Mon Sep 13 10:47:20 MDT 2004
And so it came to pass that on the night of Sunday, September 12, 2004, I again found myself wandering in that beautiful hive of sin, immorality, and vice, as well as pleasure, pain, bliss, and heartache. A place known as Rock Island. Where the children of the night go to play.
What can I say about this one? I think I wore myself out. It's exactly what I needed to do. I also came full circle, and I finally, once again had to admit to myself that I have no idea how to relate to members of the female species. I am clueless. I suspect I shall remain clueless for a long time to come.
Brief flashes of memory:
[Wait. Nope, now it's turning into a more of a full narrative.]
Initially, after I first entered, I had to wonder if I was in the wrong club, or there on the wrong night, or... something. On stage, there was a live band. Live bands can be fun, but this band, along with most of its audience, were... not what I was expecting. The image and the sound: as far as I could tell, a virtual derivative of every other wannabe punk act consisting of sloppily dressed teenage boys trying to look and sound like the ten thousand other whiney, suburban sludge bands that look and sound exactly like them. This, in itself, wouldn't be a bad thing, except that I never found that aesthetic appealing in the first place. Uggh.
I found my way downstairs to the Catacombs, where, comfortingly, the usual crowd of black-clad vinyl, leather, and chains people (along with more mundane variants such as myself) had begun to congregate. When I began as if to to approach one of the staff members, he spoke before I had even asked anything. "They'll be done up there in just a few minutes, and we'll be spinning tunes for you guys to dance to up on the main floor. It will just be a little while."
I thanked him, grooved for a little while to the music of the underworld. I also bought a beer from the attractive blond who, it seems, is always stationed at the bar on the lower level. I liked the way she carefully took her time in filling the cup up to the very tip. In addition to my standard $1 tip, I would return to buy a beer from her again later in the evening, and tip the same amount again.
The first time I tried going back upstairs, the bland band had finished playing, and they were carrying their equipment out. On my way up the stairs, I overheard a tidbit of conversation amidst a few of the usuals who were standing on the stairs, obviously waiting for the main area to clear out. The words "so fucking lame" crossed my ears. I couldn't help but agree, though I didn't mind waiting.
When I went up again later, the familiar sounds were pumping again, the lights were swirling, and a decent sized crowd was already in motion. Nary a trace of the scrappy teenage riffraff remained. Apparently, the weak band had taken their groupie audience with them. Yay!
The night was underway.
NOW, we'll try again, with brief flashes of memory:
The petite goddess of night whose casual acquantiance I made last week (no, I did not write about that part at all) was in attendance again. I said hi, and used her name. She did not remember me or my name, but I certainly remembered hers, thus proving that we had had a conversation. I gave her my name again and smiled knowingly. (I have forgotten so many people's names over the past few weeks, even when they remembered mine clearly, that it has sometimes made me feel like an absolute clod, so I could empathized with her position.)
With nothing in particular to communicate, we went along our ways. I saw her dance to a couple of songs, and then she disappeared completely from my view for the rest of the night.
[Flashback to a week ago...]
The only reason I remembered her name so well was because last week, during our first encounter, midway through the conversation, I made the mistake of saying, "What was your name again?"
To which she astutely replied, almost in a chastising tone, "I never told you my name."
She was right, and I knew it. But never in the past had I received such a pedantic response to such a minor error. The word "again" should not have been part of my sentence. I paused, uncertain what to say next.
"It's ok. You don't have to do the typical guy thing with me." She smiled reassuringly.
The typical 'guy thing'? I remained silent.
After a moment's hesitation, she told me her name, and I told her mine. This little trip-up instilled within me a fierce determination to to never, ever have to ask what her name was again. For others, I might have to be told a name 3, 4 or even a dozen times before it would stick, but hers was now etched in my brain.
She briefly introduced me to 3 of her other male friends who were gathered around the table, whose names I completely forgot within 30 seconds.
After dancing to a couple more numbers, I also made sure to return to speak once more before leaving her sight to tell her it was an honor to have made her acquaintance. She asked me if I come to this club regularly, and I said that I do every week or three, depending on how things go. She said that in that case, there was a good chance we would meet again.
Her prediction, it turned out, would be correct.
As the night progressed, driven by the music, and the energy of all the vibrant souls in attendance, my energy levels skyrocketed. I performed some dance moves of increasing daring and apparent risk to my own bodily safety. But always, I remained fully attuned to my own body's capabilities and limitations, those of my environment, and above all, the people around me.
[Special thanks go to DJ Harlot for playing Depeche Mode's Everything Counts at the very moment I happened to be returning downstairs. At that point, there was virtually nobody else down there, but I really enjoyed hearing that song again right then. And no, I did not request it, nor did I even converse with her or any of the other DJs at all during the course of this particular evening. But that song just hit the spot.]
If we are to form a new society with its own social classes and hierarchies, then I believe that the DJ's, along with the artists themselves, ought to be conferred the status of highest royalty. Such a thing is only proper and fair -- that those who do the most to enrich the lives of the people at large be at the top of the power chain. And indeed, in a way, they already are.
As the evening continued, and the fun went on, I couldn't help but notice that I was being watched. And followed. Upstairs, and down.
I had seen her lurking in the shadows on previous weeks, and based on her patterns of behavior, I had made the supposition that she was in some way affiliated with club security. Not as a bouncer, but just to keep an eye on things, and make sure no abuses were taking place; all in a very discreet, non-intrusive way. I was glad she was around, because unlike uniformed officers, she made me feel safe, both for myself, and other attendees, without conveying a threatening presence.
But now her eye was on me. She was, without obviously appearing to do so, following me upstairs and down. Whenever I looked her way, she would be looking somewhere else -- UNLESS I surprised her, and turned my head quickly. Then there would be eye contact for a brief moment, and she would casually turn her gaze away into an unfocused direction. (Although at one moment, down in the Catacombs, she made it obvious that she was watching me. The eye contact lasted several seconds, but it was from the opposite side of the room.)
With all this unacknowledged attention being focused my direction, it was hard not to feel under the spotlight, even though I knew she wasn't intending to have that effect. She knew as well as I did that I had harmed no one, nor did I intend to do so, and I demonstrated quite clearly within her field of view that I was plenty sober. But at this point, there was no going back. My over-the-top antics had put me on the map, so I did the only thing I could do...
I adopted the same pattern of behavior towards her that she was exhibiting toward me. What else could I do? I watched her while barely looking at her at all, followed her from a distance. I suspect that she might have been starting to feel a bit uncomfortable, but what could I do? Whenever I tried to go somewhere else, she was behind me.
I understand what your job is, and I respect it. You are here to help prevent shit like this from happening. How can I convey to you that I am not your enemy? I am here to help?
I think she got the message, and started to relax a bit. Not a bad dancer either.
As my evening drew near to a close, and I watched the dance floor, she came near the table I was standing next to. Within 3 feet of me. Still feigning near-unawareness of my existence. I turned in her direction, and she looked at me for a brief moment. I was going to speak, even if it was just to say something so lame as, "How's your evening going?"
But in a flash, she was gone.
A few minutes later, back upstairs, she was standing next to the archway, talking to some other people. Still, she was seeing me, but she would not look me in the eye. I already knew this, and I was sick of it. There was nothing left to do. I had heard all the music I wanted to. I had talked with all the people I needed to. I had spent my insanity, and in return, I received emptyness.
As I passed on the way out, I tried to smile, and made a gesture very vaguely resembling a salute in her direction without looking directly at her. I would have liked to have spoken with her, but I didn't want to be pushy, and her body language clearly indicated that she was not interested in talking with me on this night. So be it.
Thus, I shall conclude by copying what I wrote near the top of this piece for another parsing. Repeated again, it is as true now as it ever was.
I finally, once again had to admit to myself that I have no idea how to relate to members of the female species. I am clueless. I suspect I shall remain clueless for a long time to come.
It's a bright new day! I'm going to meet with Scott. Gotta get going. There is much to do to prepare for the future...
Mon Sep 13 12:48:22 MDT 2004
Mon Sep 13 17:37:35 MDT 2004
[Warning: Copied from last week. While reading through the written history of my recent life, I decided to play the music again. So why not repeat the meme here too?]
Corporate-backed pop music became obsolete on the day that Indicia released their self-titled debut album without any help from the major labels. As I listen again, I cannot help but be swayed. Filled to the brim with sharply written, astoundingly produced tracks, it lays to shame everything the commercial media tries to pass off as "hip".
[bitscape:~]$ date
Mon Sep 13 17:49:55 MDT 2004
Music: Indicia (self-titled album)
Song: Run Away
SCRATCH everything I just wrote. Starting over...
lol. I am so full of shit sometimes... Nevermind. :)
I have emails to write, code to fix, and other things to do. Why am I still here writing more bullshit? Am I addicted to this practice? Yes, I think perhaps I am.
...
Now, I'm listening to Russion music which was downloaded from a server in Australia. Here, for the curious. (Yet another demonstration of how far behind America's online music scene is falling -- at least the part of it that's controlled by the megacorps. iTunes can kiss my ass.)
Today, I met with Scott, and we had a good little talk over free lunch again. A good thing. I gave what I suppose amounts to, quite literally, my 2 weeks notice. We discussed, among other things, how to best wrap things up so my work can be smoothly transitioned to whoever he hires next.
It's bittersweet, but the more we talked, the more I became convinced that I am doing what is best.
The most damning accusation I can level against myself as I prepare to go off on this road trip: I am "running away" from my problems rather than facing them.
Now on Lamb. track: Stronger. (From the album Between Darkness and Wonder.)
Damn, that is some brilliantly arranged stuff. Though I've never personally heard any of it played at a club, I don't think would have ever discovered Lamb had I not dabbled around in Denver's club scene at least a little. Or Artefact. Or Hungry Lucy. Or VNV Nation. The list could go on.
So... am I running away? If I am honest, I have to admit that in some ways, the answer is a big fat YES.
Does this mean than I am a coward, or a weakling, or somehow morally deficient? Or does it just mean that I'm doing the only sane thing that I have left to do? Maybe running away is underrated.
The lyric I posted at the beginning of this entry, which just happened to be playing in my headphones when I began it, seemed uncannily fitting. [/me sends a tiny little telepathic thank-you-gram to Betsy Ullery.]
When all else fails, the music, as much as anything, becomes my guide. Over the years, I have learned to trust it, almost as much as my own intuition. Indeed, it could easily be argued that the memes conveyed in my music have become an integral part of my intuition.
Or, as my parents used to tell me (when I was a very young and impressionable child), "If you listen to Satan's music, he will work his way into your mind, and you will become a part of his evil kingdom."
Or something like that. Yeah. So if I sometimes seem a little fucked up in the head... well... there you go.
[now feeling like I need to post the following obligatory paragraph...]
My parents are wonderful people, really. I don't write this to try to make them look bad. It's just... well, sometimes I gotta clean out my closet, you know?
I was going to say something more on the topic of running away, but I think Betsy Ullery's concise words (set to rhythm) said far more than I could ever say. (BTW, "Run Away" was one song I just noticed that they didn't make available for download on their site, nor are the lyrics posted. Interestingly, every other song from the album is a free mp3 download, but not that one. Hmmm....)
Enough of this writing. I'm going to eat, email, be entertained, and ponder further. And all the rest, too.
...
Mon Sep 13 18:55:49 MDT 2004
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