I Used to Rock

I was dragged out of California and into Austin, Texas at the beginning of my young-adult social life. It was amazing to exit the petty fishbowl of high school and enter this whole other world of nighttime and flashing lights. I loved the loud-ass music that cheered me on to dance until 2 am. This was a kind of heat and energy that transcended time and space. So when I hit Austin I was ready to burst into new clubs resembling the ones I had just left in LA. But even if I could find a club, who would go with me? It seemed hopeless. But that all changed when I finally became friends with the shyest boy in the world.

Dating my boyfriend when I was 19 threw me into the open arms of a viciously warm group of punk-hipsters. Whatever they were, these kids loved music. Every member of the friend group seemed to be in at least one band, and before I knew it, I was invited to tag along to a million little shows. This was the shock to my system I had craved. Hard and fast and loud, and I reveled in this rebirth right in the eye of the storm: the mosh pit.

Moshing is living with all five senses on overdrive. It's a marriage of rage and mirth that could never exist otherwise. It's a pack of unruly and vehemently autonomous people moving as one body. One extreme part of a communal whole, a mosh pit feels the way we were always told church would feel. One night when I kicked off my vinyl red stilettos to dance a little easier, someone came down hard on my tiny foot. To this day I can still see the hazy shadows of where that massive bruise once lived. I love it.

Heat and energy. As a manic depressive who was yet to be diagnosed, it makes sense how much that meant to me. A safe place for me to move my body brightly and violently as my mind moved. I grew and left that friend group, but they opened my eyes to truth behind this town's nickname, "The Live Music Capital of the World." When Zac and I first started dating, that's we would do- invite each other to shows. One night I really wanted to see Comeback Kid, and he had never seen them before, or moshed at any hardcore show before, but he was right there with me. I wasn't a girl that was easily impressed, but man, I was impressed. I hardly remember the show, but I remember his smile. And the very simple fact that I mirrored it all night long.

There used to be a venue called Red 7, and it seemed to be where rock lived. I took my best friend to a small show there the first time she came to Austin. I saw The Adicts there, and moshed until my feet hurt, and until my arms hurt from everyone's spiked-jacket-shoulders. The venue is now called Barracuda, and is where Zac and I saw Russian Circles on Saturday. What happened in the years between those two shows is awful, but minor.

Zac and I weren't together, and I was instead dating a complete idiot. I really wanted to see Cold World, so this guy took me. He never wanted me to do what I wanted to do, didn't see why I would mosh, but I broke away anyway to go dance in the pit. He didn't come with, of course. I was jamming, having fun on my own, but someone in there collided with my face, a little too much. I remember being alone on the floor, trying to answer questions, and an employee trying to put a bag of ice in my hand. Later, homeboy was like, you probably got a really bad concussion (YES), I probably should've taken you to the hospital (YES).  What a winner.

So flash forward to this Saturday, I'm there with Russian Circles on stage and every blood cell in me is pounding to the overexcited beat of my heart. Part of me, habit or instinct, feels the need to be out in the pit, but part of me knows I'm happy to be safe, and comfortable, even if it means I'm in the back. It was overwhelming happiness: to know that with Zac's arm around me, I could close my eyes and feel the music & bang my head without a worry in the world. But also, when the music got more intense and I got more intense, that I could dance and jam in my own little space and Zac, nor anyone else, would judge me. There doesn't have to be a moral to this rant of a story, but if there is a moral, it's that literal metaphor: I got to close my eyes and experience all the beautiful things I wanted to experience, because I was there, fully present, and leaning on the best partner ever. I couldn't be happier.

at Red 7, January 2007

You Are What You Love

Have you ever thought about why you love the things you love? Recently I thought about why I've always loved ballet.

Ballet is beautifully strict. Each position and movement is either right or wrong. It's graceful, but so incredibly rigorous. But that austerity was always a huge comfort; I loved it. Every time I changed into my slippers and entered the classroom I entered a world where I knew what to expect. I knew who, and how, to be. In my teenage years, as life got more tumultuous,  I found solace in the discipline of ballet. Everyone had to follow the same rules, and everyone did. And in those days, I don't think I ever felt safer. When I stared at my reflection in the mirror, I saw a hard-working machine: full of severity, and devoid of self-doubt. That is who, and how, I had to be. When there were so many shaky moving parts in my life, ballet was my one constant. At some points, maybe we love what we love because we need to.

I don't really talk about why I quit ballet towards the end of high school. Because its not the happiest of stories. What happened is, my dad moved out, and my mom, my sister and I all had to start working. It was hard enough getting a ride to work with all of our busy schedules, so you can imagine how difficult it was to get a ride down to the studio. Was this my passion, yes? But it took so much time and money and it just wasn't working out. Luckily, I was able to get into theater at my high school, but I still missed my clockwork routine of dance. I missed the mirrors and my black leotard, the serene silence in between each track of classical music. I missed those rules, that safety. The hardest part in retrospect, is that I had to leave ballet at a time when I probably needed it the most.

All of this has a lot to do with my relationship with dance. I've always loved it, needed it, but stayed away in my adult life. I've told myself, that isn't me, that isn't for me. Yes, there are far worse aspects of my life associated with guilt and regret, but those feelings definitely loomed over my old love of ballet. But in the end, love is what brought me back to it. Zac and I were watching Mr. Robot, and two of the girls had a secret meetup in a chic downtown ballet class. Longingly, I confided, "I wish I could do ballet." All he said was, "What's stopping you?" That night he encouraged me to look up a ballet class. Told me it was okay for me to want this, that is was awesome for me to want this. That I, (a classic INTJ) don't need to over-analyze things, or overthink things when I should be feeling them. We love what we love because it makes us feel warm and fuzzy, or powerful, strong, and free. And when all that love is doing is boosting your life up the ladder of happiness and health? Then DO WHAT YOU LOVE.

Rhetorical

You were the devil
You were my monster
And once you left
I became my monster

I don't know which is worse

Questions, Comments, Concerns

When I left you, did the space in your chest
Feel like an empty, bloody set of gums?
Did it feel like I tied a string around my affection
And slammed the door on you as hard as I could?

Am I even the one that got away?
Or a manic speeding bullet you dodged?

This was a Russian nesting doll
Kind of failure- when I left, I left
A lackluster lack of legacy

My crystal ball history feels the void
Even if you feel nothing

You used to make me feel like junk mail
But isn't that how I addressed you?
Current resident, generic recipient
To whom it may concern

Was I always asking too much from you?
I just wanted to be remembered
The way Bukowski remembered his women

Do you ever think of me in front the mirror?
Combing a yard and some change of reddish hair

It's changed since I met you, shorter and darker
I walk around with December days around my face
And its lovely
Do you think of me leaning on the door frame?

In that American Apparel dress where I almost
Split the seams- do you think my heart
Was bursting that way too?
Maybe I was always too drunk on the moment
To even remember, but I know

That when your little black cat used to push
His devoted face into the sides of my ankles
I always felt lucky
Didn't you ever feel so classic?
Like all we were was a 1940s novel?
Like we were an old yellowing
Black and and white photo of someone's parents?