I'm experiencing horrific heartache right now.
The only music festival I have ever loved, the Fest, is happening without me in Gainesville, FL, while my aged body sits at home, bonding with a package of Oreos and reruns of Sex and the City and polishing off the second half of a bottle of Moscato a friend brought over one night..
I cannot begin to define how much I wish I were making that up. I'll spend the next (if I had to guess) two paragraphs doing my best to convince myself I'm bigger than the sweaty, lust-hearty allure of the Fest, but to be candid, there isn't much I've loved more in the last ten years. Maybe not even my boyfriend. Ouch, sorry honey. It's just, nothing truly compares. Oh, silly me, I'm so dramatic.
Have you ever felt that though? Have you ever felt the kinetic, bustling energy of a city full of people who all love the same chords? The same lyrics? Maybe some sports fans could relate. The fans of those teams who've won national championships in their home towns -- those fans can probably relate because the entire city erupts in pride and fiery energy that practically requires setting fires (like the time the Gators won their second national championship and people set furniture on fire in the streets) to release the ball of unstoppable force within.
A city full of people who all love the same music though, that's peaceful, not fire-starting. Each of the last ten years, as I walked the streets of Gainesville, my body and my mind were always at peace. Hipsters, haters, punks and hippies. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, always got along. I wore a shirt one year that said "free hugs" and before the end of Friday night, I'd already lost count. People are happy at the Fest. People are so geeked to be there -- so grateful to be surrounded by other music lovers who share their passion and their musical politics. (enter more Moscato). People there don't have to struggle for connections. They don't feel cast out into the shadows. We all, whether we acknowledge it or not, are part of the same cult. We LOVE our music.
The history, for me anyway: It started one year, many, many moons ago. Some relatives of friends we'd met on a whim called my sister, who lived in Gainesville at the time, and asked if they could sleep on the floor of her college apartment the weekend of Halloween if they came down for a music festival. Susan, obviously, said yes and we became fast friends with a handful of New Englanders who'd come down for the next half dozen years without hesitation. Each year, a little different than the last. We'd stay at hotels, rent cars, sometimes they'd fly in, other times they'd drive. I'd bike all over the city some years, and foot it others. We'd do pool parties at the hotel and block parties when the venues closed. We were wild and free and that shit was awesome. Enter Corporate America. Now I get my kicks off buying shit like a goddamn blender...
No, I'm not bitter. I need to write about something happier tomorrow. Rest in Peace, Fest. Moving on hurts, but it must be done.
The only music festival I have ever loved, the Fest, is happening without me in Gainesville, FL, while my aged body sits at home, bonding with a package of Oreos and reruns of Sex and the City and polishing off the second half of a bottle of Moscato a friend brought over one night..
I cannot begin to define how much I wish I were making that up. I'll spend the next (if I had to guess) two paragraphs doing my best to convince myself I'm bigger than the sweaty, lust-hearty allure of the Fest, but to be candid, there isn't much I've loved more in the last ten years. Maybe not even my boyfriend. Ouch, sorry honey. It's just, nothing truly compares. Oh, silly me, I'm so dramatic.
Have you ever felt that though? Have you ever felt the kinetic, bustling energy of a city full of people who all love the same chords? The same lyrics? Maybe some sports fans could relate. The fans of those teams who've won national championships in their home towns -- those fans can probably relate because the entire city erupts in pride and fiery energy that practically requires setting fires (like the time the Gators won their second national championship and people set furniture on fire in the streets) to release the ball of unstoppable force within.
A city full of people who all love the same music though, that's peaceful, not fire-starting. Each of the last ten years, as I walked the streets of Gainesville, my body and my mind were always at peace. Hipsters, haters, punks and hippies. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, always got along. I wore a shirt one year that said "free hugs" and before the end of Friday night, I'd already lost count. People are happy at the Fest. People are so geeked to be there -- so grateful to be surrounded by other music lovers who share their passion and their musical politics. (enter more Moscato). People there don't have to struggle for connections. They don't feel cast out into the shadows. We all, whether we acknowledge it or not, are part of the same cult. We LOVE our music.
The history, for me anyway: It started one year, many, many moons ago. Some relatives of friends we'd met on a whim called my sister, who lived in Gainesville at the time, and asked if they could sleep on the floor of her college apartment the weekend of Halloween if they came down for a music festival. Susan, obviously, said yes and we became fast friends with a handful of New Englanders who'd come down for the next half dozen years without hesitation. Each year, a little different than the last. We'd stay at hotels, rent cars, sometimes they'd fly in, other times they'd drive. I'd bike all over the city some years, and foot it others. We'd do pool parties at the hotel and block parties when the venues closed. We were wild and free and that shit was awesome. Enter Corporate America. Now I get my kicks off buying shit like a goddamn blender...
No, I'm not bitter. I need to write about something happier tomorrow. Rest in Peace, Fest. Moving on hurts, but it must be done.
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