“They may take our lives, but they'll never take… our freedom!“
–Mel Gibson, acting, at some point, in some movie.
Ah, freedom. To some, it's the feeling that washes over your body on a Tuesday in early July, when it's about noon and you're lounging in Golden Gate Park with a person you love, on hippie hill, on Independence Day perhaps, in cloud-free 75-degree weather, watching 25? 30? 60? 80? beautiful people with drums and guitars, horns and woodwinds — watching them coalesce into a sick symphony of harmony, rhythm and amoebic collaboration you can only imagine happening here, now, under this sky, in this city, with this person. And then — stirred by this weird chord of unity and meter you haven't felt in recent memory, you sit up and begin hammering a rhythm on your outstretched legs, watching happily, but distractedly, as your companion produces, lights, puffs on, and then passes you that holiday spliff you've been waiting to inhale for a week, packed with those sticky, crystallized, bright green buds that were accentuated by sparse, tiny, orange and purple hairs before you tore them apart and rolled them artfully into that Montecristo this morning, sealing it shut with your lips, before kissing hers. Yes, freedom. Freedom, to some, is finishing that spliff, lounging for another hour in the grass, drunk with the sounds and smells of the summer (and whoever's around you), high on the smoke of that delicately nurtured flower, and then standing, continuing leisurely on foot or on bikes, doesn't really matter, maybe in the direction of a party or a barbecue or a show, or maybe… maybe you decide no — no people, just us. Maybe you decide that you'll go wherever you want to go, with or without friends, with or without plans. Because maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe all that matters is that you're here and you're free and, at least for today, no amount of sarcasm or irony or politics or criticism is going to bug you or tear you away from this person. Because today? Today is Independence Day. Fuck work.