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Beginning Hampshire College

Already in summer I was able to read some writing on the wall that my picture of Hampshire might be too idealistic, though I was far from giving up my utopian vision because of technicalities. One of these first technicalities came early on, when I was reading the literature from Hampshire after my interview. I was expecting to encounter some references to the people I had been reading in my own investigations of alternative schools. I thought I would read about Dewey. I thought I would read about connections between Hampshire and the other alternative programs I knew about in the United States - Eliot Wigginton's Foxfire program, for instance. But there was no mention. Hampshire seemed to be in some kind of vacuum. When I arrived on campus, I found my suspicions confirmed. Hampshire really did have no ties to what I at the time thought of as the current alternative or progressive education movement. And the reason was quite simple. Hampshire's faculty was entirely made of PhDs from traditional universities, though many of them were on the liberal end of things. They had bought into the system, whereas most of the people in the alternative movement I was reading about had opted out of the system before, during, or (occasionally) after graduate school.

There were other strange discoveries, too. For instance, there was preregistration. I didn't know that this was the first year of this particular ``experiment,'' or that Hampshire was eternally developing these ``new developments'' as the older faculty were replaced by new recruits from the Universities. I did know that I was not pleased with preregistration, though. I knew that the particular requirements they were making for what I could and could not preregister for were ludicrous. I screamed at the forms. They didn't go away. But after listening to just a few screams, Mom and her boyfriend did go away. But before long, they were back. Perhaps, they suggested, this form was simply for the people who didn't know what they wanted to do, and the college was more than happy to entertain other ideas for people who did know what was right for them. The form was if you needed it. Well, that sounded feasible. ``Then why didn't they say it?'' I had to be pissed about something. Mom replied, ``Maybe they assume that anyone capable of designing their own education will understand that they don't need the forms, and will not pay them much attention.'' Well, that shut me up!

When I entered Hampshire, matricuation for new students took place the day we moved into our dorms. Some students had gone on week-long pre-college trips, but I hadn't because I was doing a bike race. Things didn't go poorly the first day, but they didn't go great either. In my orientation group, I met Mosley James, a really geeky-looking white guy with big hair and thick glasses. When we described ourselves to the orientation group, the thing he mentioned about himself was that he was interested in urban transportation design. I didn't know whether to feel bad for him or laugh. At least I wasn't the geekiest, though. But probably he would be a good person to know at this school, even if he was only as socially aware as I (the dunce himself) had been two years before Later, I decided to reach out to him, and told him that I was interested in urban transportation design, too. ``Really?'' he said, ``Wow. I didn't expect to find anyone else interested in that.'' I was right about him being a valuable person. He helped me tremendously in realizing that I could really help people if only I followed through with my ideas.

The first week, I went through the process of trying to figure out who my friends were or might be. I wasn't very good at it though. One moment I would find myself in a room with two girls from Brooklyn arguing about who should get more of the extra shaving gel bottles they had found. (The deciding factor was who had more leg-hair.) I certainly knew these weren't my people - but where were my people? It was scary! All of a sudden, in one summer the average age of the people around me had gone from 15 to 20. It seemed to me that almost everybody had a beard and several girlfriends.

By the end of the week, I found someone with whom I had a connection. Chess. His name was Alek Matthews. We played many nights, ordinarily starting well after midnight. He told me about what it was like to be a pyromaniac, an alcoholic who had never been drunk, about his incredible memory for theater. Unlike my short-lived encounter with the two haggling New Yorkers, Alek and I kept up a friendly interest throughout our years at Hampshire.

I lucked out with my advisor. He was the same guy who had called me on the phone last spring, claiming to be a poet and a physicist, Herb Bernstein. I had written on a form that I would prefer either Herb or a professor of poetry, and the advising office had the good sense to give me this one. Our first meeting went fairly well. On the one hand, I was excited, because he invited me to run problem sessions for his physics class. On the other hand, he also insisted that I take four classes, ``just to see what that's like.'' That was the last time I made either of the two mistakes involved - taking his advice too seriously, and taking four classes. Since then, I've averaged about two classes per semester.

One interesting thing I've realized is how many subject areas I temporarily lost interest in because of frustrations with teachers. People ask me why I didn't study poetry (I had intended to when I got to Hampshire). The answer is because I took a literature class my first semester. Sometimes I talk to physics teachers who recognize that I have a good physics mind. Why didn't I study physics? Because I started a quantum physics class my second semester with a professor who had a very different style of education than what I needed (I didn't even finish it). Or, why didn't I study education from the very beginning? It was something I was thinking about. In this letter, dated September 15, I found out why:

i changed one of my classes because the teacher was a crap. it was so easy. all i had to do was go to the new class. the old teacher was really pissing me off. she'd already decided what books we were going to read, which i forgive her for, but also how long we'd spend on each subject, what papers we would write, the exact topics, when each part (note cards, this that bullshit man) was due, etc, plus she wasn't funny at all. so i went to her after class and said basically i was pretty hesitant to take the class because of this and that, how come she could use Foxfire's textbooks in class, learn about alternative education, teach in an alternative school, and still somehow revert back to the way she was taught (she said if i wanted to i could do extra reading, or get the tasks completed ahead of time and i said yeeha)

But despite some setbacks like that, I still realized what an improvement Hampshire was over high school. Here is another section of the same letter:

q: does not having as much to rebel against make me lose energy? a: no way. now my energy goes into smiling, meeting people, playing frisbee, reading this neato stuff, playing guitar, and the extra energy i used to use bitching and moaning i now use much more effectively - say, sidetracking myself.

My connection to NMH was very important to me that first semester. Those were still the people I cared about. Recovering from an operation on my sinus over a long weekend, I wrote a letter to Blythe, who I haven't written much about but who was a good friend and a little bit of a crush at NMH. I think I must have told her to share it with Martin; from the following postcard, I assume she did.

C - I just read your letter to Blythe, and my love for you is deeper than I have ever known for anyone. I can't tell you how many times I've tried to console myself abandoning you last year. Possibly the only good thing to come of that was a strengthened belief in my one true love for you. I almost feel like asking for forgiveness, but I know you already have, probably never really had to, and that's not what we're about anyway. Even on codiene, you're the best poet I have ever read. Love, Martin.

One class I was taking had a teaching assistant who was a student in her last semester. I had my concerns about the course. (I was a perfectionist, so I inevitably had my concerns.) But I had some very important concerns here. They wanted me to communicate just like them. But I wasn't like them. I was a poet. And it was my education. My first paper had the following comments from the T.A.: ``Write a scientific paper next time, copy journal format, back up statements with data, look at method of inquiry. Where are your references - the one you have is the wrong format. Be careful with your writing.'' Obviously, we had different goals. I was not interested in writing in her style. I don't know why I wasn't, but she totally failed as a teacher. This is because she didn't validate the goals I was working for. I don't have the paper here, so I can't explain what my goals were based on it. But I do have a copy of a letter I wrote to some friends at NMH, in which I found the transcription of her comments. That letter also included the title of my paper: ``Waiter, waiter! Could you get me some of my sons' principal, please?'' So the paper must have been about overpopulation or overconsumption. If she had been a talented teacher, she would have written something much more like the following: ``I appreciated your creativity. It looks like you probably have different goals than I originally anticipated you would have. The goals I ordinarily have for my students are to learn to communicate in an orthodox style, and to think about substantial issues. You are clearly interested in the second, but it seems like rather than communicating in an orthodox style, you are trying to develop your own personal, unorthodox style. I admire that, and will work with you on it if you want. We'll have to talk some about how I can be of help to you. I'm interested, too, in why exactly you do not want to use the orthodox style? Is it because you are frustrated with people who made you use it in the past when it didn't match your goals, or is it because you think it is too limited? I think most readers of science are too stuck up to appreciate the way you are writing. But I want you to know that I think it's great. And if you decide sometime that you would like to learn the orthodox way of writing, I'm more than happy to help you do that too.'' Now that would have been a psychologically-aware response. It would have validated me for whatever I needed to be validated for. It would have admired my freedom of thought. It would have communicated her idea that my writing would not be effective in the scientific community. And it would leave the choice up to me what I wanted to do from there.

But I didn't get that from her, and in fact I rarely got it from anybody. No one really respected me as a learner (a phrase I have hear attributed to Emerson - apparently, he claimed it was the most important part of teaching). They all thought they knew better. Occasionally, Herb would respect me. That has made a tremendous difference, even if it was somewhat lessened by Herb's other ``best intentions'' and the limitations of the school.

Herb knew that I was a crazy physicist from the time he first met me. So when I had to write a paper for my literature class, The Beats, he suggested I bring it by before turning it in. He read it and said it was great. But then he looked the teacher up in the course catalog and said, ``Here's the problem. He's a literature professor.'' ``So?'' I asked. ``Well, what you're doing here is creative writing, and that's great, but what he's expecting is literature analysis.'' I wasn't sure whether he was right or not. So I decided to rewrite the paper in a more literatury style, turn in both, and see what the professor would do. Mr. Professor returns both. The one I am proud of has no comments; the other ``literatury'' one is full of them. And not even one comment on my explanation of why I was including two papers. Yuck. Well, by then end of that semester, the Beats - the subject of the course - had gone from being extremely relevant and interesting to being ``academic.'' But Herb's caring and thoughtful warning to me probably saved me from many years of hating literature (which people would have later simply recognized as ``for some reason he doesn't understand the worth of literature'' when actually it would have been a failure in a teacher).

I remember a few interesting moments with Herb that fall. Once, for instance, it was a few weeks after I had had an operation to remove a wisdom tooth from my sinus.

``Is all the swelling gone?'' he asked. ``It doesn't look like it is.''

``No,'' I answered, ``it's not. But it should be soon.''

``What if it's not? Maybe the bone will be permanently deformed? Can they do something about that?''

``Frankly, the less `doing something' they do, the better.''

``But what if you want to be a movie star? You need to keep your options open! Movie stars need perfect faces.''

``Well, I doubt I'll want to be a movie star, but who says movie starts need perfect faces anyway?''

We had a fairly good relationship. But we had one conversation the first semester where I felt Herb hadn't heard me about my frustrations with institutions and my desire to experiment with getting part of my education completely outside of Hampshire College. I had told him I wanted to take a semester off and set up my own college without professors and for very low cost. I was sure it would work. I asked him how that could fit into Hampshire, and he responded that it fits in perfectly, at Hampshire. What I should do is to move into a mod (on-campus apartment) with the other people who would like to do this communal learning, and just do it here. But he hadn't heard me. He was enthusiastic about his own idea, not mine. Because of him not hearing me there, I had to protect myself, and sometimes after that I didn't share things that were really me. Like some of my theories. Those about teaching physics I did share with Herb. But there were more, like my theory about how there were two kinds of attraction. I called them ``proximal'' and ``distal,'' and they accounted for all kinds of attractions in all kinds of relationships. (Since then, this theory has evolved so much - into my theory of attraction as the perception of potential power.) Theories about why women really don't need men, but men need women; theories about how the idea of ``rights'' was wreaking havoc on people, and theories about human development (like that people have a genetic disposition to learn to learn, then sometime later they switch for some reason from that to actually learning, using the basis they have acquired).

I have often read of people who managed to maintain a sense of self and a curiosity despite ``education,'' and I've often observed this same tendency, to separate the thinking we are most proud of from the institution that is there to destroy it. That is what I continued to do in many cases.

One of the most frustrating things for me was that few students - and as far as I could tell, no professors - took themselves or what they were thinking about seriously enough so that it really helped them to understand their lives. One day, I remember reading Bob Kaufman's poem in my class ``The Beats.''

The Eyes Too

My eyes too have souls that rage
At the sight of butterflies walking,
At the crime of a ship cutting an ocean in two,
At visions of girls who should be naked
Sitting at lunch counters eyeballing newspapers,
At complacent faces of staring clocks
Objectively canceling lives
With Ticks.

And it was that kind of a day, too. I looked at my watch. I looked at the chest of the woman across the room. I looked at the poem. I listened to the class, but I couldn't hear a single word they were saying. I went to the bathroom to recover (a trick I learned from my new friend Mel Slatt), but recovery was impossible. After some more ticks, I had to leave, something I didn't ordinarily do. But I had to.

The whole system, I felt, was pretty unfair, both to the teacher and to the students. The teacher tried so hard - he researched before every class, and even had intelligent things to say. But for the most part, he just didn't understand that literature was about us, not ``them,'' and didn't understand that my life was the most exciting thing to me, not someone else's life.

Luckily, I did. And I spent a lot of time thinking and living on my own, too. Sex, for instance, was still something I was thinking intensely about. The subject occupied about fifty per cent of my writing at the time; in journals, letters, and random poems, I found expression of my desires, theories, and experiences. And in December, I had sex for the first time, with a woman whom I had met through email, the first time we met in person. I saw her once more after that, but we were not particularly interested in who we turned out to be.

Another think I found really rewarding was reading division IIIs from the Hampshire library. In a sense, I think this was part of my transition to realizing that books were written by people. These division IIIs were so close to home, because they were written right on the very campus on which I walked. And the ones that intrigued me most of all were the ones that dealt with Hamphsire itself. One of the first division IIIs I found, for instance, was about how Hampshire was designed and functioning to produce a liberally educated man, rather than an evolved man. I didn't understand what that meant then, but in a sense it has turned out that I have come around not only to understand that criticism of the college, but to believe the same thing myself! So many things turned out to be so valuable to me in my years at Hampshire, though at the time they didn't seem particularly important - reading several of these division IIIs in several subject areas was one of these vitally important experiences; two more were in starting my binder collection and entering the ``Great Minds Challenge'' at Amherst College, both in my first January term.

Here is the story of how I started my binders (to which I have been referring while writing this whole story). George (a friend from Haverford) sent me what he called his ``Big Black Binder.'' His binder contained hundreds of pages of what he felt were the most important materials to help me understand his emotional and intellectual development, his papers, letters, and some email. It was tremendous! I was in heaven, to be having these insights into how another person thought, and to have this history of much of the development of his ideas. Immediately, of course, I set to work catching up and producing my own. I printed out all the files I had on disk: papers and writings that I had thrown out or lost so many years before; letters to and from me. And, to this day, I am filling up up more and more binders. This whole binder business was actually part of a grand scheme, the ``Educational Commune,'' conceived by George, who likes names to attach to his ideas. The long-awaited ``E. C.'' was somewhat of a let-down, though. It happened in early January of my first year (January of 1993) at his house, in New Hampshire. George was still desperately writing his final papers for school. Meanwhile I was on my own trip of the impossibility of communication because each word is relative. Important things, of course, but together with our incessant personality conflicts. ``E. C.'' never had its chance.

And so I returned to campus, to enter the Amherst College ``Great Minds Challenge.'' It had been advertised in the Amherst College Janterm Calendar. But when I arrived at the specified time, I discovered that this contest was sponsored by the computer science department - in fact, it was a programming contest! But I figured, what the hell!

So, together with my friend Mosley (who knew how to program basic), and with some help from George, who came to visit for a few days, I worked on the project. Computer science was George's major, and on his advice I put my effort into learning how to program in the computer language called ``C.'' And by the end of the month, Mosley and I had not only tied for first in the contest, but I had also found an exciting new area for study. ``I told you,'' George said. I'd taken the Advanced Placement physics class with him in high school, and he had given me the advice several times before to ``check out computers.'' Well, he was right. It was a blast. And it was the thing for me, for several years.

So what did I do that semester? Started learning computer science, by doing the second course, and skipping the first one. There were several interesting ways I made this course a great learning experience. First of all, I didn't buy the book, and I didn't look at anyone else's book. So, whenever the instructor gave the assignments (about weekly), I went to work learning on my own how I would solve these problems. Sometimes I used some of the ideas from class; sometimes I didn't. But I came up with some great solutions! About half-way through the semester, one of the other students was asking me for help. When I gave her my answer, she couldn't believe it. What kind of an answer was that? I wasn't doing it as it said I should! ``It?'' ``The textbook!'' she answered. And ``it'' really did have the answers - she showed me. I could hardly believe it. Some of the answers were similar to the ones I had come up with; other times, the answers were different. But without fail, the so-called ``answers'' were in there; the assignments must have been made with this in mind, but thank goodness I hadn't had the insight to buy the book, because I hardly would have had a chance to think! The whole reason I was doing computer science, after all, was because it was the first subject at college where I really had an opportunity to think while I was working.

Other classes were somewhat interesting. I dropped, or partially completed, as many as I finished, which in retrospect were just as important in my education as the ones I finished. (Thank god for Hampshire!)

I had my first relationship with regular sex; an interesting relationship, with a great lady named Suzy Henderson. The problem, however - we both agreed - was that our relationship was absolutely and completely based on sex; and before too long that wore off. We tried to find some other things to do - ski, play ping pong, swim, or for god's sake, talk. But none of it worked, and before too long I was back to the computers and bikes.

One activity in which I know I learned a whole lot was teaching physics. I was the TA for the Physics I (fall) and II (spring) classes, and ran problem sessions twice to three times a week. Three or four people came regularly, and others were more sporatic. They were not the most gifted students of physics, but they were great. Through that experience I was finally able to put into practice some of my ideas about education - in particular, about figuring out where an individual learner was having difficulty, and helping them there (usually things as basic as addition rather than as ``complex'' as acceleration). During this time, I developed lots of other theories about teaching physics, and teaching in general; many of the theories I have been talking about, and will continue to talk about, went through much of their development during these evenings teaching physics.

But despite all that learning, I was still frustrated. One day, though, a typed page was slipped under the door to my room (K 205 in Dakin). ``Student Led Classes,'' it says, and it gives a description. But from whom? It did not have the author's name, though, and no one else got one. I was wildly excited. Because with that note, my ideas for the learning community I had expected to find came alive once again.

It turned out that it was Mosley. We talked it up; we talked it down; we talked it all the way around. Everybody we ever ate with in SAGA heard about it. But we were crazy, they said. How would we ever organize; how would we ever be accepted; how would we ever be funded? That's what other people wanted to know. The question for me was different: why wasn't it happening yet!

But I was helpless. Sure, I could talk a fine line. But I had never hung a flyer in my life. I thought flyers must be hung magically, as if people like you and me weren't responsible for such things. And how could I explain anything to these other people who didn't know even what they wanted?

Mosley and I thought and thought and thought, and we finally decided that the reason these things aren't happening was just that people weren't able to find each other; that really, everyone was completely ready to run their own classes, but they just didn't know how to contact other people to join them in these efforts. So the solution was obvious to both of us: a ``Brainstorm and Idea Board.'' But where would we put it? We looked around campus. Perhaps in front of the post-office. But those spaces were all already taken. Perhaps, then, in the ``Airport Lounge?'' But that, too, was taken. Well then, in Franklin Patterson Hall? But enough people don't go there, and the bulletin boards are full anyway. How about in the Robert Crown Center - the gymnasium? It is connected to the library, and the post office; so easy to stroll over!

Mosley set out to find out whether we could put it in the Robert Crown Center. I myself was too intimidated by the man who was in charge there; I had heard several stories about how mean he was, and from his voice I knew it must be true (though I had never actually seen him). And besides, I still didn't realize that I, Chris Kawecki, was really capable of actually talking to someone in charge and asking them for something; that I, Chris Kawecki, might actually communicate one of my ideas; or that (heaven forbid) I, Chris Kawecki might actually be able to hang up a little eight-and-a-half by eleven sheet of paper to share some of my ideas. No, that was something Mosley would have to do; too scary to enact my ideas; god forbid, I might have to put one of my ideas on the line by taking it seriously for once.

And Mosley returned. And it would fly. ``He says that he thinks it's the craziest idea he's ever heard of, but that we can use the bulletin board I asked him about. And he says that if it really does work, that no doubt he would get the `biggest raise of his life.' ''

So it was decided; the Brainstorm and Idea Board it would be. Through the rest of the summer and spring, we schemed. What, exactly, would we write on the board; and how would we tell people about it?

In due time, you will hear. For now, I would like to talk about one of my other passions at the time: bicycle racing.

The one other thing that definitely deserves its place in this section, rounding out the spring of my first year (the spring of 1993), and leading us into summer, was bicycle racing. Through bike racing, I met my dear friend Jeremy Christianson; and we had many wonderful rides. Probably other activities are as wonderful as bike racing, but just for the record let me describe some of the benefits for me. First of all, the opportunity to do something physical, something where I can use my body. This is so important, because it keeps me healthy (I never have understood all these professors and doctors who study medicine or health care systems but can never convert it even the slightest bit into themselves making a contribution to their own health; people who value health care over health). And physical labor of some kind is important because it helps to ground me in the physical world - gives me a place to try out the laws of physics, and the laws of food (I really do need to eat more if I train more!). And it gives me an appreciation for the value of commitment. Sports was one of the first ways that I was able to experience success because of my commitment. Interestingly, it turned out that once I had figured out the rest of my life to see these successes elsewhere (in the last few years of college), I found sports less important. But cycling itself has its own pleasures that other sports do not have, too. It is easy to talk while riding a bike; it is easy to think while riding a bike; it is easy to ride a bike. Bike racing gave me the opportunity to integrate my physical body, my will and commitment, my strategy in training and racing, my technical skill tuning things up. And finally, it gave me a way to really get to know the area around me - the seasons, the farms, the towns, the hills, the rivers, the roads.

That spring was a hard one; instead of racing with people my age, all of a sudden I was racing with riders who were all at least two and up to ten years older. But I weathered; I'd done my fair share of races with these ``senior'' riders before; this was the first time, however, when I had to race with them, rather than doing it occasionally as a challenge to supplement my racing as a junior. And when summer came, Jeremy and I took off to live for a couple months in Boulder, Colorado, sharing a room with my friend Ross (who I knew from NMH - George's roommate).

``Colorado,'' we'd heard, was the absolute heart of bicycle racing, and naturally, that was where we had to be. You see, Jeremy was at least as die-hard into the scene as I was; perhaps even more so, though I had somehow been gifted with legs faster than his.

We planned to leave right after a big race that my own team, the Stowe Bicycle Club, was holding. The race had several categories; the two I was qualified to race were juniors and ``Pro-Am'' (including the most serious amateurs in the country and several professionals). I desperately wanted to race in the two-lap Pro-Am event (90 miles), because this year dozens of the best riders in the country would be there. And after the collegiate cycling season, I was really in shape and ready to roll. But the President of my bicycle club insisted that I race the juniors - and for one of the first times, I listened to an authority figure, thinking it would get me somewhere. Not gladly, however. But I turned the bitter taste into righteous victory (more over him than the riders who I was competing against), leaving the field of junior riders behind me on the first climb and pulling away until eventually I won the race with a 6-minute gap. And then, not satisfied, but moreso, still rather ticked at my coach, I went home and added another 25 miles of hard intervals to my 45 mile solo ride. No damn coach was going to protect me from burnout!

And the next morning, Jeremy and I got in his Jetta, packed to the rim with everything we would need for our two months in Colorado; (including, of course, a breadmaker) and with bikes and wheels strapped all over the roof, we headed west.

We arrived the next night, and fell instantly to sleep upon arrival. Then the next morning, I remember walking outside, the blue, blue sky, and the rocks they call the Flatirons. Jeremy and I, against Ross's advice, immediately got on our bikes as soon as we woke up, and started riding. Up, up, up. Up Canyon Road; then up (I think) Sevan Mile Canyon to the town of ``Gold Hill,'' not more than a few houses. This was easily the longest, longest climb either of us had ever attempted; and then, damn cold despite being prepared and wearing all the extra clothing we had brought, turning our heads to the left - the Northwest - and seeing the blazing white snow peaks.

Moments like these demand salutes. So we stopped and peed right there. And, seeing that the road we were on bent over and down again just ahead of us, we turned and retreated back down the miles and miles of roadway, until finally Boulder again unfolded around us, and we were home.

Lots of people gave us advice. Take a couple weeks to get acclimated, people said. Just ride easy for a week. Ha! Instead, we put our training in high gear, and rode long and hard, hundreds and hundreds of hard and fast miles every week. And inbetween rides, I would write down things I was curious about, and go the University of Colorado at Boulder library to find all my answers - whether they were about metabolism, history, or computers.

The climax of the summer was our trip to Utah, where we took on a 2-day race in the High Uintas Mountains. The race went over a pass that was almost 12,000 feet high, with several feet of snow on each side of the road. This was our low-budget, crazy phase, and the day before the race Jeremy and I rolled into town just as dusk was falling, with no place to sleep. I saw a man walking around outside, though, and quickly ran to ask him whether we could sleep on his floor. It turned out he was just doing some carpentry work on a house there, and he said it would be OK if we spent the night there. Within the hour, Jeremy and I were laying on the floor with the sawdust and chips and our sleeping bags, snoring away.

My race (I did the juniors, I can't remember why) was 50 miles, up and over the pass. Jeremy was racing the senior race, 70 miles. Both started in Kamas, Utah, and both ended up on the other side of the mountains, but only Jeremy's had an official support van to bring riders back to the start. Apparently, junior racers always have parents. It didn't bother me, though, that I had no ride back. I did my race (won by over 5 minutes) then turned around and rode 50 miles right back to the car, doing a series of sprints in the last 10 miles just to give myself the final ``edge'' that of course I didn't need. And the next day, a race in a town in Wyoming; 15 laps around a 1-mile loop. This time, I only won by a minute. But that was good enough for me. And it was back to Boulder, for more ridiculous training rides.

As you might suspect, these things end; burnout crushes cocky kids like me every year, and this year it got me good. The race for which I was really training, and which was the focus of the whole summer for Jeremy and me, was called the Casper Classic, in Casper, Wyoming, a burnt-out oil town with a lot of flat range, and a few long, steep climbs onto a bizarre north-south plateau.

The race was about a week long, with races every day. We had plans to stay with an ``interesting'' Wyoming man, Zarl Dennings. I had heard of Zarl on the internet as I was planning for a place to stay during the race. According to the report (from a friend of his), he'd been bicycling around Central American countries on his beefy mountain bike with a drawly Spanish accent. So Jeremy and I were excited to finally meet this curious character with the cooky name who had once been a fellow bike racer. But before we even left Boulder, I knew something was wrong. I was riding with people who I should have been much faster than; but who were all of a sudden leaving me in the dust. Though I didn't admit it to myself or anyone else, it was the famous monster I had received visits from so many years previously: me and my overtraining. And, as if to make up for poor choices, I ate far too much the night before we left for Casper - weeks worth of pasta - and stayed up late drinking beer with the neighbors, who I was finally getting to know. Ah, bah humbug, in retrospect I can see that I was already lost, and knew it, even if I didn't let on.

Rotten, it was; and ``to celebrate'' our arrival in Casper, we ordered two pizzas from Dominoes, and got four because they burnt the bottom of the first two! Bad food, my friends, is my weakness. Sugar? fat? salt? You buy it, I'll eat it. The only defense I have is to not buy it. But that defense was broken. And eat it I did; I ate, and ate, and ate some more; several days of eating pizza. Really, I don't think it mattered in terms of the racing. I had lost a week, or even a month, before I even arrived in Casper. It was just one more thing. But when the going got tough on the third and fourth days, I was completely shot; finally, when I had my chance, when I was racing against the best junior racers in the country, was being beaten by the exact same kids who I had completely trampled just a few weeks before in Utah.

Well, I had a hundred and fifty dollars in my wallet, and I called the bus station. It would cost a hundred thirty-five to get back to White River Junction; boarding right there that evening, and riding the bus East as the race went on without me, through July fourth, and on to the green hills I so desperately needed. I went to the store, bought ten dollars worth of bagels and fruits (I remember the mango in particular); and when finally I saw Jeremy, a half-hour before he would have to leave me at the station, told him that I was leaving him, leaving our two-month dream of Boulder and bikes; that I had to go home. And I was gone; he was gone; a mad rush like I had never seen at the Chicago Greyhound terminal, where a blind woman pushed passed me and got onto a bus before I could; making drawings, one time, with a four-year-old African American boy who talked and talked and talked (I wondered whether he had ever been listened to before - his sister, 6, said all his stories, about all the things he had done, were lies; things as simple as running up and down slides, and playing around; what kind of a childhood is that, when running up and down slides can only happen in fantasies?); for a while, sitting with a 20-year-old kid who was returning home after being rejected by the army for his vision; and then for a while, next to a man who had traveled all the way from Upstate New York to a town in Tennessee to visit some friends, but didn't have their number, full name, or address, and couldn't find them, so was making the return trip home unshaven after four days in the bus, and absolutely torn-up and let down. I was one lucky son of a bitch!

And to top off the irony of my privileged position, my bike and my bags all arrived, all on the same bus I was on, and my father was there to pick me up at the bus station with some of his freshly-baked ``power'' bread and in his old, green Audi, the smell of which I remember so well, the dusty, hot-plasticky, are-there-bananas-in-here smell that connects that car with my dad with all the adventures we ever had in that car - windsurfing or bicycle racing or just driving up the the tennis court to hit a couple balls around. It makes me almost cry to think of all that.

So the rest of the summer was on. I was home, back in the green hills I had in those last few desperate days imagined topped with gold, sitting down, eating oatmeal with applesauce just as I imagined; back where Dad had planted some corn and beans in the garden. And before I knew it, I was all caught up in applying the electrical engineering I had been studying a little of on the sly while in Boulder. Dad, of course, teaches electrical engineering, and was quite a help, in helping me to get some components and tools for me from the College where he worked, as well as in answering some of my questions.

But it was frustrating, sometimes, too. Dad was used to working with people who started out by learning the basics and then moved on to more complicated things, useful things. I, on the other hand, insisted that I wanted to have a meaningful context for my work to begin with. ``But how the hell can I help you to design a damn amplifier,'' Dad would scream in desperation, ``You don't know anything yet!!'' Well, we managed. I helped him to understand that what I wanted was to look at the actual components and the schematic for the amplifier, and ask about the different parts, and how they related, and then go from there; and he tried to be as flexible as he could. I think he was still a little frustrated; but somehow, I managed to learn a monstrous amount in those two months - I even built my own amplifier for my electric guitar out of an old radio we had found lying around up in the attic. And I think in large part, it was because I insisted (despite Dad's best intentions), to always start the learning with me and my questions, no matter how backward that seemed, rather than with the material, and its formulations. (I suppose that since then, I am starting to see again, as I probably did with several teachers in high school, how sometimes a teacher and a student can set up a relationship where the teacher can present something in such a way that almost from the beginning, the student is intrigued and engaged with the teacher's questions; but of course, this takes a talented teacher, and a trusting student; and at the time with my father, I was not trusting. It was obvious to me, actually, that I knew what I had to learn first, and when a student knows that, there is no way around it!)

And so, at last, it was time for my second semester at school. Jeremy and I had been accepted to live in ``mod 52,'' one of the on-campus apartments. I was very excited - but equally nervous. Once again, everybody around me got so much older. From first-years to almost graduating. And so many interesting issues in the mod, like how there ended up being 2 pets in our no-pets mod, without anyone asking me (I'm allergic); and of course, the famous garbage, recycling, and the kitchen...there was a lot to learn. But thank goodness I had Jeremy to keep me sane, at least.

During the summer, Mosley and I had kept up a certain amount of correspondence; me from my apartment in Boulder, and then from my home in Vermont; and he, from his apartment near Hampshire, where he worked for the summer in the duplications office. We didn't talk much about the brainstorm board; mostly, we talked about communes. Mosley was heavy into communes, and was going to quit school to go live in one. But finally at the end of the year, he came up to visit me for a weekend in Vermont, and we had a chance to think a little more about the brainstorm board. I don't remember the end result of the philosophical side of these discussions, but we resolved that Mosley would find some paper and cardboard to make the board, and I would write up a one-page description and stuff it into mailboxes. So that's what we did; I didn't tell Mosley how nervous I was about actually doing the physical construction of the board - partly because I was scared of anyone seeing me putting the board up (for God knows what reason) and partly because I still believed there was magic involved somehow; not realizing that the cardboard could be any cardboard (Mosley got it from bicycle boxes free at a bike shop) or just any old big roll of paper. No, I thought there would have to be something special, something magical, about this paper and cardboard. So, god bless that Mosley was the one to find it and put it up, because otherwise it just wouldn't have happened; and, peculiar as it may seem, that is one of the big ways I learned that things on walls, or things that ``other people talked about'' start with normal people, like Mosley and me; and that, truth be told, there was nothing to them besides just putting together a few scraps, or buying a few ingredients. The beginning of what I now call the integration of thought and action.

I think the way I managed to type up the flyer was simply to do it for myself, ignoring that it would go to other people; and then Mosley said it was just fine to give to everyone else, and took it to the duplications office and made over a thousand copies of it and paid for it himself (an important lesson anyone who now knows me knows I have taken to heart, that if something vitally important has to get done, nobody else will ever pay for it, but that it is worth it for me to do it out of my own pocket anyhow). And then before I knew it was the student activities fair, in the very place where we had our big board. Mosley did quite a nice job on the board, I must admit. But he'd decided that since he was going away, that he didn't want to come to activities fair, or, in fact, to have anything to do with the board any more. It was my thing now. And so, I, alone - but still high on stuffing my memo into everyone's boxes - started flagging people down, and pointing them over to take a look at the board, and the few things on it. It was a real disappointment to see how few people had read a word of the memo I had sent out. But several people were pleased to see the board. And there were some neat things that appeared. An alumn was interested in talking to some students about his work with computers; several student were interested in learning particular things - one woman knew Russian, and once I called her up and gave her a short German lesson in exchange for a Russian lesson.

But by and large, there were some real flaws in our design. How, exactly, would this kind of learning really count as part of our divisional work? Who would take the initiative for running these projects? I waited; but no one took any initiative. It was all mysterious to me why things weren't working better. Of course, I myself didn't know how to use the board to generate learning activities either, so it was helpless to expect anyone else to. But I'm sure some neat contacts were made through the board; and I certainly learned some incredibly important things about how I as an ordinary person could be part of making something happen, and also how unless things were organized in some way I still didn't understand, there would still be impediments to the philosophy I was espousing.

Besides starting that board, that semester I was also a part of a group of students who started organizing SIN, the Student Information Network. SIN was (and still is) a database of student and faculty interests; we thought that this would take off where the Brainstorm and Idea Board halted. After all, we collected hundreds of entries (social and academic interests, and divisional level at Hampshire) and put them into the computer. And after a whole lot of hacking by several of us computer nuts, the entire database was searchable. Now that should have made some magic happen. But it didn't either. Once, I called up all the people who had expressed an interest in education, and we had a get-together to get to know each other. But still, we didn't know how in the world we would turn what we were interested in into what we were doing. For me personally with SIN, I was able to take somewhat more initiative than with the Brainstorm and Idea Board, I was still a long ways from realizing that I could solve any problem just by thinking about it, figuring out the solution, and doing it. I still thought the difference between parallel universes (reality and my imagination, really) was magic, when really it is just meaningful thought and then the work to get from here to there. No matter how different the universes seem.

And so, it was my second year. One day, I saw Ray Coppinger in the cafeteria. Ray had been my teacher in a course my first semester, ``Wildlife Issues in Agricultural Development.'' And in that course, I had really disagreed with one of the papers he had assigned us to read. It had to do with whether the rainfall differences between forests and fields was because of a temperature difference. The paper said yes; I said no. So I did some background research, and wrote a paper in response. And we still disagreed. Fall semester gave way to spring semester, and still no agreement, though the class was over. Then, it turned out that the author of the paper was going to be visiting Ray one weekend (believe it or not!). So Ray invited me over for breakfast, and I discussed my ideas with the two of them. And I realized that some of my assumptions on the grounds of which I had refuted his paper were wrong (the angles at which the sun rises at different times of the year). So I decided to do some experiments myself, testing the temperature over forest and field. And while I was working on electronics over the summer with Dad, I got ahold of several thermisters (a kind of thermometer that changes its conductivity based on temperature), and for a week I measured the temperature in a field, and over a new forest nearby. It turned out that my results were...inconclusive. The temperature differences that the original paper had been based on were not present in this environment. But then, on the other hand, it was a little warmer over the forests (a real surprise to me). So I wrote Ray and the author of the paper a letter, explaining my results; how they were inconclusive, and that much more extensive testing would be required to convince me of either side. And so, this day in SAGA, Ray said ``You know that NS Div 1? Good job. You pass.'' And so I guess I did. Later, I had a conversation with Ray in which he said that the most important thing I learned in my div 1 was that I ``could be wrong.'' Well, I'm not sure whether it was the most important thing, but it was probably close.

So that was my third div 1. The first one had been a two-course option in Humanities and Arts (though I did not fill out the two-course-option form until my very last semester, in hopes that I would run into some professor who was excited to work with me on some project). And the second had been a project where I tried to teach several simple computer-simulations of the human brain to add. I should note at this point one of the best things a teacher said to me; upon receipt of my division 1 report on this project, he said ``This looks good, Chris. It's not quite as formal as some papers, but this may not have been the time for that formality yet. You should keep in mind that by the time you graduate you'll be able to make a report of this fomality here,'' handing me a division III he was currently reading. That was very helpful; most of all, he understood that whatever work I was doing at the time had to be judged solely on who I was then, and what I needed then; but also letting me know that there was room to grow.

Searching for the themes that emerge for me from my second year in college, I found three: the division II (mainly computer science), my interest in the process of education, and (a theme with two parts) relationships with women and dancing.

My mother and sister always enjoyed joking with me about the importance I put on finding a woman. I said, for instance, that there was absolutely no time to lose, because there were probably only a few women who were smart enough and with similar enough values so that I could spend my life with them. And it was extremely important to work hard to find one of them because, if I did not, I would surely miss them. So work hard I did; and if not actually meeting new women (I was still quite shy), I was certainly hard at work fantasizing, or philosophizing about just how I could do it.

One of the opportunities I took advantage of in this searching for women was the swing dance lessons organized by a Hampshire student. There was a sign for swing dance lessons, one evening at the Red Barn. I decided to go. I had danced a little before: a couple times in high school dances, a contra dance at Hampshire, and then one or two contra dances at Greenfield. Swing dancing, though, was definitely new. And scary, especially for me, who had only recently begun to dance at all.

What happened is quite a story. There were only a few other people who came to the swing dance lessons. The only one I remember is Laura. When I first walked in to the Red Barn that evening, she was there, dancing with the teacher. I couldn't tell how old she was. Something about her seemed really young - a girlish shyness. And yet, before I had a chance to think twice, she had managed to slip in that she was recently engaged. And yet, Carl (the man to whom she was happily engaged) was an Australian, living at that time in Japan. So Laura and I learned to dance. Before we knew it, we were not only learning at these biweekly dances at Hampshire, but also going to a lesson every now and then in Northampton.

I invited her over for pumpkin pie. She invited me over for tea. And we were friends.

And that's where I'm going to leave this thread for now, as I instead pick up in its place the thread of my computer science education and my division II. The other thread (which is the theme of education) was also quite consistently a part of this semester, with the Brainstorm and Idea Board and the Student Information Network. In a sense, all these threads were really still simply developing. Education and women continued to build, but did not become mature until nearly two years later. The computer science was the first to be solid, which it was by the summer that followed this school year.

I was taking a course at Amherst College that had fairly challenging programming assignments from which I was learning a lot, though the class sessions were not quite as challenging. And with this increasing interest in computers - finally buying myself a fairly nice computer on which I could run the Linux operating system (running this operating system, by the way, was the single most valuable experience in learning about computers) - I decided that I would file my division II. So I went to the ``Student to Student Academic Resource Center'' and perused the division IIs in computer fields. Many of them had lots of courses; some had lots of independent work; some were very focused on computer science and others were more flexible. And I went to work talking with some faculty in computer science, to see what exactly I might do.

But it didn't feel like these computer faculty were trying to work with me. I was frustrated because it still felt like the institution and the faculty in authority positions were trying to tell me what do do for my education - the computer folks for my division II (I had a meeting with one of them), and other faculty in classes and in my division 1s.

I think some of my frustration at this point also came from a meeting with a Professor of Social Science about some possibilities for a division 1 project about Hampshire. And the requirements he had made really intimidated me. Thirty pages - for me at the time, that was a completely overwhelming number of pages. And this background or that background. Looking back on it now, I think that particular encounter had some real drawbacks and some strengths. The biggest drawback, I'd say, was that instead of talking about the goals for SS div 1s (and possibly even working with me to figure our how exactly I could meet those goals), he talked about requirements. But then again, on the other hand, things didn't turn out so bad, because I was under no pressure to do this actual div 1 at this time (back then, it could wait until I was about to file my division III). After writing an email to Herb complaining about the general attitude of the professors and about my frustration trying to do a Social Science division 1 that really reflected my needs, he sent me this reply:

Date: Mon, 18 Oct 93 02:13 EDT
Subject: Re: div 2, other plans
To: kawecki
From: Herb

I find it entirely plausible that you already put in much time without freedom on High and J High School subjects. I believe the extreme independence you exhibit is not flakiness but deschooling. The amount of learning at the feet of a good college teacher (sometimes at cost of one's independent style) that can be had makes the High and J High experiences somewhat misleading: it wasn't worth giving up the freedom then - as you apparently found out soon enough not to finish - but it might be worth making a different kind of deal NOW. Especially for the right teacher, like Lester Mazor. On the other hand it is alarming to me that you are about to do a divI which is not what you want to do...Have you lost your mind or gone over completely to the other side? Since when is a course so important that you have to fight it always and never do what is required in order to maintain your freedom and style of learning, but an exam so trivial that you can easily acquiesce in doing something less than perfectly Chris???

I think you are falling into old ways, that whatever really counts toward graduation (courses in High and J high, div's in Camp Hamp) brings out the giver-inner in you and whatever can be dispensed with (staying through Senior Yr in HS, or going to classes in Camp Hamp, legalistically and narrowly defined, brings out the fighter.

But true deschooling would have it the other way around. I really would like to talk to you. Can you come in at my Office Hours tomorrow (Mon) from 10am to 11:55Am? Talk to you then.

These questions with Herb never did resolve themselves well. I think a big part of that is just that I am so quick that I am almost always way ahead of any group of peers. The only way I've actually found to make good use of classes, is to take classes where I am not in a group with my peers, but with people who already know far more about the subject than I do. But at least eventually we figured out how to file my division II. Truly, I think this thread (the division II - my education in the eyes of the college) is the least interesting and least educational thread in my life.

As you should have gathered from the description I gave of myself as not being interested in ``contracting,'' as well as the journal and emails about the initial stages of my division II, I thought that contracting was a useless process to me. Herb was right on when he said that I was reverting to a mode of being ``less than perfectly Chris'' in the cases of the things that count, which at Hampshire is the divisional contracts and the divisional work. But although he was right, I didn't see another way. What I could have used was someone asking what my goals for my life were, and then write those down and say that was the beginning of my div II contract; then to ask me how much I thought I could achieve in the next year and a half or two years towards these goals; how I would achieve them, and then finally, how we would evaluate whether I had achieved them.

But while that stuff was a little frustrating, there were other things that were so rewarding that they almost made up for it: women. Every time I saw Laura, we were closer than the time before. I was confused several times whether I was attracted to her or not; I don't think she was particularly confused, though. She definitely had her heart set on Carl in Japan, whom she would see just as soon as she graduated - a few months away. It didn't matter, either, that I found myself slowly getting into a relationship with Dana, a first-year I had met through a friend. Laura and I were friends.

But by the end of the semester, we had grown even closer. Surely we were just friends; certainly she was engaged, and I was in a relationship by this poing with Dana (though still not what I would call in love with her). But with a week left before Lauara would be returning to her home in Washington state, and from there on to Japan, I realized that I was hoping to see her again afterwards, and started fantasizing about going to see her in Washington before she left for Japan. But, of course, she would not want me to come; though wouldn't it be nice if she did ask!

The phone rang, and it was Laura. She was thinking, she said. And she didn't know if it would work out, or if it would be feasible for me, and it probably wouldn't, but why wouldn't she suggest it anyways, so then what did I think of the idea of coming out after Christmas for a little while at her house before she left for Japan?

Well, you know what I said! So plans were made; originally I intended to see Dana on the way out to Laura's, but it turned out that that would have cost quite a lot more than just one round-trip ticket. So I bought tickets to fly right to Laura. And that's just what I did, flying the day before Christmas. And before long, I wrote home. A letter to my dear friend Jeremy about what was happening in Washington.

Dear Jeremy,

December 30 1993. We went hiking one day in the Olympic Mountains, and were able to get above the low-lying clouds. Hiked up and up and up and finally we had to stop because the snow was too deep - no bottom within reach! - and it was so steep you would have needed a ladder. I would attempt to describe the scenery, but in retrospect it is so unbelievable, whereas in real life it is so believable, infinitely believable, especially once your feet are soaked and frozen. I ran up and down (especially down) like Blitzkrieg, and smiled, lauged, galloped. Laura thinks I am a horse because I gallop, eat carrots, oats, and lettuce all in great quantities with little preparation and a smiley face.

We sleep in the same bed sometimes. Yesterday morning, we woke up closer than ever. We danced and walked and talked and walked and danced. (We're learning the tango and fox trot now.) At ten last night, we went for a walk on the beach. It was cold and the wind strong. The tide was as low as Laura had ever seen it.

We hugged and held one another, listened to the waves, and saw the lights. Lighthouses, houses, planes, docks, ferries, freighters. The full moon was ours, too, dancing from cloud to sky and back. And one star shone through the clouds. It was incredible, Jeremy. We could both feel it, as we danced there on the beach. Then she ran a ways ahead and wrote a message in the sand. And when I ran to read it, I saw that it said ``I love you.'' And I listened to the wind again and shivered. Then I wrote back, ``Loves you too'' underneath. And this time I told her to go and read it. And she did, and came back, and we hugged.

In the past few days, I have come to realize that one of the smartest people I have ever known and who loves the world so much as I do also has feelings for me as I do for her, and hides them, as I do mine for her.

So last night we went to sleep and cuddled even more than before; so warm, so wonderful, and more sexual than we expected or perhaps ought. Yesterday, she said that I was the only person she knew who really believed in and followed the advice about love and freedom - ``If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it is yours. If it doesn't, it never was.'' I can't decide whether to be proud or hurt; I guess, both.

You know, all the failed attempts I made to do something social, to meet someone this fall, they were all worth it, just because of that one day when I went down to the Red Barn and met Laura.

I think I will send this now. We will have to talk. See you soon, pal. Love from Washington. Chris

Somehow, the physical, emotional, and intellectual parts of the relationships had all climaxed at once. Perhaps it was not a coincidence. Perhaps the physical relationship was important, in and of itself, but also it was important because of the role it played in opening up communication. The experience of communication was absolutely profound and unprecedented. It was one of the rare times when I have been able to communicate with anyone without worries about what I might say; without needing to be constantly watching out what the other person might actually be hearing. For me at the time, I do not think this could have happened without the physical relationship - because those feelings were there, and unless they were open, valued, cherished, then there would have been a power dynamic added. Yes, the power dynamic disappeared; neither one of us tried to manipulate one another, and neither one of us felt the other person held power over us. That was the essence of the amazing times when we communicated, when we at once left behind rules and egoes and were simply able to talk.

This is already almost three years ago now. I hardly know what we spent those late nights talking about, the second half of my time visiting Laura in Washington. But I doubt really whether the communication was so amazing because we were talking about things that I could not talk about with other people. Most people can talk about most things. What it was, I am sure, was the magical discovery of what it is like to be healthy, to love; the discovery of ourselves, in the present, and together. A momentary glimpse of the eternal soul, a glimpse we could each carry with us forever, a reminder that it is heaven on earth we are after, and an inspiration to increasingly find that magic in my every gesture, thought, and breath

The day I left, Laura drove me to the airport, and on the way, we kissed at all the red lights, then waited for the ferry. Standing there, watching the waves of the tide and several gorgeous flapping birds she said she seems to have been wrong; actually she was in love with me. Then, boarding the ferry, and our unforgettable last tango, clickety-clack on the deck. And finally, too soon and yet right on time, we were standing outside the car door at the airport, she gave me her final kiss, and I was off.

Physically, I did not arrive in Washington a virgin, and we did not have intercourse (though we were sexual in other ways). And yet, it seems to me that in my heart of hearts I arrived there a virgin and left deflowered. I completely and absolutely admired and loved Laura, and left no holds barred from allowing this to take over my dreams for what I might sometime be. For the first time, I would have given up everything else I was doing, at the drop of a hat, to live with Laura. Amazing and talented in all her Laura ways; whether it was dancing, making delicious pies or jams, talking with me about herself. She was the missing piece, and I was completely, head-over-heels, in love.

The same was not true for her. I have a fairly accurate understanding of how she felt then, I think - after seveal years of communicating, and even finding myself (in my own life) in the position she was in. That position is a place of admiration, of loving another person. I heard a tape of M. Scott Peck once on which he explained that love to him means exertion for a person's spiritual growth. That definition rings absolutely true for me, in the context of my relationship to Laura, as well as in the rest of my life. In love, however - that is more needing another person - perhaps, because they are better, faster, and stronger; or perhaps, because they are potentially the father one never had, or (in my case) the only potential mate in the world. So, that is how I understand my being in love with Laura. Of course I needed her. For her, on the other hand, I was almost five years younger; occasionally, my precocious little amazing self would make its way through in just such a way that of course she needed me, of course she couldn't be her full self without my remarks, or my quickness, or my body. Or, most of all, she needed my unpossessive love. But these things from her side could come and go, as the tide; and so at one time it might be more in love, and at another less.

And even if it did mean that when I left her at the airport, I knew full well from her face and from her kiss that I would be missing her more than she would be missing me; even if I shed a few tears, and she none. And even though I knew from her eyes and her words that her heart and her mind were often already across the Pacific with Carl. Even so, knowing all these things, I wouldn't have traded it in for the world. It was the world.

Since then, Laura and I have had quite a correspondence. In two years, we've exchanged about a hundred letters. I've decided that I want to include some of these. Needless to say, I have consolidated, selected, and clarified, again and again. There are several benefits to including these letters. For one, to demonstrate how ordinary I am, and how ordinary the events that led to my philosophy are. But this is part of something I am trying to achieve in this paper that I can not put my finger on, that I have only rarely felt in any books. Something that comes through so much more clearly when I am reading someone's journals, or letters, as if the author is not writing for me, but for themselves. I am experimenting with this method as a door into someone else's personal world. If this doesn't work for you as a reader, please feel free to skip right over them. But at least in this first version of this story, I am going to include them. So, here we go, with my first letter to Laura, started on the plane while flying back from visiting her to my home in Vermont.

To Laura in Japan, January 5, 1994

I've been brainstorming on the good advice you requested. (I'm on the plane, you know, and this is a good time for this kind of thing.)

Laura's Bakery. Freshly baked goods. Pies and Music. Local, Organic Ingredients. Japanese night. Swing Dance night. Fiddle Tunes night. Surprise Dinner Night. Laura's Own Ice Cream and Goat Cheeses. Classical Music Night. Produce day; Laura's own wine and cider (fresh or hard). Pickes, and dilly beans.

You are finally living finding creating your own dreams. Don't let anything but your dreams get in the way of your dreams. Take everything under your own advisement.

Dana will be arriving here in about a week; I think it would be more difficult for you to be leaving if I didn't also have her in my life, though on the other hand it would probably be easier for her if I didn't have you in my life!

Later. Home. I remember how much easier it was for me to say I could accept you going when it was so clear five days ago. Holding you I could say it, and without hesitation I was convinced of it.

Now I am a young man on the edge of tears again. Mom can't figure out whether to be joyous or to cry, and so she experimented with both. I guess I am listenting to her again right now, and occasional tears drip from my eyes hard as I try not to need them.

January 15, Saturday. Dana and I have been having a harder time. The different circumstances from December to now make it harder for me to accept her ``unquestioning.'' I kept waking up last night because you were in far too many dreams. As easy as it was for you and I to never have enough hours in a day, Dana and I feel there are too many. We are having a rather hard time thinking of things to do together. She is nervous about her guitar playing, can only dance for a short while before we are both very drained, it's too cold outside to do anything. I have the hardest time getting over how young she seems in so many ways. Why does it bother me so? Or at the least, why do I have such trouble finding and appreciating the good parts of that? Our talk tonight. she feels ``illogical and worthless when talking with me - I talk clearly and consistently while she `flings inferences' (her words) - I see more and more of her insecurities and as usual, they make mine pale by comparison. But we are still honest about everything but my depth of inability to get over her apparent relative age. I cannot decide whether to talk about that or not because it seems like it is likely at this point to cause more damage than good. Well that's all for now.

Love you. Chris.

Laura started her first letter at the same airport where I had started mine to her.

Dear Chris,

January 10, 1994 I'm beginning this letter at the SeaTac Airport, and I'll be many, many miles away when I finish it, I'm sure...

One thing I know is that I like to love people, and I am not satisfied limiting my loving. I still haven't the faintest glimmer of a feeling of ``wrong'' from the way I interacted with you. I think my heart was getting all filled up with good dancing and music and conversation, and starting to swell like a kid holding its breath, so it only made sense to exhale a little and let some of that tension out in hugs and kisses...

Have you tried that eye thing with anyone else yet? [A peculiar way of staring at one another's eyes with a candle nearby in the darkness, and seeing incredible - realistic, almost dreamy - shapes] That was very mysterious. Kind of a strain to focus on something so close, which is probably why we were seeing funny things. I suppose that in all the years of human existence, someone has noticed it before, but I've never heard of anything like it. But then, it took us long enough to discover so many things about life on this planet, it may be possible that - do you think? It seems like someone with a mind like yours ought to discover something, though I guess it was more chance than mental effort. Except that you always look deeper to learn more. I still am awfully impressed with you. I hardly knew you before you came to visit. You are so busy being yourself that you don't advertise on the surface. I was (am) very pleased with what I found. You are...someone I respect more and more all the time. That's part of ``I love you.''...

I wonder if I try to please people at my own expense, or if I say and do things that aren't sincere - but if I try to introspect and discover such things, I can't. Either I'm deceiving myself well, or I'm just a people-pleasing kind of person, I guess. So my question is, why isn't everyone else? I think you are very lovable when one gets close enough to you, but getting close to people isn't a priority with you - maybe because you are too busy quietly observing those who interest you, and hardly even notice the rest. You forget about yourself in the eyes of others, and leave us to figure you out ourselves, bit by bit. It's worth it though! It's like waiting for your answers to questions. Patience, curiosity, and then a delightful gift to play with. That's more of ``I love you.''

Other people try hard to be loved, but do it backwards. They try to impress and show themselves off, not realizing that what people like best is to feel good. Then there are people who seem to be afraid of being loved, maybe because it can hurt to love back, or maybe because it feels bad when you can't love back. Or people who seem so certain of not being lovable that they just give up and don't try. People who get distracted by money and jobs and politics and whatever else, and forget about other people and relating to them...

January 13 And now Japan. Very strange to be here! When I'm running around with Carl Jenkins speaking English, I don't feel like I'm in Japan at all - and I'm really not. I'm just at the edge of it, looking in. Carl Jenkins had been here a year, but not even immersed himself in the culture, really. This is a totally different kind of being in Japan. Much easier - but a kind of copping out...

It was kind of a shock to me to come back here to be with someone I've more or less agreed to marry - someone I've more or less decided was more important than anyone else - and discover that I don't really know him. I mean, we've had such little time together, he's not familiar. I know you better than I know him. It's just weird. I look forward to knowing him better. I'm still at a stage of staring at him in disbelief, wondering how a human being could look so appealing...

I miss your dancing feet, your beautiful brown eyes, and your... Chris-ness. I left a part of me behind at North Beach, and I think you must have too, because it feels like I've walked with you there recently, arm in arm.

I hope things are well and happy with you.

Much love,

Laura

Dear Chris,

January 15, 1994 Last night I had a dream I was hiking with you, and two or three other people. We climbed up ahead of the others, and when no one was looking I put my arms around you and hugged you for a long time. I really miss you Chris. Of course I miss you because I miss dancing, loose-tongued mental excursions, the verbal intimacy. I've met quite a few English-speaking people here by now, but no one quite as intelligent as you. I guess Carl is smart but mostly in a different way - his mind can grasp political, social, and philosophical ideas far faster than mine, and he can quickly catch subtleties to cue him in on people's character and intentions. But we are too busy being silly and sexy and in love just now to get into real conversations. We both realize it, and intend to change it, but it's slow to happen.

I've hardly spoken a word of Japanese - basically, only to the occasional clerk in a store. I'm hoping I'll find some opportunities to mingle with a Japanese crowd. It doesn't seem right to be here and not get involved in the language and culture. Though in a way, this international crowd is a part of Kyoto culture.

Carl and I had a talk about the future - how to be together when we want to be in different countries. I pointed out that it would be OK to live apart for a while, while we did our own things in our own countries, and he agreed that being apart was fine except that he didn't believe I could be without a man ``for five minutes.''

``I went from October to January...''

``No sex?''

``No sex.''

``Kisses?''

``Kisses.''

I never said who, but I'm sure he figured it was you. Anyway, I explained how I love many people, and want to express it, but that it doesn't lessen my conviction that he is ``The One.'' However, he holds the traditional view that I couldn't really be his if I've got my tongue in someone else's mouth - that even if I am thinking it is merely an expression of a kind of love that can coexist with my love for Carl, the person I'm kissing is almost certain to be misled. I don't think that's true in your case. I don't think I led you to want anything from me that I couldn't give to you. I do understand how Carl feels, though I don't share his view. I almost wish there were people he had refrained from kissing, etc, for my sake, and that he'd go ahead and kiss them now, but he says he has no desire to do any of that with anyone but me. I think it's true, too. He is, to use his word, ``besotten.'' Crazy about me. I really don't see why. He has such expensive tases when it comes to most things.

So that's how I feel. He is practically kissing my feet, and I'm enjoying his company but wishing for some breathing space. We are still living in his tiny closet of a room. I still have no job, though a company is interested in paying me for the occasional translating or proofreading job once I get a work-visa, which comes when I get a full-time employee.

I miss dancing terribly. It's frustrating to have to start all over teaching someone new, and not just start swinging or or tangoing whenever the mood strikes. Carl is convinced he'll discover he has two left feet as soon as I start trying to teach him in earnest. I think he'll be fine, but I wonder when we'll ever get a chance to dance. I want to stomp and whirl at a contra-dance. This is Japan.

I will end this letter with these words. You inspire me.

Much love, Laura.

Chris, Chris, Chris! January 22, 1994

Carl feels that I seek ``approval'' from men because I don't love myself enough, and that if I could honestly love myself, I would not be so inclined to seek affection from so many men. For instance, if he is right, self-love would allow me to be content dancing with you and talking to you, but because I didn't love myself enough I wanted you to kiss me and come to my bed and tell me how much I mean to you. (And still do.)

Why is it that you couldn't see it as a wrong thing that i would want sex with more than one man? No one else seems to see it that way, and I like to tell myself that it's because I share your belief, and not because I'm screwed up, that I find fidelity so difficult. I can't take this view when I look at last summer, because I didn't love the men I slept with (except in the sense that I love all people, which was the sense I meant when I told them ``I love you,'' knowing full well they wouldn't take it that way. That is not the case with you...I've tried to explain ``I love Chris'' to you so hopefully you can see right away that it's something more.) No, last summer I was screwing men for other reasons. Fear of another serious relatinship was probably part of it. Maybe also some rebound after Fred dumped me. Or wanting to explore the sudden release from his chains. I don't know. I still think my childhood abuse incident plays some part, by making me believe at some level that I should do what the man wants and keep quiet about it.

After Carl's visit, which turned out surprisingly to be two weeks of sheer happiness, I was left with a feeling of power, confidence, satisfaction, and maybe also some self-love - or did it only stem from feeling so desired and loved? At any rate, it was the beginning of a whole new chapter, and I discovered the delights of Div III, and philosophy, time alone, swing dancing, friends. Such happiness. And also pride! When you came to Washington, I was higher than a kite on my pride of graduating, being a much-improved dancer, and I think I really loved myself. I usually do, at the beach, when the wind plays in my hair, and I have all those colors of grey to admire. I feel like I belong, and that feeling is nearly impossible, in such a beautiful place, without loving oneself.

So why did I find myself constantly wanting to reach for your hand? I find it hard to believe that it was for your approval, or to be wanted, because at those moments my strongest feeling was always along the lines for love for you (admiration, affinity, enjoyment, respect, inspiration). I don't think your feelings for me were much on my mind. That night when you came to sleep far, far away on my bed, I lay awake, tormented, and finally had to leave, not because I wanted you to roll over and say you wanted me, but because I wanted to reach out and touch your face, rub your back, take your hand, and love you. But you didn't seem to be there for that.

All these are just words, and I could toss them in a cup, give it a good shake, and roll them out again to argue some other equally convincing view of things. I am only guessing at the motives of my actions and the feelings I felt, and likely I'm choosing the most satisfying guess over the most believable. I want to defend myself. I want to love myself, after all.

January 26. I just finished eating an exorbitant amount of chocolate. German milk chocolate. Carl bought it and promised to hide it from me while he was at work, but he forgot to hide it. It attacked me and jumped down my throat. I'm in desperate need of some sort of regular exercise. I want my bicycle.

Please tell me about the happiest moments of the week and day, and some silly things, too. And ask me questions.

Loving hugs, Laura.

Dear Chris, January 26, 1994

Thank you for writing the bit about our ferryboat tango. As sad as it is to think of what we no longer have, I like to dwell in memories now and then, in my solitary moments. It makes it a little more real when it's someone else's words inspiring the memories - as if we could share the moment again, together. I will never forget the sound of the ferry and our feet stomping out the perfect rhythm.

I was actually enjoying my time at Hampshire a lot when I was relatively on my own. I liked going out and not having to come home at any special time; being able to change my plans on a whim and not have to arrange things anymore. I liked going to bed and waking whenever I wanted to. I liked freely spending time with whichever friends I chose, male or female, day or night. But in the midst of loving that and knowing I loved it, I clung to the security of having you for a dance partner and someone to turn to whever I needed company. It's so much easier to walk into a public place with someone than all alone. There's comfort in being on familiar terms with someone, being able to call and say ``hi'' without having to say who it is, because they know your voice so well, and you know each other's phone numbers by heart. And you can be together in silence sometimes and understand each other perfectly. I think I've had close friends like that all my life, and then boyfriends. I think even if I decided to live apart from Carl a while, I would end up drawing close to someone else before too long, as I started to do with you. Carl is afraid of that. He thinks I need a man, but I don't think it's quite like that. If I lived near Camile, she would fill that role, like she did in the seventh grade. At high school it was Mit Davidson, though the relationship wasn't romantic at all. Now it's Carl, and you know sometimes it feels like the romance and exes get in the way of the intimacy I want to have with him. It takes time away from real intercourse. Yet profound thoughts don't come to mind when we're together. Someday maybe. I know he has them. Someday he'll get used to my physical presence, and I his, and we'll be secure in realizing that enough ``I love you''s have been said and acted out, and we'll wake up to each other's minds more.

But didn't it feel awfully good to go at it the other way, with us? It was through mental intimacy that I came to love you and want physical intimacy. First your dancing, then your personality, then your mind, and last your body. That was the order in which I fell for you. Letting go of the physical involvement therefore hasn't been much of a problem for me, as it was so far from the foundation of our relationship. It's the rest I miss - especially dancing. I miss talking to you. Bless you for your long letters. I hope we keep communicating like this for a good long time. You are one of my very favorite people, though I'm sure you know that without my saying so.

Maybe my next letter will bear news of job offers. I wonder what I'll find in your next letter. I almost think I should read your letters with lots of pauses for breathing and nose-blowing, but admittedly I can't stop myself from drinking in your words as fast as I can read them, and only later going back over them at a more dignified pace. In a way I feel ashamed of how much I have fallen for you...though it's not a romantic, passionate love, it's an aching longing and a delight over your words that goes deep down into my roots. I'm probably romanticizing. It just seemed magical. I miss you most ridiculously and I love you from thousands of miles away.

Laura.

Dear Laura, 5 February, 1994

Wow - two days without writing to you. Of course that's not two days without thinking about you, though. I am feeling way good about myself. Way good! Yesterday was a Hampshire contra-dance. I got there a little late, but the Red Barn was completely filled with all the people who came. People are really starting to contra-dance here. It's wonderful. It is so good a place for the community-feeling that people are always searching for. And the day before, I organized a swing dance, to which 25 people came. I taught the basics, and it went really well.

Thank you so much for learning to dance with me. Thank you thank you thank you (here, I kiss for you on the page ()). I feel now like I am finally pleased and content about our relationship. For a while it was inevitable that I felt really bad that you were gone, but I'm on to a new me now. You might think that me feeling bad, missing you, you missing me, is not worth the exploring and feeling we allowed ourselves. Let me list some of the benefits I have gotten from that, though. I learned that there are intelligent women (even intelligent women who like to dance and cook and walk and fiddle and learn and explore and care; WOW!). There are definitely things to live for. I found out what it feels like to really respect someone and be respected by them - at a level that I had not experienced before. I found out that there are people who appreciate my thinking. I learned to dance dirty. I felt the difference between dancing and DANCING. I proved to myself that I could live the way I ought to. I learned how to make the best use of being stopped at a stoplight. Also, found out how long it takes a stubbed neck to heal (not too long, gone before Dana came, though Mom appreciated it). I found out it is not as easy to let something go as one might wish. I am very happy now, and I am sure it has something to do with not always being not as important as...Feeling from you that I am Real and not undesirable from a woman and a person who is to me Real and not undesirable: Laura. A long list! Even if (unlikely as it seems) I forget some things about you and this part of my life, I am certainly always going to have a little more hope and love and happiness to share.

Love, Chris

Enhancer of my happiness, February 5, 1994

I just finished reading all eleven pages of your twelve page letter (it seems you skipped page 9!). A long Chris-letter was exactly what my day needed. I have been tolerating a head-cold all night and morning and was on the verge of returning to bed, too tired to do anything and too bored to be awake, when I received the pleasing option of sitting in the warm kitchen with fresh mail. Now I have a headful of things to tell you and a cupful of strong, spicy tea.

You asked how to get people to know you without being intrusive, but you answered your own question. People like to feel good - they like to feel like you enjoy their company. So you ask them about themselves and they will happily talk, some more than others of course, and some deeper than others. If they tell you something interesting, you will want to talk about it more, which will make them feel good. (If you can't feign interest long enough to uncover something genuinely interesting, they may notice and lose interest in you, which is a natural way to conclude things.) Once you get talking it will happen. They'll want to hear your stories too. You start to know each other.

I think your fear of being intrusive sometimes goes too far. I can't help thinking of that night you spent on the far side of my bed. By trying not to intrude, you were keeping me awake, uncomfortable by the presence of someone who was in my bed for no apparent reason. I know lots of women complain about men who move too fast or seem to only want physical affection, but often the very same women are afraid to make any first moves for fear of giving you the wrong impression. I think you can never go wrong with a simple question like, ``May I hold you?'' or ``May I kiss you?'' It makes it obvious both that you'd like to but you recognize she might not, and I've always found those questions flattering even when I answer no, for their straightforward honesty. If you'd asked to hold me that night I would have snuggled into your arms and slept well. I remember thinking we ought to be able to sleep as close as we dance. (If you'd asked to kiss me, which I doubt you would have wanted to do anyway that night, I would have asked you for your reasons.)

Anyway, too strong a lack of intrusiveness comes across as a lack of interest. Don't assume that you are unwanted. When you described your talk with Dana about what you want and what she wants, it seemed pretty clear to me that she wanted you to tell her that you wanted her, with conviction. Obviously your hesitancy made her feel unwanted, or unsure whether or not she was wanted, and in spite of your inability to figure out the answers for yourself, she apparently wanted your answers. Something like, ``I want you, whether you like it or not.'' Totally intrusive. Somtimes people like that. Often I do. Even when it's someone I don't want, it can feel good to be wanted. If it's someone I might want, it strengthens my conviction. I think much of my love for Carl is based on the strength of his need/desire/love for me. I mean the world to him. There's security in that. He's never loved another woman this much in his life, and that makes me feel very good, as he's certainly met a lot of women in his 27 years, and some of them have fallen in love with him. And also, he seems to appreciate everything I say or do, and grows frustrated at how little I love myself, so that I think he must be good for my self-confidence.

You seem to be doing lots of introspection lately, at least while you write to me. You wrote that you're searching for something, and I started to think what that might be. Then I read, ``I fear it is you I am searching for,'' and my heart skipped a beat, and I got up to blow my nose. I like feeling so important to you, especially since you also seem to fill a craving in my life, but Chris...partly you are searching for a dance partner, and partly a companion, and partly someone to share ideas with, and partly someone to be silly with, and maybe someone to hold at night. You can search for these things and find them outside of me, after all. Or more generally, you seek friendship, intellectual stimulation, intimacy, affection...and a dance partner. Not exclusively these things of course. One way to get all this is (was? could be?) from me. Other ways are harder to see but maybe easier to achieve, geographically at the very least. What else? Your search for yourself, which you find with each person who loves you and all of your best and worst moments, if you look (and to a lesser degree if you don't.)

I'm searching for myself, for friends, for mental stimulation, and for good music and dancing. You are a good answer, but you are far away. Your letters help, knowing that you saw the same full moon I saw a few days ago helped (it's the very same moon, I assure you). One night before moving here I missed you so much, and was so homesick, I turned away from Carl in bed and tried not to cry. He asked me to talk to him, and I asked him to tell me some of the things in life that give him satisfaction. Running or climbing montains were some he mentioned but called ``superficial.'' Then he described times when he's reading or talking with someone and they hit upon something he's pondered before, and they articulate it so well that he understands it even better. A unity of ideas, a connection, a deep understanding between his mind and the other person's.

When he described it, I had to let the tears out. I said sorry if it hurt him but I missed you terribly much. ``I miss Chris, I really miss Chris.'' I told him how we'd talked and thought and understood. How between us, we knew everything, it seemed. How hard it was to be away from you and way from home and withough a job or home or life yet, all at once. I really cried.

I'm going to take a walk while there's still a little light left.

...Evening. The bath is heating, and I've just swallowed two hot cups of tea. Annica has a male friend over. I suspect he'll spend the night. A nice guy, a Canadian I think. I'm having a hard time with my cold. I didn't notice it as much while I was home and alone, but when I talk I am aware of how stuffy I am. Yuck.

I'll have to get back to this tomorrow...bed calls. Carl is eager to discuss political theories, and I am hoping to learn something. I'm ignorant on the subject due mostly to disinterest (or maybe vice-versa) but perhaps that will change.

February 9. Four days later...I don't write much during Carl's days off because we spend almost every moment together. It's hard not to. I love the man, very much.

I'm feeling better now. I should say I'm feeling better right now. My moods are going up and down like a skier. I think it's blood sugar. I feel really good on a full stomach, and soon after I start to feel irritable and amost angry, and then tired. I'm trying to stop eating sugary foods. It's very hard. Right now I'm eating Kabocha (Japanese pumpkin).

February 13. Shadows of guilt lurking in the back of my mind pressure me to make sure that you don't take my words of love and admiration to mean something more than they do. I love you immensely and I want to be with you again, but not in a way which would lessen or jeapordize my relationship with Carl. I think you know that, but I just wanted to state it, so I can go on these emotional outpourings of how much I miss you and love you, without any worry. Don't be scared by them, or misled.

Keep dancing and asking why, and think of me when you find the time.

With love and a pretzel! Laura.

When I arritved back at Hampshire after the fall of dancing and then the short trip to see Laura that December, I felt like a dancing pro. And I set to work teaching swing dancing. Every week or two, I put up some signs (never planning very far ahead), borrowed a boom box, and made my way down to the Red Barn. There were always at least one or two dancers, and sometimes there were even five or six. One time, for some reason there were gobs. But by and large, there were two or three people who would come; sometimes some would return, but it was usually new people every week. I taught them all the first steps (at Hampshire, of course, you usually spend the first minute figuring out who will lead and who will follow - men dance with women, women with women, and occasionally men with men). It was tremendously empowering for me. Three months before, I had been nervous about dancing (or really even talking) with women. Now, I had learned to lead comfortably in swing dancing and was running my first lessons. A few months later, I was even comfortable teaching swing dance. This experience was, as far as I can tell, absolutely vital in my learning that I could influence the world; that all I had to do was have a vision, and exert the physical movements, and we would get there. My need for other people to facilitate my ideas - as had been the case with Mosley and the Brainstorm Board, for instance - was in the process of dissolving. I was learning to act, in the real world.

While I am on this note, I would like also to mention some ways this continued to grow on me, this ability to act - to want something, then to decide to make it happen, and to do it. The next fall, I organized a group of musicians (myself on guitar included) to play live accompaniment to several contra-dances at Hampshire. Late in the fall, I even had to fill in for the caller (who told me two days before the dance that he was not going to be back in time). I doubt this experience (calling a dance) can be understood by anyone who has not tried it. One must not only coordinate the band, but also be fully aware of where the dancers are with regards to the dance and the music, and call each pattern right before the dancers begin it. And on top of that, to do it at a dance with over a hundred students, many of whom had never contra-danced before, and only a few of whom had danced more than once or twice. These are the skills of actually doing, rather than simply complaining or talking about doing when it came to my dreams, and acting robotically when under someone else's command. Later on, I would find these things indespensible when it came to organizing the student-led education class, or the Experimental Program in Education and Community.

Teaching dance lessons happens to be an important part of me finding (or perhaps acknowledging) my calling in education. I don't think every person is going to discover that their calling is as an educator. And I certainly don't mean that everyone must teach dance lessons in order to recognize that their dreams can be their reality. But I do think it is important and possible to find out what one's dreams are, and to discover that fulfillment is within the realm of possibility. One person may become a nomad planting trees in the desert; another will simply devote his life to raising a single child, or to be being a good husband or worker. The specific activity is not important. What is important is that the action comes from a dream that comes from within. To find one's calling, to find heaven on Earth, to find God within - it seems to me that these things happen when we trust what we find within ourselves and allow that inner vision to spread into the outer world.

This was also the spring of computers, the only semester when I was officially doing more than one thing related to computers: the senior seminar in computer science at Smith College (Parallel Processing) and an independent study at Hampshire. The independent study was very much just a trick to get credit for what I was for the most part learning on my own, operating systems. The official parts of that independent study were weekly meetings and reading the textbook. In the meetings, the instructor and I would come with our questions for the other student (boy was he good!), and this other student would answer them. I thoroughly enjoyed the textbook and remember bringing it along to bike races and reading it while waiting for my races to start; that was one of my all-time best years of bike racing, when I completely smoked the Eastern Conference in race after race (following my kooky training plan that, unfortunately, left me burnt out at the end of the collegiate season).

Parallel processing, at Smith College, was taught by an energetic and knowledgable teacher. Needless to say, I had not taken the prerequisites. As expected, the amount of learning I got out of the class varied quite a lot; when he was introducing new topics, I learned relatively little, whereas when he introduced topics that all of the other students in the course had heard of before in other courses, I learned quite a lot. But I especially enjoyed the programming homework. Programming itself was something I lived for. There would be exciting problems, almost always with several stupid solutions and one brilliant solution. Programming for me was very much like math in that sense, a subject which I had also enjoyed.

After the first few programming assignments were turned in, the professor of this course offered me a job working for him in the summer, doing further research combining two of his areas of interest, chaos and cache memory. I accepted the job. Then I found out about a student who was doing the design and construction of the Enfield Greenhouse, and I volunteered to work with him in exchange for board in the mod there. Originally, I was slated to work on a computer control system for the greenhouse, but the budget was severely cut, and I found myself doing construction. I enjoyed the construction, though, and learned tremendously from it. It was a perfect exchange, the way things ought to be - labor for board, education for work.

That summer was a great learning experience in so many ways. I found out what science research at the college and University is like; I found out that my skills as a programmer were very much in demand in the real world. But I also found out, by the end of the summer, that if computers were going to be a part of my life, that they wouldn't be the whole thing. I did enjoy them, to a certain extent. Still, something was missing. Mom gave me the words, in a short note she sent me: ``While I'm glad you find computers so satisfying, I hope your div III will stretch you in areas of `human' learning - you've got such great potential for the larger community - politics, education, etc. I hope you'll find some ways you can go beyond computers or in addition to computers, etc.'' And she was right. I was interested in human beings. I began to steer my course away from computers, and back into fields of human endeavor, much like I had when I decided to take no math or science courses my final year of high school - though not quite as decisive as that.

The always wonderful, sometimes painful correspondence with Laura went on, as did the development of my philosophy of relationships.

Dear Chris, June 15, 1994

I had a student (older woman) at my job who likes ballroom dancing. She said it's expensive to do in Japan - usually in hotels. Darn. I miss it! So often lately I've dreamt of dancing, or being about to dance at dances. It's comparable to the elation of a flying dream.

Say Chris, have you tried that strange way of looking at images in eyes in the dark? I still haven't. Carl doesn't like to be reminded of you, so I don't talk about you to him much. I guess when I first arrived, I was missing you and dancing and home, all so much that Carl felt unimportant. He doesn't trust my feelings for you. I don't think it's fair, but he can't help his feelings. He doesn't talk about it, but when he is quiet and distant it's often because he's been reminded of you, or of something else that hurt him. I really wish I hadn't been so quick to commit to him, or so...whatever it was last summer. But there is no point in regretting. The problem is that my happiness and Carl's pain are tied up in some of the same memories. I think of Washington summers, and dances all fall and winter, and my nice Northampton apartment, while feeling happy. He thinks of summer when I cheated on him, the apartment where I miscarried another man's baby, the dances where I became involved with you. You who made me homesick.

July 4. Now I got a letter from you at last. So nice to hear from you! You sound the same as always. Computers, bikes, and women. How did that national championship bike race in Texas go anyway? I still don't understand how it is that you are one of the best at so many different things. Don't you know that computer wizards are supposed to have pale, wasted bodies that never see the sun? Don't you know athletes are supposed to be a little lacking when it comes to brains? You must be a dancer, then, at heart. Dancers can do anything.

Remember to read ``The Missing Piece Meets the Big O'' by Shel Silverstein. And send me that sweater pattern I asked for weeks ago!!

With a sweaty, stinky hug (sorry, it's all I've got). Laura

Then I ran right into some ideas I desperately needed in my philosophizing: the connection between love and truth. It happened at a workshop at the annual conference of the Northeast Organic Farmers Association. I was initiated into my new religion, truth, and quickly learned to see how everything relied on absolute honesty and unconditional love: personal relationships, ecological sustainability, education, law...Honesty was the final answer. Absolute acceptance could follow nothing but complete honesty; and any person who still needed more unconditional acceptance from their parents could get it only by revealing themself totally, and being loved unconditionally after this revealing.

By the end of that month (August 1994), I had run into an article that really related this new understanding to personal relationships, and in particular, to open relationships (``The Possible Relationship,'' photocopied from In Context magazine). For the second time in a month, I found myself so amazed because my ideas existed not only in convoluted form in my mind, but also in the reality of other people's experience. I saw that complete honesty was not only the essential ingredient of any relationship, but that it was the key to open relationships. Fear was at the heart of monogamy, and when that fear was replaced by absolute truth and unconditional love, the new relationships would be so healthy!

These ideas were precisely the ones I was arriving at in my own analyses of Laura in Japan. Now, I had the references, the vocabulary, the confidence. All I needed was a woman to love, and we could live happily ever after. Guess what happens next.