It is the summer of my junior year in high school, and the 4th month into my dramatic codependent love affair with Andy when my parents shipped me off to Oxford, England for summer school. One of the great things about overbearing Jewish parents is their intense need/obligation to fill their childrens summers with worthwhile educational experiences. From the ages of eight to fifteen my folks had me ensconced in an all girls sports camp learning how to do all sorts of things, from sailing, to make-up application, to binging and purging, to the fine art of seducing older male counselors. After graduating from sports camp, it was onto summer school. At sixteen, I learned to manipulate my parents more efficiently, and got to spend the summer in Providence, RI at RISD summer school, where I basically starved myself, made out with older men, took pictures, and ate pills.

Upon entering my senior year of high school I got myself accepted into an intensive four-week program at Oxford University taking both Photography and Psychology classes. I signed up for this program long before meeting the Andrew, or I would never have agreed to leave his little bedroom, not even for one day. My parents still had no clue that Andrew existed, but they knew that there was something going on with me, and they seemed relieved that I was leaving the country. Andrew, on the other hand, was beside himself at the prospect of my leaving. He was painfully aware that my age and background pretty much guaranteed that I would eventually ditch him for someone else. Leaving him for even a day meant that I might find out that I had some power, that I might remember who I am instead of who he turned me into, and he was hellbent on breaking me and making me dependent on him. Either way, it was out of both of our hands, and by that June and I was on my way out of Jersey, and out of his bedroom. We bid farewell, and being that he was such a self-professed renaissance man; I knew I would be slayed with plenty of letters.

Nothing happened at oxford those first few weeks besides my stumbling around a foreign country, alone, trying to find friends. I missed Andrew in a codependent way, and because we had no cell phones back in 1994, we didn’t talk much, which was a blessing in disguise. He sent me florid and romantic letters that actually served more to turn me off than make me miss him. I spent the days taking photos and hanging around with smart, rich, kids my own age. I loved my psychology class. I ate. I hadn’t eaten in two years. It was amazing to eat; I loved it. I felt beautiful and smart momentarily, outside of Andrew’s negative clutches. Every day I took a Double Decker bus to the shitty side of town to the only Darkroom in Oxford, it was on a street called Cowley Road. I never could have foreseen that three years later I would walk down that same street seeking food, gauged out on Heroin, with another Andy.

The day I met the Andy I was wearing Andrew’s shirt, a pair of navy blue Levi corduroys, and Doc Martens. My hair was nearly down to my waist. I wore no makeup. I had finally started to eat, so I was looking healthy-ish.  I was sitting on a rock in the park up the street from my dorm, with my Nikon slung around my neck. I was out looking for some people to photograph, on my last day in Oxford. I noticed two boys that were sitting against the wall of the park, surrounded by drunken homeless Scottish men. One of boys who caught my eye was wearing baggie jeans, no shirt, and a large black hat, holding a Didgeridoo, apparently selling Hash. I gathered my confidence and went over to solicit a photo of them. Andy’s only response to my request was, “can you do circular breathing?” It took me a good minute to realize he was referring to the Didgeridoo and not to something sexual. Andy and I sat and talked, I was anxious. I took photos when I felt uncomfortable. I felt gutted leaving him that day, I wanted to take him home with me, clean him, feed him, and hold him all night. Instead I had to go and get all gussied up for the final ceremony ending the program at Oxford, and get packed to return home to Jersey. I hugged him, all skin and bones and sweat. and walked away dreading the inevitable obsession I knew I would feel.

I snuck out of my dorm room and walked back by the park six hours later, and Andy was still sitting there. Waiting for me on the rock. He hadn’t left. He said he knew I would come back. We wandered around Oxford for hours, through the whole night, talking. Upon returning me to the window that I was to sneak back into the next morning, Andy’s final words to me were, “don’t worry so much, it will give you an Ulcer.”

I didn’t see Andy again for another two years. When I left him that morning and crawled back through the window of my dorm room, I knew that I would see him again, I just had no idea how. I went back home to my life and my abusive boyfriend and I let go of my obsession with this strange encounter for the moment. 1.5 years later I sat on my bed in my dorm at Boston University, and I dug the scratch of paper out of my wallet with Andy’s address “Andy, Church House, County Meath, Ireland.” I sent him a 10 page letter.

My letter found its way to him in Oxford. Many months and many letters pass between us, long ten page diatribes about being 18 or 19 and feeling misunderstood. I transferred from Boston University to RISD, and we kept writing. I sold my cameras and I got a job as a barista, and I bought a ticket to Oxford for the summer of 1996.

Letter From Andy, 1996. Weeks before my first visit to Weird Stain:

“It’s Tuesday night at one a.m. and I just accidentally set my hair on fire again trying to fill up my lighter. I’m glad you liked my last letter. I liked yours a lot too. Today I’ve been recovering from an unintentional alcohol bender (3 days ? 6 days ? with weekends off?…I feel so ashamed…a new low) that started on Wednesday night. I forget to stop partying and then I have to deal with the shame and degradation when I’m sober. I meet the people I was obnoxious to and try to make amends. A beer is all right now and then but I get carried away. So I rose from the dead this morning and your letter was sitting here to make me feel like a human being again. Two speed freaks sitting on the couch, I had a bath and fled to the college (still haven’t handed in my work, pressure) where I decided my tutor is one of the smartest most level headed coolest people I know, then I went to my grandmothers house because my mother is visiting. I got fed, came home and just watched The King of New York, which is a pretty fucking dark movie.

We’ve got a new government now, which is almost interesting. I didn’t vote. I drank all night and fell asleep in the park and got burnt in the sun and carried on drinking instead. Yesterday I saw a DJ who mixed ‘Strangers in the Night’ into banging acid techno, squirting lighter fluid all over the turntables before setting the spinning records on fire, crumpling them up and throwing them at the audience. It rained and I don’t like myself when I’m drunk and out of control. Ra Ra Ra.

Your letter is wonderful and I’m happy that I know you and you’re in my life. I think communication with you is addictive. I just hope I can be as open with you in person as I am on paper. I realized last night when I was completely mashed up how emotionally mangled I am, sometimes unable to tell people how I feel when I want to give them my support. But it depends who’s there and who they are. There are people who accept me and I trust them and you’re one of them. I care about you Rebecca. I won’t reject you. I just want to be close to you. Now I’m getting sappy. I’m glad I have your number in case of emergencies but I will try not to call because I am a scrooge. Also, it’s conceivable that I might have to exchange syllables with Gavin, which is something I have no particular urge to do. But anyway. All will be revealed when you get here. I must try and sleep.

Now it is Wednesday afternoon. I had some weird dreams, woke to the sound of Pete’s annoying spring-cleaning invasion, and cycled into town to buy some food and stuff and try and sort my life out. Now I’m making you a tape. It’s sunny but the wind is cold. Luckily I didn’t bump into anybody that I know. The house is a mess and permeated by uncleanliness, a bit like me.

So I slouch around in baggy, shapeless clothes, always somehow slightly unkempt, on a bicycle if I can help it because my boots are crap and hurt. I avoid socks whenever possible. I rock back and forth or just twitch or play with the curly hair I got on my head now, my mum and grandma said it makes me look like Puck from Midsummer’s Nights Dream. I wasn’t sure whether or not to take that as a compliment. I like to have a shaved head but it’s nice to have hair to touch and wash. My posture’s bad, my walk is worse, my facial expression is odd and sometimes unintentionally humorous. My conversation is that of a misfit but can be droll and entertaining if I’m on a good one. I’m probably a different person depending on whom I’m with – identity is socially constructed – which is a relief. Social roles are fluid and dynamic – but there’s still some inescapable core of me, which wants to do more and be comfortable but isn’t and seeks acceptance and approval, possibly on an unspoken level, without really knowing how to go about it. Shit happens. I spin myself out thinking about it. Last night Dan said to me, “So are you hung over, or still just hung up?”

Maybe it’s better to just get on with it. Men are emotionally incompetent. Men are in fact, mostly rubbish. And I can’t really handle reggae anymore either. But I still like Ragga. I’m not from round here and oftentimes it shows. I use Ketamine to make me feel good, essays to make me feel like a productive member of society, and communication with you to make me feel alive and I feel like I’m not getting to do enough of any. I’m all jumbled up. No change there. So this tape is all right I think. I hope you like it. The Tricky was recorded a fortnight ago. There’s some jazz and some of my favorite Drum n’ Bass. I’m not going to write much more because I’ve got too much shit to do. I need to figure out how to manage my time.

Wet cat just trod all over everything. It hailed and rained. I ate and nearly fell asleep. Really I’m waiting for you to be here so that we can have fun and look at each other. Physical proximity is a fine thing. So I hope this tape isn’t too shit quality. Pete’s watching Space Precinct, which is so crap it’s good. I’m looking forward to hearing Drum n’ Bass consume every musical form on the planet. I’ve heard some good Bangra Drum n’ Bass and some good Ska Drum n’ Bass. I want to hear Tokyo Drum n’ Bass. What I’m worried about is how over the break from college I forgot how to write essays, which is kind of alarming. It should just be a case of downloading information in a presentable format. But I’m a perfectionist. It’ll be all right if I can just stay away from the booze.

So when I speak to you on the phone I think we should talk on the phone all the time. The rest of the time think that’s a bad idea and we should hold on. But what the hell. This is why when you call I say I think you should call again, then regret saying it once we’ve hung up. It’s a link that isn’t easy to give up on, but costs shitloads of money. I should just sort my fucking email out. I’m sorry to go on about it like this.

What I really like to do is get a letter from you and savor it. And then write one back and send it as quick as I can, all the better to get another from you.

Sometimes I’m listening to the radio and I hear tunes that give me drug flashbacks. Tunes like this I like to tape. I’m taping one right now and I will put it on the end of the tape I’m sending you. It’s too good not to. It comes from New York.

So now I’m burbling without aim. I’m to wind it down and try to chew up some sexual politics. Take care and thank you for your sublime letters. Write as soon as you can or I will go into Rebecca withdrawal and phone you up. Enjoy.

I think the letter and the waiting are a bit like an aperitif before the main course if you see what I mean. Soon.

A.

In spite of everything, I feel pretty good