#anarrative

This is one of my earliest memories. And it carries with it so many things about me. The costume reflects my lifelong desire to be the hero however misguided I may have become. The fact that my mom made it despite a newborn child shows that no matter what, I came from one of the most loving families a person could ask for. And finally this halloween itself represented the beginning of the end of my innocence.

That night was the last night I was truly innocent and carefree. Because even at that young age I was begging to accept the responsibility of the older brother and the eldest son. And it was also the last night I was out with my dad before he had his surgery that started his chronic pain.

Of course I was unaware of this at the time, and that’s what made the night so pure for me. Because if I had registered any of this it would no longer be the perfect night it was. I made off with a ton of candy. But there was this one house that made a greater impact on me.

The porch light was on and everyone knows that means they have candy. It was a very well decorated house with an excellent grim reaper mannequin set in a sitting position on the deck swing. And as I approached the front door to knock like at all the other houses the mannequin stood up in front of me and scared me so bad I ran back to my dad, who was waiting by the street at the end of the drive. See it wasn’t a prop at all it was actually a man sitting there perfectly still masked in the deep grim reaper hood. My dad turned me around and assured me that it was ok, and wanting to make my dad proud I bravely approached the man. He knelt down and put a quarter in my hand. I wanted candy but I was still scared shitless so I just thanked him and walked back to my dad quick as I could so we could go back to aunt Karen’s house where it was safe.

In retrospect this event is so literary I can hardly believe it happened. Young me venturing forth to the door by myself. The grim reaper man representing the dread of the real world to come. My dad’s embrace and reassurance, parallel to that of his raising me my whole childhood, and finally the venturing forth to face the world that attempts to corrupt me with money. It’s comical when I look back at it, and it’ll be a story to tell for years to come.

Every time I think I’m over her that memory comes back to haunt me. It was two days before we broke up, or she dumped me rather, and I thought it was our most intimate moment.

She lived just up the street with her dad from where she grew up. Her mom still owned the house she grew up in, but she was off in arizona with her new boyfriend. Anyway her mom was having the house fixed up while she was away so that she could sell it.

So we went there on our free period at the end of school, we usually had sex parked somewhere in that neighborhood but today Meaghan wanted to see the house. So I parked in the driveway and after checking a few windows I found one that was unlocked. So I climbed up through the window and let her in the front door.

The house was kind of destroyed because they were renovating it, just plywood floors and power tools. And all of the furniture from the whole house was piled in a room off to the side of the entryway. Meaghan went in there because she saw one of her old hoodies she wanted back. When she grabbed it underneath it was a basket. Inside this basket was what appeared to be every old photo her mom had ever taken.

Instantly I saw the change in her face, she suddenly became overwhelmingly nostalgic and like it always did every time she showed me things from her childhood it already started to effect me.

She took the basket and grabbed me by the hand and lead me into what used to be her bedroom. We sat on the floor and she described to me what the room looked like when she was still living there. Then she began looking through the photographs one by one, picking out some to explain to me what was happening in them and she’d place them on the floor. By the time her dad called asking when she’d be home we were sitting in a ring of her childhood, tears streaming down her face, and I never loved her more than in that moment.

In the master bedroom of the house I grew up in, there’s a big glass sliding door that leads out to the third story balcony. Above that is a large slanted window that follows the slant of the roof. There are various other windows in this big loft like room, so on a sunny day it would be like the whole room was outside.

But far more important to me was what this room was like at night. When I was very small, like many children I’d have nightmares that would wake me, and I’d want to find my parents. So I’d get out of bed in my bugs bunny pajamas, hobble down the hall, and my little legs would climb the stairs to the master bedroom. Then I’d tug on the covers on my mom’s side, and she’d tell me to crawl on in the middle. So I did and I’d snuggle down in the covers.

Thud! And the air rushes out of my lungs. Guy’s shoulder hit me square in my right side ribs, head on. And I’m off my feet, sailing through the air as I gain the momentum to disengage contact with this asshole.

He is an asshole, 250 pound guy goes the wrong way in a circle pit. Maybe he was just breaking the rules because it’s more punk rock. That’s what punk shows are for right? Chaos and anarchy. It’s our thing. What kind of punk doesn’t break the rules?

Then again... Anarchism is based on society that doesn’t need central leadership because it’s citizens all adhere to the same rules and beliefs and help each other grow. So I feel it’s completely acceptable for everyone here to be subject to the rules of moshing. If it’s a circle it goes counter clockwise, you never go out of your way to hurt someone, and if someone falls you guard them from trampling and pick them up. Simple shit really, and all pretty reasonable I’d say.

Crack! My elbow strikes the hardwood floor of the Filmore as I try to catch myself, then the rest of the weight is caught by my back. Fuck that hurt. But above me I see guys closing in to guard me and I reach up for their help. See? Simple rules. As they pull me up I’m gratified to see another huge guy confronting the dumbass that hit me. And I didn’t see him the rest of the night either. Works for me I guess.

My cohorts pull me beyond the edge of the mosh pit and I lean on my knees gasping to regain the breath I lost. Man. That. Was. Awesome! A strange response I know but let me explain.

This, is therapy. Punk shows, surrounded by young anarchists, violently moshing to fast power chords. It’s the best therapy in the world. I’ve tried them all, aroma therapy, yoga, even the kind where you talk to a shrink. They all have their benefits I admit, it helps with certain things at certain times. But this, this is something special.

If you’re like me you thought Fight Club was one of the greatest movies ever. if you’re even more like me, you liked the book even more. And I tried that too. Fighting is a therapy, physically, and psychologically. But in real life the only dudes you can bare knuckle box for fun are more messed up than you are. Punk shows, and the moshing offers the same thing, but in a more enlightened state. So much in fact I can call myself a pacifist.

I can say this because I don’t fight anyone anymore, at least not physically. Moshing isn’t fighting. It’s surrendering yourself to the chaos around you, and trusting that your brothers and sisters in the pit will save you when it knocks you on your ass. Literally. It’s about relinquishing fear, and adopting brotherhood, and for a sweet blissful evening surrendering the worries of your life to a chaos of flailing bodies, screaming in tongues. This is why at the end of the night, with bloodshot eyes, a golfball swollen elbow, and a bruise on my ribs that makes it hurt to breathe, I feel healed.