#40 __ the walk home

She looks up from the decks and takes her headphones off. It’s the last track, and the forty people still left on the dance floor are screaming and cheering. I thank the DJ, say hello and goodbye to friendly faces, thank the bouncer, and head outside into dawn’s early light. I’m grateful that the sun isn’t yet in my eyes; forgot my sunglasses, per usual.

Walking feels delightful. I’m exhausted but the beat still lives in my spine and it needs an outlet. It’s a time to calm down and smooth out the intensity of the night, adjusting to this elusive 8am reality. Plug into some deep minimal tracks and try to process what I just experienced. I laugh loudly to myself when I remember some stupid antics early in the night and someone perched nearby on a stoop gives me that New York glance that says “you’re fucking weird but you seem harmless enough I guess”.

The best part about getting home is immediately stretching out on the floor. Laying down feels fucking incredible. The next best part is peeling off the most disgusting clothes — imbued with the sweat of Satan, caked in ashes, and perfumed by fog. Down some aspirin and a glass of water, crawl to the fridge for the box of pineapple slices. Ears are ringing just a bit. Hop in the shower and hum the melody from that closing track.

If I’m lucky, I’ve got some friends to debrief with. There are always stories to share. The joy is an infinite feedback loop as we continually unearth more and more details about the night that were worth remembering: that dipshit who kept going on about Berlin, the spontaneous kindness of the bartender, or the most magnificent beard I ever did see. Memories infinitely detailed and fractal-like, strung together with sublime music from beginning to end. The conversation will flow endlessly from here, if only I weren’t falling asleep. I’ve been known to doze off mid-sentence in these moments, once my body finally believes that I won’t be demanding more of it. There’s nothing left to do but drag myself to bed and wake up ravenously hungry in the late afternoon.

This is how I want to remember the rave.

This will be the last transmission of outer ][ space. I don’t want this series to sputter out as I try to find nightlife theory nestled away in the morass of current events. Nightlife isn’t over. The rave will return. But between a pandemic and a globe-sweeping movement for racial justice, there is simply no need for a blog about party philosophy.

This isn’t the end of my writing about nightlife, but the beginning of new work. There are many possible directions to take from here:

• Since writing We Don’t Have A Drug Culture last year, I’ve been eager to focus more specifically on drug use and harm reduction. I don’t know what this might look like, but it’s a recurring passion and feels like the right direction.
• Originally I intended for outer ][ space to be a collaborative effort, but I quickly developed a specific, personal voice that didn’t leave much room for others. I want to support other people and highlight their work.
• Books and zines — starting with printing outer ][ space. I’ve learned how important it is to me to have physical copies of these memories — we can’t trust our history to social media. And I relish the opportunity to do some editing on older posts, collect photos and flyers, maybe get fancy with the typography — oh yeah.

Who knows what else?

Thank you so much for reading.