(no subject)
I miss LJ. I wish I could write more here, but English class tires my wrists. Oh well, here's a short memoir I wrote:
Steamy Dancing
The long, lazy stretch of August came to an end, and soon the rest of my life would begin. I wasn't primarily looking forward to Brown, despite being in the company of an excited mother with high expectations. In my eyes, the school would merely be a continuation of the hard academic work instilled in me since the first books were shoved in my face at the age of four. My body was never in motion; it was merely going from place to place.
The bus rolled to a stop as I rose wearily from my seat, made my way to the front, solemnly thanked the driver, and stepped down to what I thought would be the last of any attempts to make the most of whatever mere high school social opportunities I could before the dawn of Brown University would wipe it all away. This was it. After this casual little dine-out with a couple of my former classmates, I would be finished with life here.
Then I met Hobbes. He stood to the side, grinning as Denise and Kara ran and jumped into my arms. The girls then verbally greeted me and tried to strike up a little conversation about my various non-adventures of the summer, but it was all interrupted by a far more powerful pounce from the right. Suddenly the ripples in my heart rose to crashing waves, torrents that knocked me into the ground. Energy. I was taken aback, amazed and thrilled by this fresh and new force now latching onto my frail body. It was as if he finally found who he was looking for, and wanted to greet that person in proper. As we talked, the subject of hanging out separate from the group came up, and I was all up for it. Then I remembered what day it was-August 24th. School was to start in the 29th. What was I to do?
"You did the right thing."
"I hope so."
I sit across from Hobbes. Already a few days have passed, and he's grinning as if he met me a second ago. We're speeding under Manhattan on the A Train, and where are we going again?
"A rave."
"Huh?"
He's never been to one, but I think he knows far more than I do about the situation now. I'm just floating and wondering aimlessly in hope that wherever I'm going will help me bring back the energy of that moment we had by the bus stop. Trust? I trust anything and damn well anyone who will set me off (at least for a little while) in a direction different from the one that I've been trudging along for the past 18 years.
But that doesn't mean I'm not scared. I've been waiting for hours on a block-long line with this virtual stranger, and the "event" is supposed to be one of the most eccentric human gatherings that the city of New York has to offer (but what do I have to offer this gathering? my constrained habits, my dull personality?) Look at everyone on the line. Yes, they seem calm, but what's with the exotic, loose fitting, bright, and loud clothing? I sense something underneath those composures, a seething force trying to push its way out towards a sort of catharsis, or freedom.
The line is still, at least until the rumble of 75 Hz escapes the solid brick walls and shakes up my soul, beckoning me to come closer as the line begins to move-much like when you're sitting in the rollercoaster at your favorite, scariest amusement park, thinking, "Man, how did I end up here?" And by then it's too late because you've already started moving.
Waves of sound echo, dance, and bounce around from one person to the next, and I strain my neck to see what the people farthest up front do. Why do they hop, twitch, shiver and groan? Are they committing suicide, or about to enter a slaughterhouse? A shadowy character dressed in grey floats around the line, passing by us nonchalantly to ask who wants X, coke, speed or acid. Why are you selling? To ease the pain?
After finally making it to the front of the line, I try not to look up. Three pairs of monstrous trunks stop me from going any further, and I am directed to the pair on the left. The voice tells me to lift my arms and spread my legs while bulky, stout hands grope their way up and down my body, and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut until I'm pushed forward towards the ticketing booth. 40 dollars? Does that include the searching fee?
Eight giant speakers surround and tower over me like an Easter Island of sound, yelling and screaming in my ear while the floor begins to fill with wisps of smoke, fog and lights that bring short flashes and moments of people in the air. Anything they don't touch or surround is out of focus, darkened and eerily obscured. I look towards the center and witness little cramped kernels rolling onto the sizzling dance floor, starting to tremble, and finally bursting out and popping to the beat. They fly, spin, duck and twirl and yell back at the speakers, never taking a breath. Maybe it's more like a group of inexperienced hot-coal walkers. Are raves supposed to hurt?
I lean against the wall, staring at the popcorn in disbelief. There is no way I could just run into that madhouse-they might trample me or stomp on me. They might scold or sneer at my lack of movement or rhythm. Do I even want to be on that dance floor? Do I need to? Hobbes didn't have time to address my concerns; he needed to capture the moment and drag me by the arm into the action. It was as if he knew how it was all going to turn out as I stand right there smack in the middle, frozen dead still.
Looking around, I feel a new life, a new circle of energy that beams down onto my arms and feet, flashing on and off to the powerful strobe lights. Now it is pointless to leave. What else could I do in the side of the wall besides perpetuate my self-consciousness and doubt? No, this is where I need to be. I take what I can from the speakers and the crowd to lift myself off the ground, inventing my own style of stepping, twirling and flying. They accept my dance and assemble closer to increase the intensity, booming around me with the thrash and clash of the beat. Every movement I make is another release of school, work, the depression, the girl who lied. As I use up all the strength and energy I have, my mind shuts off to all insecurity, worry, or trivial problems floating around. The clouds have left that place, and have now taken the form of the bright fog that illuminates all I see and experience right now. Where else could I be able to dance and let go?
Brown University didn't seem so bad. The bright, young minds scattered across my dorm radiated a feeling of passion, ambition and open-mindedness. At least it did for the first week or so. That was when the doors began to slam shut, the hallways emptied, and people stopped talking to each other. Everyone now got to be independent. They were offered their own isolated life in their own isolated room with their own isolated group, so they took it, and left me in my cavernous, empty room to bore, waste, and rot away in tears. I saw no more exploration, just the fast-paced walking of crowds from one class to another. I felt no more passion, just the burning tingle of cheap vodka dripping down my throat. It would not forgive my despair. All I could do was lie down and think about that warm, fast and soothing beat that made me happy once before. My stereo was good, but I couldn't even come close to reproducing it. And even if I could, no one would dance. Winter break was coming soon, and I had just about had it with the same day every day. It was this shithole that I was unable to escape the all-too-familiar pile of books and endless issues of Wall Street Journal newspapers that my mom ordered me to read up on to help me prepare for the day that I would go into business. Enough. I decided to give him a call.
I was never sure about what Hobbes's idea of academics was. All I knew was that it apparently didn't play a major role in his life. He goes to a local four-year public college in the city, and doesn't particularly enjoy it. But even combined with a boring side job in telemarketing, neither seems to get him down so much. I, on the other hand, have had school shoved into the front of my brain, and existence in this world doesn't seem to make much sense without it.
Therefore, Brown makes me seriously struggle. It's an academic feat that laughs at the amount of work I do by giving me Cs and lenient Bs. I get disappointed, my mom gets even more disappointed, and another chunk of motivation is lost. My body either sits still doing work, or it just sits still.
It seemed that the only time I was able to release was at the rave. I kept on going back to parties with Hobbes in different venues with different types of music. Each one was its own unique experience, but all shared the universal raver's principle of peace, love, unity and respect (We call this PLUR for short.) People danced, people had fun, and people kept in touch. Outside of weekly parties I threw myself into the realm of perpetual raver communication through instant messenger, chat rooms, and various message boards. We shared pictures, stories, videos, and a bond that no one outside of the open community understood. Parties were not as surprising to me as they went by, but they all nonetheless served as the home and community I needed during a grim time in my life.
When I went back to Brown for my second term, I dropped out of my overwhelming engineering curriculum and switched to economics, psychology, writing, and art. I started to wonder where I would live for my sophomore year, and if it was possible to be somewhere else other than another cavernous room in another empty excuse for a dorm. It didn't seem possible.
But, as luck would have it, it was.
3 AM rolls around on a Friday night, and people have had more than their share of the Zete bar. As for me, things have been relatively mellow. I'm happy to have been spotted by the Social Chair at the coed fraternity's last big party. He's invited me back to a handful of casual gatherings ever since, filled with food, drink and good company. I'm in the middle of a conversation with a few brothers (unfortunately I forgot exactly what we were talking about.) Someone cracks a joke, I laugh out loud, silence falls in the room for a few seconds, and soon things go back to normal. Was it something I said? I look at my drink, glance up, GET SHOCKED, jerk my head back to its original position, and slowly lift the hands away from my eyes.
They are naked. Not everyone, but those three who just walked in-it's real. They give me drunk, blissful looks with wide grins, and I wonder if they want me to go upstairs too. The second-floor bathroom door creaks open and a cloud of hot, sticky steam obscures my vision. I clumsily wave my arms around in an attempt to clear a path through the steam, but eventually it gives way on its own. "Close the DOOR!" one of the blurry, fleshy images cries, and I do as I am told. I see the whole bathroom filled with naked men and women of all sizes, shapes and textures. Some continue conversing with each other, and others welcome me to the sauna. Is it your first time? Pleased to meet you. They subtly let me know that, though it is fine if I stay clothed, the best way to experience the sauna is the way everyone else does.
That was when I took my clothes off for the first time in front of that many people. And when I did, it didn't affect me the way I had planned. Things in fact became more comfortable, especially after not hearing a laugh or giggle from anyone once my boxers dropped to the ground. Everyone was proud of themselves, and so was I, that first timer who just said fuck it I'll try.
However, drugs were never intended to come into the picture during the time that I held that attitude. And they did. Several of the brothers smoked weed regularly in the basement, and before I knew it, I was among them. I did it to be more comfortable with where and who I was. However, I eventually realized that it was all an illusion; while thinking that I was doing the right thing, I ended up making more mistakes and more poor decisions. It had to be stopped, or at least cut down significantly. I left the room once in the middle of a session, and have rarely gone back ever since, unless someone's up for a quick game of pool or foozball.
As for raves, drugs are far less avoidable, as they are for many people an integral part of the culture. Ecstasy is the most popular drug to use at raves because it releases a wad of euphoric serotonin and increases your sensitivity to light, motion, touch, and sound, all of which raves provide. I have never had to seriously ponder whether or not to take E; being at a rave is usually enough to make me happy and stimulate my senses. However, accepting that the majority of people I know are drug users is still something that I am coming to terms with. Raves do hurt. If you use drugs, you are among the people who melt their own brains into mush and occasionally go insane and/or die in the process. If you don't use drugs, you are continually influenced by the messed-up ones who do. It's impossible not to run into any problems.
To this very day I wonder how genuine all the relationships I form with others can potentially become. Do ravers care about me because methylenedioxy-n-methylamphetamine told them to? Do Zetes only care about me because I clean up the house, organize events, and help recruit new members? I am still afraid to come too close to either culture, but there is something real that I can grab on to and experience between the two. It's the energy that begins at the tip of my left forefinger, shooting its way up to my arm and ricocheting from limb to limb. It hits the ground, and my body is sent flying in the air. I could be dressed in loose, colorful clothing with fellow ravers, or dressed in nothing with fellow Zetes. As long as we all join in with our own dance, I am happy.
Steamy Dancing
The long, lazy stretch of August came to an end, and soon the rest of my life would begin. I wasn't primarily looking forward to Brown, despite being in the company of an excited mother with high expectations. In my eyes, the school would merely be a continuation of the hard academic work instilled in me since the first books were shoved in my face at the age of four. My body was never in motion; it was merely going from place to place.
The bus rolled to a stop as I rose wearily from my seat, made my way to the front, solemnly thanked the driver, and stepped down to what I thought would be the last of any attempts to make the most of whatever mere high school social opportunities I could before the dawn of Brown University would wipe it all away. This was it. After this casual little dine-out with a couple of my former classmates, I would be finished with life here.
Then I met Hobbes. He stood to the side, grinning as Denise and Kara ran and jumped into my arms. The girls then verbally greeted me and tried to strike up a little conversation about my various non-adventures of the summer, but it was all interrupted by a far more powerful pounce from the right. Suddenly the ripples in my heart rose to crashing waves, torrents that knocked me into the ground. Energy. I was taken aback, amazed and thrilled by this fresh and new force now latching onto my frail body. It was as if he finally found who he was looking for, and wanted to greet that person in proper. As we talked, the subject of hanging out separate from the group came up, and I was all up for it. Then I remembered what day it was-August 24th. School was to start in the 29th. What was I to do?
"You did the right thing."
"I hope so."
I sit across from Hobbes. Already a few days have passed, and he's grinning as if he met me a second ago. We're speeding under Manhattan on the A Train, and where are we going again?
"A rave."
"Huh?"
He's never been to one, but I think he knows far more than I do about the situation now. I'm just floating and wondering aimlessly in hope that wherever I'm going will help me bring back the energy of that moment we had by the bus stop. Trust? I trust anything and damn well anyone who will set me off (at least for a little while) in a direction different from the one that I've been trudging along for the past 18 years.
But that doesn't mean I'm not scared. I've been waiting for hours on a block-long line with this virtual stranger, and the "event" is supposed to be one of the most eccentric human gatherings that the city of New York has to offer (but what do I have to offer this gathering? my constrained habits, my dull personality?) Look at everyone on the line. Yes, they seem calm, but what's with the exotic, loose fitting, bright, and loud clothing? I sense something underneath those composures, a seething force trying to push its way out towards a sort of catharsis, or freedom.
The line is still, at least until the rumble of 75 Hz escapes the solid brick walls and shakes up my soul, beckoning me to come closer as the line begins to move-much like when you're sitting in the rollercoaster at your favorite, scariest amusement park, thinking, "Man, how did I end up here?" And by then it's too late because you've already started moving.
Waves of sound echo, dance, and bounce around from one person to the next, and I strain my neck to see what the people farthest up front do. Why do they hop, twitch, shiver and groan? Are they committing suicide, or about to enter a slaughterhouse? A shadowy character dressed in grey floats around the line, passing by us nonchalantly to ask who wants X, coke, speed or acid. Why are you selling? To ease the pain?
After finally making it to the front of the line, I try not to look up. Three pairs of monstrous trunks stop me from going any further, and I am directed to the pair on the left. The voice tells me to lift my arms and spread my legs while bulky, stout hands grope their way up and down my body, and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut until I'm pushed forward towards the ticketing booth. 40 dollars? Does that include the searching fee?
Eight giant speakers surround and tower over me like an Easter Island of sound, yelling and screaming in my ear while the floor begins to fill with wisps of smoke, fog and lights that bring short flashes and moments of people in the air. Anything they don't touch or surround is out of focus, darkened and eerily obscured. I look towards the center and witness little cramped kernels rolling onto the sizzling dance floor, starting to tremble, and finally bursting out and popping to the beat. They fly, spin, duck and twirl and yell back at the speakers, never taking a breath. Maybe it's more like a group of inexperienced hot-coal walkers. Are raves supposed to hurt?
I lean against the wall, staring at the popcorn in disbelief. There is no way I could just run into that madhouse-they might trample me or stomp on me. They might scold or sneer at my lack of movement or rhythm. Do I even want to be on that dance floor? Do I need to? Hobbes didn't have time to address my concerns; he needed to capture the moment and drag me by the arm into the action. It was as if he knew how it was all going to turn out as I stand right there smack in the middle, frozen dead still.
Looking around, I feel a new life, a new circle of energy that beams down onto my arms and feet, flashing on and off to the powerful strobe lights. Now it is pointless to leave. What else could I do in the side of the wall besides perpetuate my self-consciousness and doubt? No, this is where I need to be. I take what I can from the speakers and the crowd to lift myself off the ground, inventing my own style of stepping, twirling and flying. They accept my dance and assemble closer to increase the intensity, booming around me with the thrash and clash of the beat. Every movement I make is another release of school, work, the depression, the girl who lied. As I use up all the strength and energy I have, my mind shuts off to all insecurity, worry, or trivial problems floating around. The clouds have left that place, and have now taken the form of the bright fog that illuminates all I see and experience right now. Where else could I be able to dance and let go?
Brown University didn't seem so bad. The bright, young minds scattered across my dorm radiated a feeling of passion, ambition and open-mindedness. At least it did for the first week or so. That was when the doors began to slam shut, the hallways emptied, and people stopped talking to each other. Everyone now got to be independent. They were offered their own isolated life in their own isolated room with their own isolated group, so they took it, and left me in my cavernous, empty room to bore, waste, and rot away in tears. I saw no more exploration, just the fast-paced walking of crowds from one class to another. I felt no more passion, just the burning tingle of cheap vodka dripping down my throat. It would not forgive my despair. All I could do was lie down and think about that warm, fast and soothing beat that made me happy once before. My stereo was good, but I couldn't even come close to reproducing it. And even if I could, no one would dance. Winter break was coming soon, and I had just about had it with the same day every day. It was this shithole that I was unable to escape the all-too-familiar pile of books and endless issues of Wall Street Journal newspapers that my mom ordered me to read up on to help me prepare for the day that I would go into business. Enough. I decided to give him a call.
I was never sure about what Hobbes's idea of academics was. All I knew was that it apparently didn't play a major role in his life. He goes to a local four-year public college in the city, and doesn't particularly enjoy it. But even combined with a boring side job in telemarketing, neither seems to get him down so much. I, on the other hand, have had school shoved into the front of my brain, and existence in this world doesn't seem to make much sense without it.
Therefore, Brown makes me seriously struggle. It's an academic feat that laughs at the amount of work I do by giving me Cs and lenient Bs. I get disappointed, my mom gets even more disappointed, and another chunk of motivation is lost. My body either sits still doing work, or it just sits still.
It seemed that the only time I was able to release was at the rave. I kept on going back to parties with Hobbes in different venues with different types of music. Each one was its own unique experience, but all shared the universal raver's principle of peace, love, unity and respect (We call this PLUR for short.) People danced, people had fun, and people kept in touch. Outside of weekly parties I threw myself into the realm of perpetual raver communication through instant messenger, chat rooms, and various message boards. We shared pictures, stories, videos, and a bond that no one outside of the open community understood. Parties were not as surprising to me as they went by, but they all nonetheless served as the home and community I needed during a grim time in my life.
When I went back to Brown for my second term, I dropped out of my overwhelming engineering curriculum and switched to economics, psychology, writing, and art. I started to wonder where I would live for my sophomore year, and if it was possible to be somewhere else other than another cavernous room in another empty excuse for a dorm. It didn't seem possible.
But, as luck would have it, it was.
3 AM rolls around on a Friday night, and people have had more than their share of the Zete bar. As for me, things have been relatively mellow. I'm happy to have been spotted by the Social Chair at the coed fraternity's last big party. He's invited me back to a handful of casual gatherings ever since, filled with food, drink and good company. I'm in the middle of a conversation with a few brothers (unfortunately I forgot exactly what we were talking about.) Someone cracks a joke, I laugh out loud, silence falls in the room for a few seconds, and soon things go back to normal. Was it something I said? I look at my drink, glance up, GET SHOCKED, jerk my head back to its original position, and slowly lift the hands away from my eyes.
They are naked. Not everyone, but those three who just walked in-it's real. They give me drunk, blissful looks with wide grins, and I wonder if they want me to go upstairs too. The second-floor bathroom door creaks open and a cloud of hot, sticky steam obscures my vision. I clumsily wave my arms around in an attempt to clear a path through the steam, but eventually it gives way on its own. "Close the DOOR!" one of the blurry, fleshy images cries, and I do as I am told. I see the whole bathroom filled with naked men and women of all sizes, shapes and textures. Some continue conversing with each other, and others welcome me to the sauna. Is it your first time? Pleased to meet you. They subtly let me know that, though it is fine if I stay clothed, the best way to experience the sauna is the way everyone else does.
That was when I took my clothes off for the first time in front of that many people. And when I did, it didn't affect me the way I had planned. Things in fact became more comfortable, especially after not hearing a laugh or giggle from anyone once my boxers dropped to the ground. Everyone was proud of themselves, and so was I, that first timer who just said fuck it I'll try.
However, drugs were never intended to come into the picture during the time that I held that attitude. And they did. Several of the brothers smoked weed regularly in the basement, and before I knew it, I was among them. I did it to be more comfortable with where and who I was. However, I eventually realized that it was all an illusion; while thinking that I was doing the right thing, I ended up making more mistakes and more poor decisions. It had to be stopped, or at least cut down significantly. I left the room once in the middle of a session, and have rarely gone back ever since, unless someone's up for a quick game of pool or foozball.
As for raves, drugs are far less avoidable, as they are for many people an integral part of the culture. Ecstasy is the most popular drug to use at raves because it releases a wad of euphoric serotonin and increases your sensitivity to light, motion, touch, and sound, all of which raves provide. I have never had to seriously ponder whether or not to take E; being at a rave is usually enough to make me happy and stimulate my senses. However, accepting that the majority of people I know are drug users is still something that I am coming to terms with. Raves do hurt. If you use drugs, you are among the people who melt their own brains into mush and occasionally go insane and/or die in the process. If you don't use drugs, you are continually influenced by the messed-up ones who do. It's impossible not to run into any problems.
To this very day I wonder how genuine all the relationships I form with others can potentially become. Do ravers care about me because methylenedioxy-n-methylamphetamine told them to? Do Zetes only care about me because I clean up the house, organize events, and help recruit new members? I am still afraid to come too close to either culture, but there is something real that I can grab on to and experience between the two. It's the energy that begins at the tip of my left forefinger, shooting its way up to my arm and ricocheting from limb to limb. It hits the ground, and my body is sent flying in the air. I could be dressed in loose, colorful clothing with fellow ravers, or dressed in nothing with fellow Zetes. As long as we all join in with our own dance, I am happy.