for creative outlets that only existed in the free flowing, moldable space of a liberal arts college. It had taken less than a year to find an art form, something worth chasing after, questioning, changing and morphing until it was the kind of ephemerally perfect that could be shown to the world. Here is also when, and this detail is important, you’re introduced to (frequent) recreational drug usage. Arriving back on campus was like fresh air. It was every bit as suffocatingly humid as the summer in Virginia had been, but here the blue sky and occasional breeze, chilled as it passed through the shade, were a balm that distracted and opened up the lungs. The pathways were a little emptier, dust settled in the quiet, remembering the lost class of 2019. But still the grass felt the same, softer even now as my friends and I blew off steam in the flower fields, preparing for the semester to come. I wouldn’t exactly call this semester challenging, as I would ‘technically difficult’. Social connections shifted as tethers were stretched across space and time, prone to snapping without frequent tending. The loss of a class meant the loss of funding for student activities like the clubs you had come to facilitate, the loss of a soccer team which was already full of holes where the graduates had stood. But there were things you took on that helped to distract from the loss, and focus on what could be done. Apparently it’s a thing to burn-out in your third year and desperately run away for a bit, through study abroad or otherwise, and that’s precisely what happened this year.

the days were synchronized

one activity after another

elaborate schedule of 30 mins gaps relieve,

collapse, only to contract at the sound of the alarm

7am on the farm, dew covered field

water droplets gathered on the spinach

carrots cracking as they break from the earth

elation, the feeling of running

pain that turns to bliss as motion

halts, heaving for breath, the mind

clears of all it’s dust, cool mist envelopes

You were tested this semester, packed on too many things, you were running out of time to have fun you thought, had to make the most of it. So you had 3 jobs, scheduled as much as you could be (cause how can a student live without money), signed (lead) 2 clubs, and participated in 2 sports. You could be busier, you thought, but the modmates who scarcely saw you thought otherwise, as did all the friends who you filled your free hours with. Now, I still make time for my friends, but now I’m gifted with the knowledge that solitude is necessary. Then, the only way I found relief was in sleep (I get none of that now) and in the highs at the end of the day, or during the day if I was feeling really stressed. It was only a matter of time before marijuana became part of my lifestyle, just like drinking, because it was everywhere in this school’s culture. I did better work that fall than I had any other semester, and by better I mean more passionately crafted, more inspired, more full of energy and liveliness. A lot of blunders occurred, spelling mistakes and details with intentions that couldn’t be explained, not that it wasn’t very easy to come up with something on the spot. You also became a dancer this semester. It meant going to the other schools, and it was wonderful. The performance stadiums were massive, filled with peaceful chatter. A stage lit, striking shadows, projected color, striking stills; you didn’t know then that your ambition would pan out. But as the capstone of the semester, you wrote a series of poems about your cringey summer breakup and lithosexuality which went along with 2 improves. The project was called ‘Switch’ and my committee said they wanted me to stick with this notion, motion as I began thinking of my div 3. Fall ended with the smell of warm leaves, I said goodbye to my friends who would graduate while I was away in London, and to those who I wouldn’t

see for a long time. Nobody knew then what would happen in a few months, and disrupt life even as I write this now.

a smooth grey floor

reflecting fluorescent

Bouncing off white fabric

the smell of that morning gone

but stifled tears, fear, pain, confusion

still paint the backdrop red, and block the sun

poetry readings and bubble tea

late night walks to the farm to scream

our lungs raw, skipping practice when life

got out of control and we couldn’t breathe

lying on our backs as we let out smoke

cool green grass of the soccer field soft support

and the midnight sky dripping with stars, blurred

Break went by quickly, and it was time to leave for the next terrifying adventure: London. New college, new rules, new city, new country, new people, no friends. I won’t tell you aboutLondon, I can’t tell you about London, I don’t want to tell you about London, because that’s the Diiiv and you’ll find out for yourself eventually. Some things aren’t worth sharing.

Nicotine vapor fills the air

curling as it picks up wind

off the rushing cars, blurred

a 4 pack of 0.5% Juul pods

Is 10p, and the rum and cola

another 2p, so no cafe’s for a week

No one warned us of the rain

not that we asked, but still

a 2 hour bus ride, only to get

soaked, drenched, drowned

by the fury of the english channel

stumbling along on chalk cliffside

till we found our way to the pub

to drink ourselves silly

Returning from London, returning in a pandemic, returning after the summer you faced was not easy. Everyone says nothing could prepare you for a diiiv, but that couldn’t be truer in my case. I was not allowed time, I allowed myself no time to prepare, as I was too preoccupied with recovering that didn’t help prepare me for the coming semester. But still the first couple weeks went by and I actually did have ideas when people asked “what’s your diiiv gonna be?” you’ll get asked that a lot and i don’t know is an embarrassing answer, so be prepared. Time went on, and zoom wore on me, this semester I’m messing around with it for the sake of artistry, and I love how now I can easily eat, or get high, or do other things during class, because those things genuinely help me absorb information better. Despite the help of many drugs, prescription and otherwise, and regular therapy, I was running out of steam and the claws of depression were setting in, counteracted only by the nights I spent tripping, or the made caffeinated rush to meet a deadline at the last minute. All this looks really terrible as I’m typing it out, but apparently it aided my performance because I received high praise for projects I turned in months later. I think it was because this school supports it’s students, and they knew I needed it, and for once I succumbed to it.

It’s past midnight, laying on the soccer field

barefoot dewdrops coating grass blades

we walk across asphalt, I dance under lights

roll down hills, breath, as the sky breaths too

drunken nights in tin foil tree houses

wonderful gay shit on the tv, 1 more shot

drinking game! Wait let’s actually play a game!

to the courts we stumble, laughing, shouting,

that night was a mess

And that brings us to the present. A long winded story wasn’t it? Condensed for 3 years, minus the breaks, but I at the very least am exhausted and really nostalgic for the past. Perhaps that could be because I want to run from the present reality of diiiv work (torture) or perhaps i’m running from my future. But this letter serves as a good reminder that I shouldn’t do that, of how eager I was to head towards where I am now, and that facing change has never led me somewhere I regret.