My dancing shoes are one size bigger.
Seriously. I put them on this morning at Cobra's house, and apparently the 12 hours of semi-continuous dancing have resulted in very loose fitting sneakers.
I took my sister out for her birthday Saturday night, to some uber-mega-multistaged-dj-extravaganza called Re-connected, down at the Docks (The Entertainment Complex. Usually to be avoided at all costs. Full of all those obnoxious fuckheads you'd rather see bronzed in a museum, exhibition named: Those People You Never Want To Be). Killer dj line-up. Killer music. Killer price. $50 dollars a head. You're joking.
Well, it is a birthday. We're already down to the end of Cherry St.; the end of the world. In we go.
And the place is filled with Those people. I had imagined all the old ravers, out of the woodwork, shaking out the phat [fat?] pants, prancing for all they were worth.
"I'm sorry, Turtle. I thought the crowd would be better."
"It's okay. The music's great." Brave face.
Brave girl.
I might add, everyone else has bailed on this evening. The other friends. Problems with insomnia. Problems with life. I'm a little worried that it's just going to suck... but Turtle's already had a good evening with the other set, her computer/science nerd contingent, got some presents; she just wants to dance. Hurray!
So we do. We dance. I find an old friend, former club-kid-come-raver, Brit-Nick, who has a new long-term boyfriend. All smiles. Run into some of the OMies (explanatory description presently unavailable), who are, as usual, dancing swirly circles to hard, down and dirty beats. Bits magically appear. The night is looking up.
Half an hour later, the bar is closed... Those people have disappeared. The dancers reign. Everywhere. Two floors, five rooms. Humidity comes up, lights flash; I am in that happy place that only a combination of proper elements can produce, and Turtle is getting her release. She doesn't participate in these activities as much as I do. Her chemical content runs a little more natural 90% of the time, but her blue moon does show its face occasionally. It's out tonight. We can see it hovering over the cityscape, shimmering it's display across the harbor, from the observation floor at the top of the complex, dancing on a polished surface. It's neet to be a brother and sister team. There's three years between us, almost to the day, but we could pass as fraternal twins.
People keep telling us, out of nowhere, that we look good together.
"Siblings," we say to them.
"Oh. That would explain it.... Wait, you get along that well?"
Actually, we do; killer; and it's one of the most rewarding relationships in my life. What blessings we are bestowed.
Things wind down there around six. We've run into Edward, a glorious strangeness himself, who I think has always harbored a slight attraction to me, but girls are really more his thing. He is delighted to see that I come in female version. "Leave these others. Come away with me," he proposed to Turtle the first time he saw her, in the space of three heart beats. Quite funny. Now he is happy to see her again, and invites us to go wind down at his place, which I don't even have time to get into describing. It is floor to rafters FULL of paraphernalia, art objects, found objects; he's a collector. He's a man with his fingers in a lot of pies: a yoga instructor, animator, computer programmer, bon vivant, world-traveler, insane crazy spiritualized mess. He's also a great host.
The relocation transpires, we chill for a bit, and through a couple of shots of tequila and a smattering of the magic pixie dust, somehow negotiate ourselves into another bounce, down the road, down the stairs... the Comfort Zone. Which I had officially banned from my life over two years ago, but somehow let myself be sucked into yesterday.
The Zone, as it is known, is Super-sketch: an institution, a hangout, a scourge; it is the refuge of all those who don't want to admit that the:party:is:over. It opens at nine in the morning, Sunday, and runs till 3am, Monday. It's a bizarre melting pot, and a chemical cocktail that can sometimes leave you trying to forget that human-kind can be just that base, compulsively showering for days. It's dark. What light there is comes from dim, indirect and half-hazard red and blue coloured bulbs, one end of the U shaped room entirely in blacklight, so the glow comes off other peoples clothing. As there is no alcohol served (not anymore), other methods of intoxication and amplification are rampant. It's small, but labyrinthian. The ceiling is low.
It's not as bad as I remember it being.
There are three modes of operation at the Zone. You're either crashing out, picking up, or dancing. Apparently, my sister and Edward are picking up. Each other. I don't know how I feel about this... mind you, Turtle could do worse, and Edward, although a kook, is a really awesome one; and I really can't begrudge her a some birthday lovin'. I am dancing, with an option on picking up, because half the room is filled with beautiful gay boys, all sweaty with their shirts off, which is a lot easier to take, I discover, when they don't completely dominate a room, but are rather just a small section. I get hit on a lot, which is fun, have a little moment with an absolutely stunning fellow in a red cap, with an ornate tattoo across his back. We'll call him Okinawa, not for his racial heritage, but rather the smaller tattoo that appears on his neck, which I want to kiss. He's paying me kind attention, and donating orange Gatoraide when I pause to catch my breath.
He turns out to have a boyfriend. "I'm trying to be good," he says. Ah. Ciao then, my very, very beautiful Okinawa.
The dancing continues until the afternoon. Turtle and Edward have retired back to his apartment. I have been having a great time, but my feet are no longer quite the floating angels they were at the beginning, but feel rather more like cinder blocks scraping the floor. Having no desire to ruin my surprisingly positive time in the Zone by switching to the dreaded crashing out mode, I go to collect my compatriots.
Who won't answer the door. Images of torrid Edward/Turtle sex flash in my head. Whoops. Bad idea. Switch to imagining them passed out on the couch. Very tired. Yes. Very tired indeed. Best to let them nap.
Days like this are great to pursue to the end. Erase all expectations and play it by ear, see where the currents take you. So I'm standing on the sunny side of College St., and open to the idea of a plan B, when out of the blue (blue moon, blue sky) Ms. Montieth, the gay painter extrodinaire, and my future roommate, comes up, all jaunty with his trucker hat asque.
"Why, hello."
"Hello."
"I've just come from my accountant."
"Hunh. Shall we go for a beer?"
"I think so."
Seriously.
It is a beautiful day. Again. Spring is springing, Kensington Market is brimming with sunglass-ed counter-culture darlings. We sit on a patio and chat, catch up with love woes and adventures. Gossip.
And then the bomb. My mother calls, and there, freckling in the sun and Corona half drunk, my mother tells me that she and my father are getting a divorce. That it's over.
That my world is split in two.
I took my sister out for her birthday Saturday night, to some uber-mega-multistaged-dj-extravaganza called Re-connected, down at the Docks (The Entertainment Complex. Usually to be avoided at all costs. Full of all those obnoxious fuckheads you'd rather see bronzed in a museum, exhibition named: Those People You Never Want To Be). Killer dj line-up. Killer music. Killer price. $50 dollars a head. You're joking.
Well, it is a birthday. We're already down to the end of Cherry St.; the end of the world. In we go.
And the place is filled with Those people. I had imagined all the old ravers, out of the woodwork, shaking out the phat [fat?] pants, prancing for all they were worth.
"I'm sorry, Turtle. I thought the crowd would be better."
"It's okay. The music's great." Brave face.
Brave girl.
I might add, everyone else has bailed on this evening. The other friends. Problems with insomnia. Problems with life. I'm a little worried that it's just going to suck... but Turtle's already had a good evening with the other set, her computer/science nerd contingent, got some presents; she just wants to dance. Hurray!
So we do. We dance. I find an old friend, former club-kid-come-raver, Brit-Nick, who has a new long-term boyfriend. All smiles. Run into some of the OMies (explanatory description presently unavailable), who are, as usual, dancing swirly circles to hard, down and dirty beats. Bits magically appear. The night is looking up.
Half an hour later, the bar is closed... Those people have disappeared. The dancers reign. Everywhere. Two floors, five rooms. Humidity comes up, lights flash; I am in that happy place that only a combination of proper elements can produce, and Turtle is getting her release. She doesn't participate in these activities as much as I do. Her chemical content runs a little more natural 90% of the time, but her blue moon does show its face occasionally. It's out tonight. We can see it hovering over the cityscape, shimmering it's display across the harbor, from the observation floor at the top of the complex, dancing on a polished surface. It's neet to be a brother and sister team. There's three years between us, almost to the day, but we could pass as fraternal twins.
People keep telling us, out of nowhere, that we look good together.
"Siblings," we say to them.
"Oh. That would explain it.... Wait, you get along that well?"
Actually, we do; killer; and it's one of the most rewarding relationships in my life. What blessings we are bestowed.
Things wind down there around six. We've run into Edward, a glorious strangeness himself, who I think has always harbored a slight attraction to me, but girls are really more his thing. He is delighted to see that I come in female version. "Leave these others. Come away with me," he proposed to Turtle the first time he saw her, in the space of three heart beats. Quite funny. Now he is happy to see her again, and invites us to go wind down at his place, which I don't even have time to get into describing. It is floor to rafters FULL of paraphernalia, art objects, found objects; he's a collector. He's a man with his fingers in a lot of pies: a yoga instructor, animator, computer programmer, bon vivant, world-traveler, insane crazy spiritualized mess. He's also a great host.
The relocation transpires, we chill for a bit, and through a couple of shots of tequila and a smattering of the magic pixie dust, somehow negotiate ourselves into another bounce, down the road, down the stairs... the Comfort Zone. Which I had officially banned from my life over two years ago, but somehow let myself be sucked into yesterday.
The Zone, as it is known, is Super-sketch: an institution, a hangout, a scourge; it is the refuge of all those who don't want to admit that the:party:is:over. It opens at nine in the morning, Sunday, and runs till 3am, Monday. It's a bizarre melting pot, and a chemical cocktail that can sometimes leave you trying to forget that human-kind can be just that base, compulsively showering for days. It's dark. What light there is comes from dim, indirect and half-hazard red and blue coloured bulbs, one end of the U shaped room entirely in blacklight, so the glow comes off other peoples clothing. As there is no alcohol served (not anymore), other methods of intoxication and amplification are rampant. It's small, but labyrinthian. The ceiling is low.
It's not as bad as I remember it being.
There are three modes of operation at the Zone. You're either crashing out, picking up, or dancing. Apparently, my sister and Edward are picking up. Each other. I don't know how I feel about this... mind you, Turtle could do worse, and Edward, although a kook, is a really awesome one; and I really can't begrudge her a some birthday lovin'. I am dancing, with an option on picking up, because half the room is filled with beautiful gay boys, all sweaty with their shirts off, which is a lot easier to take, I discover, when they don't completely dominate a room, but are rather just a small section. I get hit on a lot, which is fun, have a little moment with an absolutely stunning fellow in a red cap, with an ornate tattoo across his back. We'll call him Okinawa, not for his racial heritage, but rather the smaller tattoo that appears on his neck, which I want to kiss. He's paying me kind attention, and donating orange Gatoraide when I pause to catch my breath.
He turns out to have a boyfriend. "I'm trying to be good," he says. Ah. Ciao then, my very, very beautiful Okinawa.
The dancing continues until the afternoon. Turtle and Edward have retired back to his apartment. I have been having a great time, but my feet are no longer quite the floating angels they were at the beginning, but feel rather more like cinder blocks scraping the floor. Having no desire to ruin my surprisingly positive time in the Zone by switching to the dreaded crashing out mode, I go to collect my compatriots.
Who won't answer the door. Images of torrid Edward/Turtle sex flash in my head. Whoops. Bad idea. Switch to imagining them passed out on the couch. Very tired. Yes. Very tired indeed. Best to let them nap.
Days like this are great to pursue to the end. Erase all expectations and play it by ear, see where the currents take you. So I'm standing on the sunny side of College St., and open to the idea of a plan B, when out of the blue (blue moon, blue sky) Ms. Montieth, the gay painter extrodinaire, and my future roommate, comes up, all jaunty with his trucker hat asque.
"Why, hello."
"Hello."
"I've just come from my accountant."
"Hunh. Shall we go for a beer?"
"I think so."
Seriously.
It is a beautiful day. Again. Spring is springing, Kensington Market is brimming with sunglass-ed counter-culture darlings. We sit on a patio and chat, catch up with love woes and adventures. Gossip.
And then the bomb. My mother calls, and there, freckling in the sun and Corona half drunk, my mother tells me that she and my father are getting a divorce. That it's over.
That my world is split in two.
Comments