The crossroads behind me are so countless, they're plaid. Born in Philly, I grew up in a bunch of towns cruelly described as flyover states, and as soon as possible after graduation, I headed west where I called San Francisco home for 15 years. That's the place where I've lived the longest. I still miss the grit and the crime of San Francisco. Once, here on an Austin sidewalk, I saw a syringe and smiled at the familiar. I felt all warm inside.
I got to thinking about how goth I used to be when an old friend from San Francisco was coming to Austin and she invited me to be a storyteller at Porch Light, San Francisco's longest running storytelling series. The theme for the night was, "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again." I needed something good, something true, and like anyone seeking gloom, I looked to the past.
Flashback to the summer after my freshman year at college. The year was 1986, the city was Syracuse and I was nineteen. At my temp job, I answered phones with "Marcellus Casket Company." I don't even think I tacked on, "may I help you" and that is exactly how goth I was.
I had hair like Robert Smith, eye makeup like Siouxsie Sioux, and skin built for white powder, red lipstick, and black clothes. I also felt that Bauhaus really understood everything that I was into. So did Joy Division and then New Order. And like goths to a flame (pointed at a clove cigarette) people knew us by the trail of Aqua Net. Our school had a massive cemetery nearby that we often frequented, and any building with a gargoyle on it caught our fond attention.
We were fans of the band Masters of Reality. Their concerts started with a thick black plastic tarp hung like a curtain or barrier to the stage filled with fog machine oil, frankincense and myrrh. While the curtain was still up, the guitars would start all distorted, undeniable and loud, and a smoky backlit shape of a cross would emerge through the tarp. I imagined someone with a box cutter drawing two lines, it was always a crowd-pleaser when someone on stage yanked the curtain down all at once. That was the way to start a show.
We went to lots of concerts like The Church, The Fall, and The Call. We saw them play at an on-campus venue at Syracuse University, and my friend Trish wore a Grecian draped white cotton sheet that she dyed black, so it turned out grey. It was a no alcohol zone so we brought our own, which of course we rationed badly.
At the end of the night, we weaved our undead selves towards the dorm and I realized that Trisha was drunker than I thought. She stopped mid-walk and rooted around her miniscule change purse. She found enough coins to open the newspaper box door, and promptly vomited inside.
I learned more than just where to puke at school, though. Like when covering up holes from music posters, just use toothpaste. It's brilliant. And the Psychedelic Furs lyrics I painted directly onto the wall came right off with a smudge of nail polish remover. Insights included: "Make a wall of your religion" and "You can never win or lose if you don't run the race." The hell was I thinking?
A couple of weeks ago at a party just outside Austin, they played the Masters of Reality song "The Eyes of Texas" and it was so overwhelming that this is my home. If you're ever in doubt that you're on the right path, wondering if you truly are meant to be somewhere, if you wait for it, a connection will appear.
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