I have decided to leave this city.

*           *           *           *

The other night―it was some soon to be forgotten Friday night―I made a fool out of myself. I was asked to DJ a big art show party in Seattle’s warehouse district. Partygoers included numerous famous artist and musicians. Faces that I had seen in movies, music videos, and stages around the world. People I had to impress in this never-ending popularity contest of ‘getting your name out there.’

Thick rain had been drenching the city, slicking the streets, and smothering sounds with pattering, splashing monotony. The rain made it a little tricky to haul around my sound equipment, but I didn’t mind because my expectations of the party were soaring. As I plugged in giant speakers and did sound checks on my turntables and synths, I looked out on to the dance floor and envisioned hundreds of heaving bodies thrashing to the music I would soon pour into their heads.

          *           *           *           *

Earlier that week―it was the Monday prior―I was at my friend’s birthday party, which was a huge dinner party full of tantalizing food, spilling wine and sloshing whiskey. The party soon morphed into a dance party (as parties usually do). And I was drunk (As I occasionally am).

There was a girl there I had known for a while, but did not really know. Her name is Lylla. She is a person who I had seen countless times, but had shared only a handful of words with. She is a beautiful girl, and this night she happened to be wearing some scandalous clothes that had me twisted in agonizing desire.

I pulled Lylla outside onto the deck. We were alone. Inside the house the night was winding down and people were swaying back and forth in the living room amidst bursts of laughter and the comforting droll of music and conversation.

I said, “Lylla,” then paused, staring at her face, the whiskey in my brain examining the contours of her skin and eyes.

She looked back, her eyes searching my face for meaning, an explanation for what I was doing.

“Yes?” She said.

I stared her down and said, “Will you come over here,” I pointed to a dark corner on the side of the house, a place isolated from possibly drunken intruders and gossipers, and finished, “and kiss me?”

She laughed, “You’re kidding me? You never even talk to me and are flat out rude to me, and now you‘re trying to kiss me?”

“Yes,” I said, “It’s supposed to be spontaneous, I wasn’t trying to think about it. I just really want to kiss you right now, it’s that simple.”
I rambled for about five minutes about all the nonsense I am so talented at rambling on about. She just looked at me the whole time. Her lips pressed together, her eyes scanning back and forth, absorbing me, or cutting me.

“Dan,” she said, after I had finally stopped running my mouth, “can I tell you something?”

“Yes,”

“You talk about yourself a lot.”

Silence.

“Yes, you are right, I do--” I said, eyes down, voice soft.

“Why?” Her eyes pierced.

“Because I am insecure.”

“Why?”

“Good question.” I stared at her, face expressionless. I was not about to start spilling my psyche to her.

“Dan, can I tell you something else?”

“Yes.”

She shifted her weight and stepped closer to me. I could feel her warmth and I forced myself to not look at her thin legs exposed underneath a short, tight skirt.

“Dan, every dinner party you come to you bring nothing to it. You just come, eat the food, drink the beer you bring, and then leave without helping clean up. When you started to hang out with this group of friends I was pissed,” her jaw tightened, “you brought nothing to it.”

I let out a defeated breath. She was right. I wasn’t going to try and defend myself.

“You are right,” I said, “You are totally right.”

We sat there for a moment. I avoided her eyes and exhaled. My eyes locked onto some object I was not looking at. My mind instead had me focused on looking at my thoughts, which were skimming through all the memories of how selfish I had been.

She leaned in closer. I looked at her and smiled.

We stood there awkwardly and I was trying to figure out a transition out of this situation. In moments like this, after I have had a huge slap of reality on my face, I usually want to be alone, go on a long walk, so I can reflect on the lesson learned.

I can’t remember how it happened―I really cannot―but somehow her lips were pressed on mine, just briefly. She backed away, her eyes still scanning, and then I could feel the warmth of her lips brushing on mine, firmer still, just for a moment, then the lips were gone, and her slender legs slipped back inside the house.

Fast forward to Friday. After a stop at the liquor store I showed up to the warehouse to get ready to DJ. A few people were milling around with bottles of cheap beer in their hands, their pockets full of pills and white bags. It was still early; not many people had shown up yet. I was getting nervous. I had told a whole bunch of people that this party was going to be insane. I didn’t want them to be disappointed. My popularity was being held hostage.

I started to drink some whiskey, and some cheap malt liquor, soothing my nerves before my set―I was the last act, the act with the most pressure, the act that had to finish the dance party with a climax of orgiastic energy. At the party there were a few famous electronic music producers who I had to impress. This was my chance to get big. Finally 1am rolled around and the last band was nearing their final song.

The warehouse was still nearly empty. A bunch of people I knew, whom I had invited, sat around with bored looks. Some were out in the hallway, spreading some drug on the table. They meandered around looking at the chaotic art lining the space: the twenty Soviet TVs making a couch, the stucco squared walls, the light fixtures made from mangled rolls of film strips, the stuttering projected beams of light casting haunting hues of blue and blood red onto shreds of meticulously hung fabric.

I was given the cue to begin playing. I was drunk. Really drunk. I tried to focus on my equipment, but my eyes were moving all on their own. I took a deep breath and started to play. From then on I began to plummet.

A DJ is supposed to effortlessly mix songs in and out of each other, creating a seamless flow of massive beats and gritty bass lines. My songs were fighting each other viciously, sounding like the frenetic explosions of a collapsing building. To compensate I just started to turn up the volume, thinking it would increase energy, but all it did was start to blow out the speakers. The Sound Technician’s patience almost cracked after the fourth time he told me to turn down the bass.

One girl I knew came up to me and said, “You should dance. I don’t like you DJing.”

I told her to “Fuck off.” My eyes barely recognized who she was.

And that is when I ruined the party. The few people that were there started to leave.

My desire to look good, my desire to impress and gain popularity had been shoved in my face.

Yet, the story does not stop here. No. This is where it begins. You see. An old friend of mine had come to this party. His name is Jay. He is a shy outdoorsy kid, one who knows nothing of high fashion, nor of being hip and trendy and the cream of the crop. He is a modest fellow who was generally interested in seeing what I was doing with music these days. He had come to support me despite the fact that this party was a very late night endeavor, not really his style, and he was a morning person who had just returned from climbing a very dangerous and exhausting mountain.

He sensed my duress and snuck me outside, away from all the glaring eyes and intentionally turned backs.

We got in my truck and he talked to me for two hours. It was nearly five in the morning by now. He could barely keep his eyes open. But, despite this, he said,

“Dan, let me help you take all your equipment home.”

The next afternoon, when I woke from a restless alcohol induced sleep, I immediately remembered Jay and the sincere help he gave me.

The artificial alliances and “friendships” with all these artist and famous musician was nothing but a stupid popularity contest.  A contest I had already lost in middle school, and high school, and college.

I was trying to get people to like me, I was trying to be popular to compensate for my insecurities, and in the meantime I was forgetting what was actually meaningful in life: People who truly love me, no matter how much I mess up, the people who just like me for me, the people who don’t care if I am talented or accomplished, the people who see through my facade and will care for me regardless. These are the people who matter.

*              *              *              *              *              *              *              *              *             

Yes, I am leaving this town. There are many reasons. There are adventures I fantasize about experiencing in my lifetime, and the only obstacle preventing me from actually going on these adventures is myself. November 1st I leave. Everything will be explained. And I will not be gone forever. You will discover more as you chase after the Life of HARM.