The nomadic tribe scurried into the parking lot. It was still and quiet in our vehicle. Our eyes raced across the surroundings. Anticipation of what was to come consumed our minds. We stopped, exited the car and took our first steps into the real world.

“Where am I?” If taken literally, the question, in this situation, is obviously rhetorical. We knew our physical location, but something was different. Things that I forgot about civilization came to mind: generosity, courteousness, cooperation and selfless love. To my left Frisbees and footballs soared through the air, to my right… shakedown street.

We walked along the medieval style market. It was the most efficient marketplace on earth. Veggie burritos, vegan beverages, handmade clothing, bracelets, necklaces, clutch cables, tools, grilled cheese, conversation, places to sit, dogs to pet, melodies, tire pumps and jump starts were all offered to those in need immediately.

Friendship gave rise to a warm, subtle sensation of euphoria. The luscious community seemed to cradle its members from the outside world. I was home.

“So if I’m not in America, what is this place?” Suddenly, I remembered my personal definition of subculture. “Groups of people whose rights and regulations exist outside the boundaries of state and federal legislation, an isolated biome of humanity. People who are not distracted by the weight of bureaucracy.” There I was, in the community of Phish. So the predicament is solved, what next?

I entered the pavilion. Then, suddenly, floating upon the air, swirling, crashing into random objects in its path… the music came. A story about an ugly pig that enjoyed dancing the jig echoed from the speakers. The amusing lyrics meshed with the symphonic melodies like reverberating Latin beats do with the Salsa. I was dancing. The moves came naturally, twisting my body from side to side with the crowd.

Trey Anastasio’s fingers bouncing on the fret-board like lions in the desert. John Fishman’s beats rolled out of his instrument like water bubbling down a cold stream. There standing in the stream was Mike Gordon, fly-fishing with his bass guitar. Bobbing up and down, left to right, like a gazelle. Page McConnell lay in a room of marble and ivory, manipulating the smooth tones of a piano like the Rocky Mountains that pierce into the sky.

They played together like a four-headed monster. Their minds moved in different ways but they could never escape the body, or the soul.

In the peak moment of transcendence I forgot about the world. All sorrows, all pains and all stress seemed meaningless. I wanted to stay there forever. I was happy.

I swam inside and out the music, deciphering every last emotion or feeling given by every tone. Then it stopped. The most beautiful experience of my life ended on a strange arrangement of youthful pride. I was Guyute, the pig, no longer.

Then, without hesitation, a western arrangement began. Then another song equally as powerful. Time passed as the world spun, and I was the axis, in the middle.

- Josh Van