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ENLARGE
For the last few weeks, I’ve been a bit of a zombie. I haven’t devoured too many people or family pets, but part of me has been sleepwalking through things. At parties, dates, movies — I’ve been in this fog of fear. I can’t think of anything more disempowering.
Then Wednesday happened.
Like usual, I was behind on my stories for this section. By the time evening rolled around, I needed a break. I drove my zombie self over the courthouse, walked along the river and ended up at the Summer of Jazz. It was my first time.
I met Steve Turre, the conch-playing head honcho of the Sanctified Shells. I sat with some friends and listened to the band create cool, calm, 10 minute songs. It was great, but it’s not what I remember most from that night. What I was impressed by were all the onlookers just hanging. It felt like community. It felt good.
After a few tunes, I got up to leave. I walked through this wall of humanity on their way to the show. It felt like everyone was out — kids with dogs, middle aged couples wearing visors, even a co-worker, toting a picnic basket and her little kids. I drank in all the different faces. Finally, I was awake.
Elated, I walked back to my car, drove to work, and I got ready write again. Sitting back at my desk, I had this instant, sickening feeling. I had I left my camera bag at the park.
Crazed, I retraced my steps, driving, sprinting through the crowd. By the time I reached the grass, I was panting and one of my shoes had flown off.
And then there it was, my bag, sitting alone, a few feet from my friends, surrounded by hundreds of people.
In that moment, I couldn’t say my faith in humanity was restored. It had never left. But I did feel so thankful. Confronting something so scary, my fears of late seemed to dissipate in the warm air.
Now, there’s part of me that wants call up my friends and tell them this. I want to say that I’m back. I’m myself again.
Ah, but maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe it won’t even make sense to them. Anyway, not feeling like the flesh eating undead might just be good enough for me.
Then Wednesday happened.
Like usual, I was behind on my stories for this section. By the time evening rolled around, I needed a break. I drove my zombie self over the courthouse, walked along the river and ended up at the Summer of Jazz. It was my first time.
I met Steve Turre, the conch-playing head honcho of the Sanctified Shells. I sat with some friends and listened to the band create cool, calm, 10 minute songs. It was great, but it’s not what I remember most from that night. What I was impressed by were all the onlookers just hanging. It felt like community. It felt good.
After a few tunes, I got up to leave. I walked through this wall of humanity on their way to the show. It felt like everyone was out — kids with dogs, middle aged couples wearing visors, even a co-worker, toting a picnic basket and her little kids. I drank in all the different faces. Finally, I was awake.
Elated, I walked back to my car, drove to work, and I got ready write again. Sitting back at my desk, I had this instant, sickening feeling. I had I left my camera bag at the park.
Crazed, I retraced my steps, driving, sprinting through the crowd. By the time I reached the grass, I was panting and one of my shoes had flown off.
And then there it was, my bag, sitting alone, a few feet from my friends, surrounded by hundreds of people.
In that moment, I couldn’t say my faith in humanity was restored. It had never left. But I did feel so thankful. Confronting something so scary, my fears of late seemed to dissipate in the warm air.
Now, there’s part of me that wants call up my friends and tell them this. I want to say that I’m back. I’m myself again.
Ah, but maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe it won’t even make sense to them. Anyway, not feeling like the flesh eating undead might just be good enough for me.
