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From Magic to Homelessness
Living in a 1920s craft home overlooking a cemetery was surreal. I walked to work every day passing by the castle where Zelda Fitzgerald tragically died. Sometimes, I’d take the long way through The Shakespearean outdoor theatre, a secret sanctuary hidden deep within a park.
As I made my way into downtown Asheville, past the Grove Arcade, I’d often see the sunrise over the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was transfixing, and sometimes, the hippie paradise built on top of quartz veins became too much. I’d panic and hyperventilate on the side of the road, dizzy and overwhelmed with the flashes of some other worldly force. But even those terrifying moments made me feel like a character in a Neil Gaiman novel, and I was very OK with that.
Arriving at work, I was always enthusiastically greeted by McKenzie or Michelle. We’d gather around the ceremonial drum in the center of the store and they’d catch me up on the morning gossip — the owner said something outrageously offensive; a fellow reader wouldn’t be coming in today because of a haunting last night; a creep lurked in the shadows of the store until someone blasted them with some kind of psychic energy.
As we waited for serendipity to arrive, we’d equally contemplate consciousness and romance. If the owner wasn’t around, I’d go in the back with Michelle or McKenzie and we’d play in different dimensions…
