Ryfe Greenwood

The tinnitus has been quelled. I like to drive it into submission with elevated decibels. Then it goes into a box directly above where I keep my polka-dotted socks.

In 1985 I was born in a hospital with dreary architecture that was sufficient to make millions but not inspiration – which, it must be said, is always costlier. Little did my parents know, they never could know, my story could not be completed without Vermont.

When I compelled my family to thrust away on our vacation via four airplanes and the requisite turbulence and toddler tears, my hopes were not equal to my expectations. I hoped for very much. And I expected very little. Even this dichotomy does not fully grasp my internal disposition. In actuality, I didn’t know what I wanted nor what I needed. Yet, the Green Mountain State, in accordance with its transcendent splendor, nevertheless delivered.

It became the ball to my Netherfield; the pride to my Mr. D’Arcy; the plumage to my peacock; the words to my dictionary; lawlessness to my Jesse James; water to my brook; dormancy to my caldera; ethereality to my cloud; RB26DETT to my Skyline GT-R of a certain generation; hatred of bi-partisan corruption to my Bernie Sanders; the quiet to my loud; fire to my tinder box; the gulag to my fears; and finally the antithesis to my St. Louis.

They made me, but they will never know what makes me.