From the perspective of a "caretaker" in 2017

I pull up to The Whitney and lock my bike, entering through the staff entrance to bypass an already twisting line in the front. On my way in, I pull my hoodie out of my bag, anticipating a cold museum. Once on the third floor I go left, towards the glowing pink room with the floor to ceiling windows and wall to wall carpet: the color that I imagine Elizebeth Fraser was thinking about when she named her song “Cherry-Coloured Funk.” The room is gentle, glossy, and intriguing. Spaced pleasingly around the room are twenty-six saplings each in their own wooden box on wheels built by an ex-lover. Pink and purple grow lights dot the high ceiling, and the rest of the light comes in from the huge windows that open up onto a terrace that looks out over the Meatpacking district. I say hi to the guard and then, as if strolling through my own garden, I take inventory. There in the sweetgum is the mastodon tooth; hanging from the Okame cherry is Rafay’s broken mobile, both built and destroyed by his ex-girlfriend. Lying on its side in the dirt of the dogwood, a bottle of blue cream soda—an ironic memento of an estranged ex-stepfather, and over by the crape myrtle, is my diary: an Italian leatherbound book that was a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday. All is there, all is in its place, for now.

I stretch out underneath the river birch to wait for my first visitors. The smell permeating the room is subtly nauseating, a synthetic simulation of freshly turned soil mixed with the fumes of new carpet. A small statue of Pan peers down at me, setting the tone. I, like Pan, am at home here; the “caretaker” of our fertile grove. I am part of its history; its stories live in me, I am its stories. The grow lights cover me in a warm glow reminiscent of evening sun, an accurate side effect of a practical decision: red and blue light instigates photosynthesis. I wonder if the UV rays will give me a tan.

Last night was fun, fulfilling in a way that New York sometimes does so well. I felt as though my life were important; relevant in the greater scheme of things. From the vantage point of being a part of something, I could zoom out and witness my life located in a huge web laden with many lives connected by many threads. I could see it or maybe I just felt it, viscerally, like the materiality of a shared discourse. This sense of connection, feeling part of something bigger, is what I had been fighting for; pulling myself out of depression, determined to find external affirmation that would momentarily—but also over time—replace the pit of self-loathing.

I am rarely drawn to late nights out; drinking and lack of sleep are destabilizing and disrupt my controlled environment that supports my highest potential—in a capitalist kind of way, but the team met for drinks at a dive bar and with the socializing having potential career benefits in addition to really liking the company, I stayed out late. By the end of the night, only two of us remained. Having a crush on him is what kept me there; his attention felt like life support. I knew my stories were enough to keep him captivated—they were wild and uncomfortable—and we gave into each other’s enabling devices, sucking each other’s vitality in order to feel something, to share something, to feel needed, wanted, seen. I told myself I could join him in the abyss because I was good at compartmentalizing, I could control myself after, and return to the rigid structure that generally dictated my daily life, tomorrow. But the extreme letting go was a response to rigid acts of suppression and it was chipping away at my sense of self as I crossed my own boundaries, denying my feelings of fear and discomfort. Gaslighting the less dominant voices in my head, I told myself that I would be in control again tomorrow, that I could take care of my needs then. The epinephrine and dopamine made me feel alive.

He asked a lot of questions, ones about my past. He seemed to want to know. He listened and I liked the way he looked. What caught me the most were his incongruences, the way he slows down an utterance at the end of a word, prolonging something that he finds funny or absurd. Then he laughs a little and the smile is a shot of oxytocin. For someone with so many bad memories, sometimes all you need is to be held by someone who has felt it too, who has also lived many lives.

I return to the room, alive with trees, people, stories intertwining and overlapping. As a “caretaker,” I am the fibber in the midst of the mass; I subtly and gently configure the assembly. I make it make sense, but I also open the door to something else, somewhere else. I am in the swing of it when an important curator walks in: “you take him,” whispers Asad. I love nothing more than a challenge like this one. I keep my eye on him and, at first, my distance. Maybe he wants a few minutes to be in the space and take it in for himself without being guided. I let him approach one tree and then another before approaching. He is an animated kind of guy with a pregnant air of importance around him. He is joking around with his colleague, but directs his full attention at me when I approach. I am a seasoned player when it comes to impressing male power. I don’t hesitate in my approach: I walk directly towards him from behind, cross in front and turn my body to face him. I ride his attention and divide mine between him and the cherry tree in front of us.

“Hundreds of years ago, a woman and her husband lived humbly on a bit of land in Japan. One day, her husband lay down in the overgrown garden, fell asleep and never woke up. The next morning a huge cherry tree stood in his place. A cherry much like this one in front of you.”

Having captured their attention, they follow obediently as I begin to stroll through the trees.

“You might notice a particular scent in the air, that of the grove.” I stop abruptly and retrieve the black leather diary from underneath the sweet gum “This is the one I was looking for, my diary.” I let the pages fall open and skim the revealed entry. I laugh and side eye my company,

“Now this is funny.” I say.

“Well, what does it say?” he asks.

I look at him, considering if I should say anything, decide against it and begin to read.