joft
22 Jan 2005, 05:58 AM
i just had a little bit of inspiration and wrote this kind of quickly (at least by my standards). it's all true as closely as I can remember everything (it was only about 2 years ago). I was purposefully avoiding making it well structured, nobody thinks in well-structured essay format and this is just some of my thoughts.
I Don't Dance
I went to a show once. One show; I think that's supposed to be depressing. My dad and I had driven from Connecticut to San Diego. He stayed at a cousin's place, I met up with a friend from the internet for a few days. I think I was 17. My friend was a pretty mellow guy, as they say in California, and by Californian standards. He probably didn't think I was very mellow. It's cold here in New England, and not just the weather. But those were some of the best days of my life.
The first day, we almost got arrested. My friend wanted to go off road in his truck. I didn't argue. It was fun, but crazy; we almost went off a cliff at one point. Turns out it was private property. Three police cruisers and an SUV blocked all the entrances. We didn't even know they were there, but they thought we were evading them. They stopped us on our way out. I asked my dad one time since then if he's ever been searched by police, he said no. I smiled, proud to have done something my father hasn't. To this day I don't think he knows about it. My friend got off with a minor traffic misdemeanor, and a verbal warning about keeping paintball guns in his vehicle. That was one of the scariest moments of my life, just fretting over a possible spot on my record. But they told me I may as well have been kidnapped. They were pretty mellow, too.
It was amazing. Nobody knew me, and in a few days I would be gone. I was free to be whatever I wanted to be. No need to worry about people thinking I was acting strange and unlike myself. I started feeling pretty mellow too; there was no pressure to be or to do anything. I had lots of firsts. The first time I ever really talked to a girl I didn't know, alone, in a jacuzzi, at night. She was French, and an athlete, and a college grad in her mid twenties. People tell me I look old for my age, I doubt she would have talked to me if she knew I was only 17. It was awkward too, I may not have felt like myself, but I still was.
For the first time I saw, in person, actual real people who were high on marijuana. They were friends of my friend. One of them had kind of bloodshot eyes and couldn't stand straight. They kept smiling. Seeing this guy stagger around stupidly, I had a strange urge. For some reason I wanted to push him over. Still, I was wondering what it felt like. My friend told me he used to do some marijuana, but he felt like God didn't want him to so he stopped.
One night my friend took me to my first show. I'm not saying concert because I had been to some classical concerts at Yale's Woolsey Hall, but those don't count. At least they don't to anyone in my generation. It was a hardcore concert, hardcore is the type of metal where people scream and growl and can actually injure their throats. I was not in my element, but I was still glad to be going to a show. My friend and his friend kept trying to get me to go dance, they had some kind of mosh pit thing going. I stood with my back to the wall the whole time and waited for it to end. I was tempted to join. I saw some other guys doing some kind of martial arts moves that I knew I could do pretty spectacularly; I wanted to show off. But I couldn't.
I guess you could say I'm predictable. I was free to do anything and nobody would know except for a few friends on the other side of the country. But I just stayed myself. I wanted to do all these things pretty badly, and the world wouldn't have stopped me, and I did nothing. I guess that's supposed to be depressing. Yet somehow, I don't really mind. Standing there, watching those people dancing, knowing the rush of adrenaline and who knows what else they were getting, I wanted to join them, but I didn't have to. I kept telling my friends, "I don't dance, I don't dance." That's not really true, sometimes I dance when I'm alone. The real dance, though, is just happening in a place that nobody can see, and it's always happening. That dance is a secret, but what's a story without the telling of a secret? The real dance for me is the one going on behind my eyes.
I won't say my dance is any better than those of the people I was watching. I won't say it's any more artistic, beautiful, enthusiastic, graceful, or anything. It's just my dance. I don't know if I could even take that much credit for it, I think it just is, on its own. I haven't been to any more shows, but maybe, someday I might dance at one. It'll probably take someone better at trying to get me to than my friends were. It'll probably take someone with a dance of their own, behind their eyes, yet visible to me. There's a lot to see in someone's eyes, maybe that's why I don't like making eye contact. I don't want them to know my secret. I don't want them to see me dancing.
I Don't Dance
I went to a show once. One show; I think that's supposed to be depressing. My dad and I had driven from Connecticut to San Diego. He stayed at a cousin's place, I met up with a friend from the internet for a few days. I think I was 17. My friend was a pretty mellow guy, as they say in California, and by Californian standards. He probably didn't think I was very mellow. It's cold here in New England, and not just the weather. But those were some of the best days of my life.
The first day, we almost got arrested. My friend wanted to go off road in his truck. I didn't argue. It was fun, but crazy; we almost went off a cliff at one point. Turns out it was private property. Three police cruisers and an SUV blocked all the entrances. We didn't even know they were there, but they thought we were evading them. They stopped us on our way out. I asked my dad one time since then if he's ever been searched by police, he said no. I smiled, proud to have done something my father hasn't. To this day I don't think he knows about it. My friend got off with a minor traffic misdemeanor, and a verbal warning about keeping paintball guns in his vehicle. That was one of the scariest moments of my life, just fretting over a possible spot on my record. But they told me I may as well have been kidnapped. They were pretty mellow, too.
It was amazing. Nobody knew me, and in a few days I would be gone. I was free to be whatever I wanted to be. No need to worry about people thinking I was acting strange and unlike myself. I started feeling pretty mellow too; there was no pressure to be or to do anything. I had lots of firsts. The first time I ever really talked to a girl I didn't know, alone, in a jacuzzi, at night. She was French, and an athlete, and a college grad in her mid twenties. People tell me I look old for my age, I doubt she would have talked to me if she knew I was only 17. It was awkward too, I may not have felt like myself, but I still was.
For the first time I saw, in person, actual real people who were high on marijuana. They were friends of my friend. One of them had kind of bloodshot eyes and couldn't stand straight. They kept smiling. Seeing this guy stagger around stupidly, I had a strange urge. For some reason I wanted to push him over. Still, I was wondering what it felt like. My friend told me he used to do some marijuana, but he felt like God didn't want him to so he stopped.
One night my friend took me to my first show. I'm not saying concert because I had been to some classical concerts at Yale's Woolsey Hall, but those don't count. At least they don't to anyone in my generation. It was a hardcore concert, hardcore is the type of metal where people scream and growl and can actually injure their throats. I was not in my element, but I was still glad to be going to a show. My friend and his friend kept trying to get me to go dance, they had some kind of mosh pit thing going. I stood with my back to the wall the whole time and waited for it to end. I was tempted to join. I saw some other guys doing some kind of martial arts moves that I knew I could do pretty spectacularly; I wanted to show off. But I couldn't.
I guess you could say I'm predictable. I was free to do anything and nobody would know except for a few friends on the other side of the country. But I just stayed myself. I wanted to do all these things pretty badly, and the world wouldn't have stopped me, and I did nothing. I guess that's supposed to be depressing. Yet somehow, I don't really mind. Standing there, watching those people dancing, knowing the rush of adrenaline and who knows what else they were getting, I wanted to join them, but I didn't have to. I kept telling my friends, "I don't dance, I don't dance." That's not really true, sometimes I dance when I'm alone. The real dance, though, is just happening in a place that nobody can see, and it's always happening. That dance is a secret, but what's a story without the telling of a secret? The real dance for me is the one going on behind my eyes.
I won't say my dance is any better than those of the people I was watching. I won't say it's any more artistic, beautiful, enthusiastic, graceful, or anything. It's just my dance. I don't know if I could even take that much credit for it, I think it just is, on its own. I haven't been to any more shows, but maybe, someday I might dance at one. It'll probably take someone better at trying to get me to than my friends were. It'll probably take someone with a dance of their own, behind their eyes, yet visible to me. There's a lot to see in someone's eyes, maybe that's why I don't like making eye contact. I don't want them to know my secret. I don't want them to see me dancing.