Will you dance with me on the memory of the Berlin Wall?
Staring into the barrel of a shot glass that summer we got the same haircut and everyone thought we were twins, the Leopold and Loeb of petty criminals. Our was a dance toward discord not doom. Periwinkle and the jangling wound of wind dancing in cottonwood trees. An encyclopedia of the different sounds of rustling leaves, oak, leucaena, and neem. Each makes me want to retreat to a hammock with the darkest of Russian books, their cheerful sounds overtaking and cleansing Chekov until he starts sounding comic.
That summer of my 20th year I defied the instincts of my generation and spent July reading all of Ibsen and all of August with Strindberg. Shaw and O’Neill would require the expanse of a full season with only a few lines of Major Barbara and Desire Under the Elms remain from that youthful theatrical marathon. My path did not meander in the direction meander in the direction that summer’s reading might have implied. Drama would finally return as we waited for the iceman.