Love Point’s name dates back to at least 1694 and is often explained in local legends. Most of these legends are variations of the same basic story where two lovers die either at Love Point or in the nearby waters. Depending on the specific variation, the lovers are either Native American, European settlers, or one of each. In many versions of the story the couple’s love is forbidden, and this is what leads to their death. Another element present in some versions is that their bodies are found washed ashore in an embracing position.
-Wikipedia
I should start off by saying, in the words of Sea Griffin, yesterday was a GIFT. It was beautiful, the weather was ALMOST perfect, and just imperfect ENOUGH to make you really appreciate it. We were on our game, sounded great, saw lots of friends and played our hearts out. We did what we do, were paid, fed, and were surrounded by human and environmental eye candy.
But…
I wonder if 20-year-old me or 30-year-old me or 40-year-old me would’ve had the same visceral response to yesterday’s environment. A beautiful, expansive home right on the bay – a massive outlay of catered delectables – berths for multiple boats (currently stored elsewhere because they’ve not retrieved them for The Season yet), the sort of outdoor bathrooms that aren’t used for half the year, a gas firepit that still burned charcoal because the owner preferred the smell… a 3.5-million-dollar home.
We thought we were playing a small park or perhaps a backyard for a more traditional value of “backyard” – but this… this was such a conspicuous beacon of wealth and exclusivity (multiple signs warning about 24-hour surveillance, do not enter signs, etc) that it made me uncomfortable.
What do you say?
“Holy shit girl, you didn’t tell us your parents were RICH!!!”
My mother’s in my head “act like you’re used to it Robert!!!” but it’s hard not to be stunned by it all.
Maybe a younger me, a less aware? Or less paranoid me, would’ve brushed it off and just basked in the beauty of the environment. But it was hard to ignore this brutal declaration of how much they HAVE vs my have-not tininess.
This… comparing myself to others… it feels like a newer emotion. A covetousness or envy that I don’t appreciate in myself. That I don’t RECOGNIZE it myself. I don’t know these people’s situation, I don’t know if it’s familial wealth or fortunate wealth or criminal wealth. Winners of lawsuits or of the lottery of being human. Doctors that have saved Lives or lawyers that have ruined them. Politicians or ex-athletes or investment bankers. I don’t know these people. And yet I’m on some level horrified by their environment.
Can these people truly appreciate what they have? Or is the point that so many people wander the estate, wide-eyed and whispering? The carefully manicured gardens. Beautiful irises and well-cared for palm trees. A huge rolling lawn. These things speak of pride, but whose? Again, I don’t know these people, but can they really be the type to put in this kind of effort? We meet catering staff and grounds staff. It seems unlikely these are the art and garden crafts of the owners… and the amount of maintenance it implies feels …. Plantation-like.
I tried not to obsess over this. We were hired for a fan’s birthday party and most of the guests were people we knew through the Dark Horse or the Annapolis scene. Skribe was there, hanging out, AJ’s musician son, a couple of other local singer/songwriters hanging out. We talked business and stage fright and travel during our breaks. Skribe called us “the musician’s musicians” and though I’m not ENTIRELY sure what that means, it feels flattering as Hell. We’re respected within a part of our musical community that I truly desire the respect of.
It means a lot to be well thought of.
Crab cakes and momentary deluges. Chicken sticks and a dog that thinks chasing the little girl who runs away screaming is GREAT fun. We salvage the situation and soothe her with Disney songs. Women in incredible dresses, men in not-so-casual casual fare. We party like it’s Wednesday and they dance and the fire blazes. The food is delicious, and the people are beautiful. The night clouds over and I’m sad we’re missing the last of the full moon behind heavy, HEAVY cloud cover.
Our cables are covered in grit. Everything is wet. My pedal board has sand in it from the sandpit in front of the tiki hut that’s sheltered us all evening. The gear’s filled with dirt and cleaning it all out is going to SUCK.
It was an incredible night. We had an awesome time. A friend found me tequila and at the end of the night I move slow and heavy. I’m tired and roseate. Until I think a bit more about it and we’re once again crossing the Bay Bridge. Going home to my little house. I don’t wish it were bigger. I don’t wish their house was smaller. I just wish I wasn’t thinking about it.
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