The airports were cold and obnoxious so Husband and I chronicled our saga of adventures while breaking into fits of giggles, mostly at everyone else’s expense. We explored and laughed and antagonized and held hands and snuck kisses.
Philadelphia was cold…and rainy…and dirty…and I wanted to get violent with an uncommonly large amount of people. But we kept on chronicling and laughing and teasing and hugging and gallivanting around on our own accord. We love, love, LOVED the architecture in South Philly and how it mingled with the modern marvels and skyscrapers. We loved the horse drawn carriages and markets and sweet little shops nestled into rows of architectural cacophony and the Ukrainian festival and cabs and statues and tunnels. We did not, however, love driving. We relinquished those particular duties to the cabbies.
Grown men waited outside for hours just to get a glimpse of Dad. I locked Husband in a death stare to partially avoid laughing. We skipped around saying hi to the crew and the band and Tonto picked on Alex and Steve hid on the tour bus and then we were off on foot to have lunch with Dad. We sat in a tiny little thai restaurant and the waitress marveled at my hair and, I want it on record, that Dad referred to us as his ‘children’ and not ‘my daughter and her husband.’ We ate our curry in peace. Then we held hands and skipped over to the Liberty Bell and kept skipping all the way back to our hotel.
Then we cozied up at a bar that smelled like Christmas and there wasn’t a coaster in site. And our cab driver might have been some degree of psychotic, but he got us to the Electric Factory unscathed. People were wrapped around the building waiting to get in and we snapped necks when they saw us walk past with our passes and sneak in the back. We floated around the green room and I fell in love. The green room at the Electric Factory was all of my stranger dreams and Forever House stipulations all thrown together in a queer sort of harmony. We lounged in our special spot while being glared at by 2,500 people. The show sold out long ago and while I looked over the sea of people, I could see which band member each person was following. Everyone transfixed by my dad did an awkward little head bob and the headbangers were watching Steve Wilson. I stiff armed the crowds so that a little boy could go to the bathroom. He knew I was there with a boy bigger and older and stronger than him so he refused to hold my hand while I dragged him through the seething crowds, so I pulled him by the shirt instead. It didn’t go unnoticed by his millionaire father. The opening band preached my gospel and then I closed my eyes and let the music wind through my soul, completely mesmerized.
Crowds huddled outside in the cold rain for hours just to get a picture with my Dad and I looked on, bewildered. People with privileges flocked to the green room and hovered over Dad waiting for their autographs and eventually we hopped in the back of a fan’s car and they drove us to our hotel. We laughed and antagonized and teased and ate candy bars in bed and fell asleep with smiles on our faces.
The next morning I got confounded by our GPS but it didn’t stop the laughter that bubbled up unchecked. We explored the airport where I harassed bartenders for coasters…only to be laughed at. We’ve set our sites on a 4.5 liter bottle of whiskey that will look just perfectly out of place on our kitschy little bar. We frolicked about holding hands, content in our own little bubble. We spent hours in Miami, antsy and trapped with nothing to do but make friends with a frail old man. We finally flew home, lost inside a burning sky and the cities 25,000 feet below us glittered under a sunset that took our breath away.
There is no doubt in my mind that my Husband is inconceivably amazing in every way. Everything he does screams his love for me and my well being is always at the forefront of his thoughts. I can only hope my all consuming love for him is as obvious. I have a hard time wrapping my mind around just how intense his feelings are…especially after a weekend like this.
My better half always speaks about the “summer of love” and the intense 3 months of learning and developing that started our amazing relationship. How fond she was of the time and that it was her best summer that she had experienced in her life, while I agree with that the months following I feel had a much larger impact on our future. The last semester she spent away at FSU was extremely difficult but made the weekends that we spent together during that time period even more intense. A single day that I can pinpoint in my life as the worst possible feeling I have been exposed to is sitting in a Grey Hound station leaving for Tampa, the meaning of miserable can not touch the stomach turning and dizzying feeling that made me hate everyone around me and the feeling of emptiness even though she had just left me less than five minutes ago. I hope to never experience that feeling in my life again.
The semester was spent waiting on a weekend in which I would gladly drive 5 hours just for a day to spend with her, or hoping that she could spare the time to grace me with a visit. For the first time in my life I had feelings that were truly dependent on another person, and it scared the shit out of me. I can attribute a large growth in maturity of myself during that fall. The songs of Minus the Bear and Incubus bring me back to a time of realization of who I was becoming and who I would spend the rest of my life with. The smell of Fall makes me remember and appreciate where we have been and the opportunities that lie ahead.
Tomorrow we leave for Philadelphia and we will dutifully fill our 24 hours with every bit of magic and mishap we can dream up. Philadelphia is a place for polaroids and hand holding and gypsies and calamity in all of its manifestations.
These dreams of mine have been growing increasingly warped and twisted, becoming less and less lucid. They aren’t necessarily the nightmares that bathe my mind in darkness… but they’re physically exhausting, leaving no room for simple peace. Just normal technicolor dreams where everything is screaming and buzzing and morphing…and my mind is on fire with them and i get stuck inside them, trapped inside the workings of my own head. The images start before I’ve fallen asleep and they commandeer my mind…where they lash out and besiege me with stories that don’t make sense and images I would rather not have seen. And I have to fight them all the way to the surface of sleep and they try to hold me down, pulling me and fighting me, and when I pry open my eyes I feel like I’ve been drowning and I feel suddenly, inexplicably lost. It’s a disgusting feeling to, for any fleeting second, to feel lost in your own perfect home…in your own perfect life. I lay there in the morning, broken and numb, phasing out these dreams, shaking off their grip. And then I wonder where the nightmares have gone…and if they will return.
I did some research and made a print of the Dunn family crest and hung it up in the dining room. It was supposed to be a St. Patrick’s Day surprise…but husband weaseled it out of me so I put it off until I was sure he had forgotten.
The caricature went in the other frame
And it hangs above our bed, the crown jewel of our sweet little bedroom.