Small, green, hot, stuffy, dusty, primitive, gross. For eleven years this little seemingly ancient shack, apparently a beach house, had been our home away from home when we went to Bethany Beach every summer. This hut did not have air conditioning, electricity or indoor showers. My mother and I hated it, and the only reason we stayed there every summer for so long was because my mother’s sister, my Aunt Bonnie, loved it and we were afraid to tell her how we actually felt about it. So year after year we stayed in the shack, embarrassed to have people over, afraid that anyone who saw us coming out or going into it would think we were paupers – but still, it was just a house and we had a great time with our family in this house year after year. Still, however, we hated that little hut!
July 23rd, 1999. Durham, North Carolina – one of the hottest days since I had been at the American Dance Festival. Appropriate. As quickly as it had come, it had ended. I would soon be thrown back into what was painfully familiar to me. The only difference being that I now refused to accept it as actually being “my life.” What a difference one month can make! In four weeks a 12-year old boy could perfect his grande jete entournant, a Texan could enjoy a bowl of New England Clam Chowder, and a sheltered girl from Baltimore could fall in love.
All that I can really say about this is that it happened after about 50 or so hours of consciousness, and I was staring out of the window that was directly in front of me fixated on a single leaf on a bush across the street that had water dripping off of it because it had been raining earlier that day. It’s like… Traditional Americana meets John Coltrane and Chick Corea in an opium den. Yes. I will go with that.