Stolen Figgs

Pleasant Grove, a community in the southeast outskirts of Dallas, Texas, was not a nice neighborhood when keyboardist Elliot Figg was growing up in the eighties and nineties. He and his big family lived there for much of his childhood, neighbors with a diverse, blue-collar bunch. Petty crime was a normalcy and thefts were common in Pleasant Grove, according to Figg. He now performs, conducts and writes music in New York.

This isn’t to say Figg’s youth was totally saturated with the crimes of Pleasant Grove. There were tranquil refuges in nature and in music. Woods behind his home were often explored, fond details of them remembered decades later. At a cafe on the Upper West Side in New York city he and I go back and forth sharing cherished memories of our respective childhood forest romps—forts, good climbing trees, enchanting hollowed stumps.

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Solace in Bugs

I was visiting my family in Virginia a few weeks ago, and really thought it would be a forgettable, averagely enjoyable trip. The late night bus I took from New York was uncomfortable. The bathroom I shared with my two siblings when the three of us lived at home was messy. Our family dog Bear had more trouble getting up and down our front porch steps than I remembered. All of these were normal, expected home-visit realities. Everything was as it had been on every other visit.

I was sinking into the usual couch-and-tv-induced lazy haze on my last night home, watching a movie with my mom and sister. For some reason, the couch at your home, regardless if it’s a nice couch or not, is the quickest quicksand when it comes to sucking you into an unexpected bout of hours-long lounging. Maybe it’s the familiar pheromones gripping your body and reminding it that you’re safe here, safer than anywhere else. It’s a sensation that triggers a refreshing release of the armor I feel like I wear everyday in New York.

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