Barefoot in CT

"We have our shit together, in not having our shit together. And we do it well."

My feet are permanently dirty. My legs are remniscent of those of a 8 year old boy, decorated with the purple and blues of bruises, the cuts and scrapes of twigs and trees and bug bites left over from June. My energy has been depleted to somewhere around when the gas light first goes on, but hovering above empty. I'm usually sunburnt and peeling, from some kind of all day battle with the sun, one of which I never win.

Music Festivals, adventures of traffic, subways and late nights in NYC, bike rides with a backpack of beer on our backs and a boombox in a handlebar basket. Walking in humidity with red cups and Slushies. Eating beetles, because it's funny. Thursday night Pony excursions of pool, jukebox dancing, limbo, hugging the tree and walks home of poetry-yelling, yell-laughing and pod-picking. Rope swings into a murky, orange colored, Farmington River riddled with face plants and butt-skimming attempts. PBR inspired wakeboarding on Highland. We laugh on porches over "grillables", Hookah and swatting mesquitos. We play tennis and soccer and frisbee in the park, in the backyard, on the courts. We write on walls all the quotes that make us feel like sanity is really only being comfortable in discomfort.


The green of Connecticut and the blanket of the humidity has made me feel like the summer is a living thing. It breathes brightly-colored flowers and dancing, swaying trees. Grass that begs for bare feet and shade that calls for a moment of spontaneous rest.

I love this summer.