Denise is starting to roll. I don't quite know why I came to this party, but I'm glad that I found her. I came here with a fellow from the hostel. He's young, cool, knows everybody. So it's good and bad that he is my only connection to the little warehouse labyrinth of house beats and party kids. Good because he was introducing me, for a while. It helped people realize that I'm not a cop, I'm just old. Bad because he's gone now, off to do whatever it is connected people do at underground parties.
But I have Denise. We sit and watch a DJ break the screen of his Mac monitor. We talk to a steam-punk styled hipster that insists he could help me do practical special effects in my next movie. "What next movie?" I ask him.
"You've got to make your mark, man. Don't you want to make your mark?" He then dances away wildly. Later on I will see him making out with a leggy African American girl who would no-doubt be the ass-kicking counterpart to whatever post-apocalyptic storyline that this strong-jawed fellow stepped out of. Man, that was a lot of dashes. He says his name is Thomas, but it should be Dash Hyphen.
"It's all about a sensory experience," Denise insists. Is it, though? Isn't that where all my problems lie? In my inability to detach from my senses and emotions. Or should I become one with them?
We see the obligatory 'super hot raver chick'. She is wearing underwear covered in chains on her lower half. Her cell phone is stuck where a few guys would rather their hands be. Her (multi-colored) hair is in pigtails. She thrusts and gyrates and I can't tell if the marks on the bridge of her nose are piercings or make-up. "Sensory experience?" I ask as we watch this girl. I point, "That's too complicated."
It is and it isn't. The party is the same as it was ten years ago and half a country away. There are the 'too fucked up' guys on the couches, the cool kids ducking into 'off limits' rooms, the grey-haired dealer in the bathroom entertaining an audience, the guy in a onesie, the girl with a lollipop. The gang's all here. These kids feel like they own the world and, as far as I'm concerned, they do. They are saving it, at least. These are the kids that are going to be on the front lines of the fight against stagnancy and hypocrisy. Hopefully they are looking for a more spiritual experience from the Molly than I ever was. Hopefully they aren't just still trying to blot out reality, because that's not the point. Somehow, I think that they are doing better. I hope that they are closer to finding reality than leaving it. They seem to know more than me and eventually we are laughing and talking about maps and the universe.
I walk home and the trees are covered with icicles. Atlanta, at least the part that I am staying in, feels hot and dangerous. Much more than New York or Chicago. People need help cashing shady checks. Everyone needs a pack of Newports and 3 condoms. They buy them at the hole-in-the-wall grocery stores where the produce department consists of brown bananas and strawberry pop-tarts. People get mad if you don't have a dollar to give them and call you a 'broke cracker'. When you buy them a honey bun with quarters, they still ask you for the change.
But there are good people here. The guy who owns the hostel I'm volunteering with. He is helping travelers experience his town. He doesn't mind that I am broke. He lets his guests walk around in their underwear. He tells me I only need to work a few hours a day so that we both come off looking cool when I work more.
The second night, a fellow who is here for a conference on Mathematics checks in and we have a fine talk. He tells me about the different values for infinity. "There are an infinite amount of whole numbers, right? And there are an infinite amount of numbers between the whole numbers. There would be more of those, wouldn't there?"
"No... Yes?" Infinity is Infinity, isn't it? Apparently not.
Then we talk about if anything is random or if there is always a pattern. He insists that even a lava lamp or the weather has a calculable pattern. He tells me that you could draw any map and, using only four different colors, no color would ever have to be on the border of another section of the same color. There is a proof that states this fact.
The world seems very small to me sometimes. As I travel, I realize that everywhere is basically the same. Everybody is facing the same problem. The accent is different, but it's the same language. The colors are different, but there are only 4 of them.
It kind of boggles my mind. We talk about the act of trying to figure 'everything' out rather than just concentrating on becoming an authority on 'one' thing. It's a difference between making a large contribution on a little subject or a little contribution on a large subject. I land on the side of the latter, so I want our conversation to end so that I can write about it before I forget. "That's too complicated."
The universe is sending me a few signs, letting me know that I am close to the center again. People randomly (randomly?) mention the 'resistance' when it seems out of context. I can't seem to make any significant money, and I keep giving away what I have. I'm trying to enjoy work and detach from the ideas of reward. Atlanta helps because there is real poverty here, but also humanity. People will talk to anyone. They are on guard but pleasant; quick to become combative if they sense weakness or ego. I get the feeling that they would fight for something they thought was right. The fight just isn't here yet.
Yet.
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