I need a new fairy goth-mother: A Confession.
I went to South Florida, a place that I have never admitted any faith in, to see Depeche Mode for a few reasons. I'd like to say that it was all about synth and sound, and of all the reasons that I may list, this is ultimately the one that gave me the impetus to get in the car (with three other near-fans who I had the inclination to think were unworthy of the trip, nonetheless).
But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that, like everything else, the sound has a context that it cannot be divorced from, and that I wanted to feel revived and drowned, enveloped, encompassed, and untouchable again. I wanted to be able to move, truly move, and after two hours of enraptured flailing, the muscles in my abdomen made me sharply aware that the life I lead is too small for me and that I have been stationary too long. And let's be frank, shall we, and say that I learned more about myself in the dark, sandwiched between my friends and a culture from which I have been once removed, between denim and glitter, between Martin Gore's sweet crooning and Dave's ambitious ass, than I have in two years of what I have pretended was rehabilitation and self discovery.
This is a small piece of what I have learned: I went into the concrete desert to get a little of her back, but what I found in her stead was a little bit of me.
As soon as I swam out of the car and into a sea of corsets and latex, I regretted not wearing my patent black pumps, not having the added five inches of height. I was embarrassed to have let myself go so far, to have shown up unprepared--I missed my pleated pin striped skirts, I missed my white fishnets. I wanted to re-assure every pretty girl with darkly lined eyes (and while we're still being frank, especially the tallest ones) that I left my accessories at home, but that I have them. And what would I have told her, had she listened? That my real friends would never understand it, though they would tolerate it? That I missed a scene I never knew I was part of, a scene that I despised on principal (still do), but that I treasure dearly in some soft secret place that I have been unwilling to return to.
After the parking lot, after the show, I was soaked in sweat and my new girl skinny jeans were fused to my skin, and I wanted more. So we found the city's apparently infamous The Castle, and I dragged my pop punk mohawked tattoo'd friend and my former house DJ and party planner behind me into the dark, where I was served my overpriced whisky by a girl who must have been six feet tall and whose waist could not have exceeded 18 inches when corseted. I downed my straight Maker's quickly and I remembered fondly the last time I'd been so overwhelmed (let's not be surprised that it was the last night anyone ever spent in a quaint little bar on Lower Decatur, and not coincidentally, the last time I saw my former muse in the flesh).
I dashed up the stairs, passing glitter and feathers and boots and platforms and in fact, I didn't remember the other two were there at all until I found them standing behind me in a room where at least seventy people swayed slowly and mouthed Little 15. I responded by laughing hysterically, abruptly, tactlessly (which was comforting, because it reminded me of a real girl I used to know before I dressed her in the garments of deities). I proceeded to gulp more liquor and giggle at the employee on the pedestal who, clownishly clad in mesh and tacky bondage gear, stretched her arms toward the ceiling in a familiar and picturesque way. I listened to songs familiar enough to make me cry under different circumstances, but I embraced every synthetic beat. I found that I am still capable of dancing and ecstasy, still able to move and be moved. I was Siouxsie, I was everyone.
I ignored my friends almost entirely, became wildly drunk on liquor and fog machines and red lights, I could feel sex in every girl (and androgyne) that grazed my arm accidentally (or not) and I touched them as frequently as possible (granted, I scoffed at the boy whose combat boots were the length of my torso with buckles that could have anchored large ships). I felt safe, there was a DM after party in the dungeon room, there was a one to one ratio of absolutely unattractive to heart wrenchingly beautiful people, there was a guy being flogged, I felt at home. I have only stopped talking about my experience because no one is willing to listen any longer.
The moral of this story is not a transition, it is not a coming out story. I am not the little gothic lolita I would be in my dreams, because I don't have the ability to commit to consistency or to be so self manicured. What I know now is that I loved every one of these people in this instant for exposing me for what I am, whatever that is, and for accepting the outcome.
There was a time in my life when I loved a girl/boy for peeling the skins from my apples, for applying my make up, for dressing me, for being a soft dominant force and a cruel mistress, both when I demanded them. There was a time in my life when I didn't hesitate to admit an innate desire to be something beautiful's shadow, someone's doll.
I will never be rid of her for that reason, because she was and she is still me, a version of me sent as a constant reminder that there are few things (if any) that are unforgivable or unattainable. And though this trip was for me, a part of it was for her. Still, more importantly, I have realized that while she may be irreplaceable (I'm not yet convinced), there may be other dark muses in my future, other women or men or androgynes capable of the same sweet assertion, of gently lining my eyes while coaxing me to realize my own inefficiencies, of keeping me safely vulnerable and afraid when and how I want to be.
I'm not yet strong enough to ask, but I am willing, now, to look for them.
But I'd be lying if I didn't admit that, like everything else, the sound has a context that it cannot be divorced from, and that I wanted to feel revived and drowned, enveloped, encompassed, and untouchable again. I wanted to be able to move, truly move, and after two hours of enraptured flailing, the muscles in my abdomen made me sharply aware that the life I lead is too small for me and that I have been stationary too long. And let's be frank, shall we, and say that I learned more about myself in the dark, sandwiched between my friends and a culture from which I have been once removed, between denim and glitter, between Martin Gore's sweet crooning and Dave's ambitious ass, than I have in two years of what I have pretended was rehabilitation and self discovery.
This is a small piece of what I have learned: I went into the concrete desert to get a little of her back, but what I found in her stead was a little bit of me.
As soon as I swam out of the car and into a sea of corsets and latex, I regretted not wearing my patent black pumps, not having the added five inches of height. I was embarrassed to have let myself go so far, to have shown up unprepared--I missed my pleated pin striped skirts, I missed my white fishnets. I wanted to re-assure every pretty girl with darkly lined eyes (and while we're still being frank, especially the tallest ones) that I left my accessories at home, but that I have them. And what would I have told her, had she listened? That my real friends would never understand it, though they would tolerate it? That I missed a scene I never knew I was part of, a scene that I despised on principal (still do), but that I treasure dearly in some soft secret place that I have been unwilling to return to.
After the parking lot, after the show, I was soaked in sweat and my new girl skinny jeans were fused to my skin, and I wanted more. So we found the city's apparently infamous The Castle, and I dragged my pop punk mohawked tattoo'd friend and my former house DJ and party planner behind me into the dark, where I was served my overpriced whisky by a girl who must have been six feet tall and whose waist could not have exceeded 18 inches when corseted. I downed my straight Maker's quickly and I remembered fondly the last time I'd been so overwhelmed (let's not be surprised that it was the last night anyone ever spent in a quaint little bar on Lower Decatur, and not coincidentally, the last time I saw my former muse in the flesh).
I dashed up the stairs, passing glitter and feathers and boots and platforms and in fact, I didn't remember the other two were there at all until I found them standing behind me in a room where at least seventy people swayed slowly and mouthed Little 15. I responded by laughing hysterically, abruptly, tactlessly (which was comforting, because it reminded me of a real girl I used to know before I dressed her in the garments of deities). I proceeded to gulp more liquor and giggle at the employee on the pedestal who, clownishly clad in mesh and tacky bondage gear, stretched her arms toward the ceiling in a familiar and picturesque way. I listened to songs familiar enough to make me cry under different circumstances, but I embraced every synthetic beat. I found that I am still capable of dancing and ecstasy, still able to move and be moved. I was Siouxsie, I was everyone.
I ignored my friends almost entirely, became wildly drunk on liquor and fog machines and red lights, I could feel sex in every girl (and androgyne) that grazed my arm accidentally (or not) and I touched them as frequently as possible (granted, I scoffed at the boy whose combat boots were the length of my torso with buckles that could have anchored large ships). I felt safe, there was a DM after party in the dungeon room, there was a one to one ratio of absolutely unattractive to heart wrenchingly beautiful people, there was a guy being flogged, I felt at home. I have only stopped talking about my experience because no one is willing to listen any longer.
The moral of this story is not a transition, it is not a coming out story. I am not the little gothic lolita I would be in my dreams, because I don't have the ability to commit to consistency or to be so self manicured. What I know now is that I loved every one of these people in this instant for exposing me for what I am, whatever that is, and for accepting the outcome.
There was a time in my life when I loved a girl/boy for peeling the skins from my apples, for applying my make up, for dressing me, for being a soft dominant force and a cruel mistress, both when I demanded them. There was a time in my life when I didn't hesitate to admit an innate desire to be something beautiful's shadow, someone's doll.
I will never be rid of her for that reason, because she was and she is still me, a version of me sent as a constant reminder that there are few things (if any) that are unforgivable or unattainable. And though this trip was for me, a part of it was for her. Still, more importantly, I have realized that while she may be irreplaceable (I'm not yet convinced), there may be other dark muses in my future, other women or men or androgynes capable of the same sweet assertion, of gently lining my eyes while coaxing me to realize my own inefficiencies, of keeping me safely vulnerable and afraid when and how I want to be.
I'm not yet strong enough to ask, but I am willing, now, to look for them.