It always seemed more significant to me, but only to me.
The ride was becoming unhinged.
An old mahogany console sat on orange indoor, outdoor carpet and sang out tales of Cathy.
Her wonton acts drive the author crazy and carve a groove in all of our lives forever.
In just a blink of the cultural eye, she would tear a beloved away from all of us.
In the mirrored house, which during the cold days only one side of the mirror lived,
things were happening that I thought I understood, but couldn't.
It was the summer of awakening.
Clapton sat on his porch on Ocean Boulevard, picking a reggae tune.
Michael was my twin at every turn that summer.
I easily jumped into that yellow '65 Mustang convertible and did not look back.
The days passed on Davis Drive and felt like months were flying by,
this mostly because when you are eight, summer lasts about 3 years.
At night on Davis Drive, I could hear the zombie apocalypse raging downstairs outside the front door.
By day, we discovered the music that would shape my later years.
Water made me feel like I was defying gravity, and it made me weak.
I longed for Echo and the comfort she could only provide.
My mixed cultural horizons were greatly expanded during this time, but I could not help but wonder,
was this really happening by my choice? Or was it someone else's?
Riding high atop a pile of furniture and carpeting on a speeding car with the voice of
Reginald Dwight pleaded to not be rejected, begging for the sun to stay just a bit longer.
I felt lost.
So, I went home.
And
that
is
when
something
incredible
happened.
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