evolution/getting over rave

claudia and i chased neon butterflies and danced to hip hop versions of beowolf to survive high school. i cropped photos for yearbook and dreaded running a mile a day to please the cheer coach. Claudia drew the most amazing Edies and didn't give a fuck about sports. by junior year we began to crave the attention of the city. some kids smoked weed, most drank, but Claudia and I threw ourselves into the inherent contradictions of los angeles. at sixteen we graduated from nights of pseudo-flirting with Dave from never-to-be-heard-of TLD outside the Whisky to three story costume balls where spikes and leashes were de rigeur. we twirled endlessly to garbage on the dancefloor while a dominatrix whipped overweight, middle aged men in leather g strings. senior year brought weekends backstage in san francisco with blonde new wave surfers who had traded local credibilty for several world tours and nightly backstage hordes of barely-legal punk goddesses. that year we rolled in late to science class hollow-eyed and hungover and tried to escape to the bathroom to blot out the shadowy traces of last night's eyeliner with MAC studio fix and pick flecks of glitter off each other's faded tshirts.

Claudia turned 18 four days after me. After the dinner party she gave for 20, we slipped away to test run our completely legal 18 year old IDs. Spring break brought us closer to the punk-blond suburban surfers-turned-rockstars that we adored when we hit up four of their shows in four days. I got the scoop for my website, but beyond that, no one ever said a thing except with eyes. School resumed as the last weeks of May faded into another scorching Valley summer

At graduation, our parents caressed the leather bound diplomas while we tossed off our white, billowy robes and reapplied waterproof black eyeliner. The next night, we carefully filled in our lips with black pigment and picked out each other's outfits. I wore combat boots, striped stockings, and a lace black mini with a faux PVC corset. Claudia, a PCV halter dress, pumps and black tights. piles of silver jewelry weighed down her tiny neck.

Traffic crawled from Santa Monica to West Hollywood. Eventually the silver statuette appeared on the corner of LA Brea. Inside the Ruby, strobe lights and filters hid the scruff marks on the aged furniture. DJ Amanda spun VNV Nation and Skinny Puppy. We bathed in the heat of the crowd and let our mascara bled down our cheekbones as we danced. We believed in the night’s power to redeem years of confusion. We hadn’t seen enough to know otherwise.

Vegas changed everything. I chased the party and it responded. if I can't write the music, I want to be it, be in it, dance it, live it before it exists. and I knew it would happen but I didn’t know it would feel this empty, like nothing ever really happened. none of us would ever forget it and not because the rockstar's wife was so sweet or so many girls were passed out on the couch. not because his email account was left open and I saw the tiny words on the screen. it wasn’t because i discussed feng shui all night with one of them and forgot the name of the other or because i was on that many drugs or particularly drunk, I was as in control as any of us ever are at 18. it was the turning point because I realized i would always be empty, and that rave died in the end of the story. i thought i wanted to be rave, or write her again, rewrite her for the masses who loved her. but rave died at the end of the story and that’s no ending for a girl like her, a real girl who used to be able to be without hurting others and who can't tell her friends from her enemies anymore.

Tonight I realized what they mean when they say you get sucked in.