This past weekend, I attended the Woodstock Writers' Festival (now called the Woodstock Book Fest), courtesy of my sister-in-law's generosity. It was fantastic. Many of the panel writers and workshop leaders encouraged writing a paragraph a day, so here we go.
I left the Woodstock Book Festival feeling full, content, nostalgic. Though I may have inhaled some second-hand fumes from the state's weed capital, my high was softened by a long car ride home -- time to think. Passing Halfmoon, I wondered which came first: Janis's lyrics or the city name, and I found a new high in imagining her rolling by, humming a new tune in her low, husky voice that would later nurture the song, "Halfmoon, nighttime sky. Seven stars, honey, heaven's eyes. Seven songs on seven seas. Just to bring all your sweet love home to me." Along the same road, I headed toward open arms, a warm bed, the comfort of snacks in the fridge, coffee in the cupboard. And she: to a new lover, a found song, Southern Comfort. When our spirits crossed paths at Halfmoon, there was a burst of freedom and joy and love; also abuse and darkness and a dragging down deep, deep, into the Hudson. I wanted us both to break free and swim toward the light, but I surfaced alone.
I fell asleep after midnight, my husband holding me, me cradling my daughter, and morning came like a freight train.