(i) nebula
"A nightclub that’s on the ground floor! Just like Rick’s, in Casablanca! Wow!"
quick announcement—i started another newsletter!! go check it out!!
My running leap deposits me into the dark, thin, horizontal hallway that serves as Nebula’s foyer. No brickwalls. A kind of receptionist vestibule-desk is set against the opposite wall, occupied by two men who seem dreadfully, eternally busy with nothing, Kafka-protagonist-style. They’re situated precisely between a passageway in front of me that continues straight, in the direction of my momentum, who knows where it leads, probably to coatcheck, those bastards, and an alcove that envelops a flight of stairs leading down.
The club. It’s a simple fact that all clubs are underground. I read that somewhere once, on the internet. Dig that primary source! And it makes sense—all day, err’eyday, Mr. Alpha Dogs while away the daylight hours in their penthouses and in their C-suites, in their privates jets and in their statistically-taller physiques, towering above the subordinates and the subservients, the status-poors and the pipsqueaks. They gotta show that they can slum it down low, for a change, barberpole theory of status and all that.
I drift past the two men behind their desk, waving my wrist with its still-stinging welt, out of some incessant urge to, as often as possible, show proof of something to someone, though I’m dimly aware of what something that is. Neither looks up from their papers a’ shufflin’. Their loss. I pause once I’m at the top of the stairs. Yes, thanks to something primal, or primordial, even, we have to be higher, loathe to be lower, physically, than those we consider to be beneath us, metaphysically, until the exact moment, when those peons are least expecting it, B̴̝̎͋A̷̙͜͝M̶͇͎̓̄̎!!! we turn the tables on them and sa—
‘Club’s that way, miss.’
I turn to meet the gaze of one of the receptionists, who jerks his head back, towards the first passageway near where I first came in, then buries it in his papers again. I retrace my way back around the vestibule-desk and start down the passageway, the ₜₕᵤₘₚ ᵗʰᵘᵐᵖ 𝕥𝕙𝕦𝕞𝕡 tׁׅhׁׅ֮υׁׅꩇׁׅ݊℘ ｲんひﾶｱ ㄒ卄ㄩ爪卩 ░t░h░u░m░p░ t⃣ h⃣ u⃣ m⃣ p⃣ of the pulsing bass coming into ear-focus, growing more forceful, more distorted. One last corner to turn, and.. . . .
I wander over the threshold to club proper, and experience no change in elevation whatsoever. Animals. You live like this? This is like the nightclub equivalent of wearing your shoes inside your house. No ritual barrier between the street and the party. But come as you are, I guess. Might as well just convert the whole operation into a drive through. No parking on the dance floor. I’m so happy I finally referenced that song.
But, I mean, how ‘bout that! A nightclub that’s on the ground floor! Just like Rick’s, in Casablanca! Wow! Rare. See, not all ravens are black! Truly, a feather in the cap of this great discipline call Fieldwork™. Boots on the ground, boots on the ground…
I keep moving. The club is boxy, the size of perhaps two basketball courts. The layout is the same bi-level configuration as Marquee, a lower-level dance floor up-front, and a glorified ledge mounted on the rear wall where you can retreat to if you just need to be above it all for a while, ponder just how much money you’re burning. Or the erotic capital equivalent.
Dual curving staircases lead up to the ledge on either side, mirroring each other, they remind me of the rare times I was invited over the “popular” girls’ homes in high school, with their lawyer foyers where they’d host their Southern trash debutante balls in the spring. Pity the McMansion architects in my hometown, the endless requests for faux-Antebellum flourishes, it’s enough to convert even the staunchest Christopher Alexander acolyte straight away to Bauhaus.
If only those girls could see me now. I spin around once, take it all in. It’s good to be back. Everything is bathed in an unflattering scarlet light that seems to be the closest thing to a theme the night has. Of course, it’s the one night I wear red lipstick to these things. I really look like I’m vixenmaxxing tonight. Like I just finished sucking a vampire’s ju—
‘Hey, you look great! Can I take a few pics?’
Jugular, I WAS GOING TO SAY JUGULAR, get your mind out of the gutter. I zone back in, it’s some social media photographer dude wearing Ray-Bans and Vans, holding a camera that has one of those little giraffe-neck flashes poking out the top that’s pointed at me.
‘Umm… sure! How abou— Wait! Lemme grab a drink to hold, you know, get the full effect and all that… One sec!’
I speed-wander over to the nearest table to ply the promoter there with my signature, 10/10-aspie charm: ‘Hi! Would you be so kind as to pour me a glass of champagne?,’ ‘I said, “Can I have some champagne?”!,’ ‘ 🍾,’ ‘…thaaaaaank you… Oh, of course, cheers!,’ ‘𝒞𝓁𝒾𝓃𝓀 🥂 ,’ or more like, ‘p͓̽h͓̽w͓̽a͓̽p͓̽,’ plastic-on-plastic, because TAO isn’t in the mazel tov business, nor the class-action-lawsuit-TAO-vs.-a-bunch-of-people-who-had-to-Bruce-Willis-shards-of-glass-out-of-the-soles-of-their-feet, ‘Oh! Sorry, I’m Jane!,’ ‘Oh, um, no actually… I’m definitely not from there… Nope, also nope… Texas!…,’ '‘Sure! It’s just—well, wait, lemme just do it… Oh! But wait one sec, sorry, be right back!…’
‘Okay, back, sorry!’
I take a swig, and pose my hardest for the guy. Modeling-One-Oh-One is just curling your tongue against the roof of your mouth and staring off into space, like you’re watching a slow-blooming mushroom cloud on the horizon. And you don’t even care. ‘Thanks…’ He wanders off, satisfied with the result, or not, I can’t tell, I’ll check the club’s Instastories later.
But I don’t care, with a peer-review already under my fuzzy coat’s felt belt, I'm having a good time already! Even more because I'm only here on a whim. Really! No rogue sociology agenda or anything. I'm just here, in the moment, a bundle of sense-perceiving molecules dispersed amongst an apperceiving, potlatch-performing mass, thirsty for some sacred, radically discontinuous time opening to the transcendent.
Thirsty. You know how some water you buy at airport kiosks is so weird, like, you drink it, and it just leaves you thirstier? Well, I was at a yoga class earlier tonight at Equinox, led by my favorite instructor. He's serious. Like, he calls the poses exclusively by their Sandskrit names. He "doesn't get" cat-cow! It's not unusual for his flows to require a half-dozen props. You haven't lived until you and your spine have spent a few minutes suspended by three bricks, supported by two blankets, and scissored by one very tight strap.
He's doing the Lord's work. He could be all snooty and enlightened and teach over at Integral, but instead he chooses to minister to nihilistic yuppie divas like me. Certainly none of us have a snowball's chance in Naraka of ever attaining stream entry, but, hey, at least our workout sets match. That's something.
Anyways, airport kiosk water. Makes you thirstier. So this guy's yoga class, he conducts it with this air of, I dunno, a kind of ritualistic panache. His selection of music (mostly, the tolling of various bells), the timbre of his voice, priestlike condescension, his dramatic sighs, it all leaves one wanting more. Thirsty for more ritual. More. More!
But there were no midnight masses scheduled anywhere in the city tonight, as I discovered after a walk home from the gym full of furious scrolling through the search results on my phone—nor any gospel power-hours at Brooklyn Tabernacle, no Billy Joel at Madison Square Garden, no self-referential Dimes Square plays, nothing. I didn’t even pass the Mitzvah Tank that’s sometimes stationed around my ‘hood. I’d have to take my hierophanies into my own hands. Carve out my own sacred space. But where?
Because I run a party blog, naturally, I'm privy to a lot of information that others aren't. Naturally. I keep an ear to the ground, you know. Little birds, they tell me things. Rumblings of certain going-ons, called “raves,” conducted inside seedy structures, most typically, “warehouses,” scattered across far-flung locales, like “Brooklyn,” lubricated by illicit substances, including horse tranquilizers and self-love supplements. It’s enough of a beat to warrant its own gonzo party journalism, even!
'Give us grungier techno experiences!,' people always tell me. Just you, the night, and the music. Models 'n bottles? Graven images 'n gluttonous indulgences. Minimize external ornament. Just you, the night, and the music. And the Molly. Do it for science, even, etch your qualia in bits for us all. You’re acting like a budget Anna Delvey, they say, wasting your talents on the whole sordid affair of status gamery.
As if this newsletter needed more of my subjective experience. I’m liable to get so wrapped around my axle I’d take the whole universe with me, like a black hole created in a laboratory. But, more than that, it’s because, I need, desperately, η𝔢ⓔᗪ, something outside myself, the ritual, the rite, the tolling of various bells:
The modern habit of doing ceremonial things unceremoniously is no proof of humility; rather, it proves the offender's inability to forget himself in the rite... In an age when every one puts on his oldest clothes to be happy in, you must re-awake the simpler state of mind in which people put on gold and scarlet to be happy in...
If there's one thing C.S. Lewis knew about, it was animals, the partyis hardyis genus included. He’s having precisely none of that gnostic private experience snowflakey shit. The treasure cometh first, and then, only then, the heart:
Every time we resort to ceremony, we do so not to escape the stark reality of the event, or to veil it, much less decorate it, but to give shape to the full reality and significance of what has happened... Ceremony assists us to cope with the otherwise unmanageable. Far from erecting a barrier between us and the truth, it ushers us closer in to the truth. It dramatizes the truth...
Dramatizes the truth. Which truth, exactly?
The truth that a certain kind of wealthy, powerful man is so emotionally stilted, that even the most para- of para-relationships will suffice for their scarcity-mindset addled psyches. And if you, the opposite party in that para-, were to press the right buttons, you could destroy them, right then and there.
The truth that girls just wanna have fun; but they’re perfectly happy to settle for being funnable.
The truth that the busboys… well, when it comes to the busboys, I like to imagine them as monk-adjacent, they’re jumping through the different jhanas as they weave their way through throngs of partiers with mountain-goated surefootedness, balancing tubs full of ice and tequila and orange juice on either shoulder. You just think they’re your sherpas, on this grand, desperate journey we call the pursuit of happiness; meanwhile, they’re secretly happier schlepping drinks than you have ever been. Like, logarithmically so.
Me, though? My truth?
Umm… .. .
Uᵐₘmᵐmₘ……. ... .. .
U҉m҉m҉m҉m҉m҉m҉m҉m҉.҉.҉.҉.҉.……… .... .. . .
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υׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅυׁׅꩇׁׅ݊℘░υׁׅꩇׁׅ݊℘░υׁׅꩇׁׅ݊℘░υׁׅꩇׁׅ݊℘░tׁׅhׁׅ֮υׁׅꩇׁׅ݊℘░tׁׅhׁׅ֮υׁׅꩇׁׅ݊℘░tׁׅhׁׅ֮υׁׅꩇׁׅ݊℘
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…υׁׅꩇׁׅ݊℘░… …υׁׅꩇׁׅ݊℘░… … .
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…1
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҉ ̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ |̿ V ̿| ҉҉ |̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿' ҉
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̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ |̿ V ̿| ҉҉ |̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿'
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░ⓉⒽⓊⓂⓅ░ ░T҉H҉U҉M҉P҉░҉ ̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ |̿ V ̿| ҉҉ |̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿' ҉
Atʷ ͪtͣhͭe hoͫuͣᶰrʸ of ͬmͤeͣrͩcͤyͬˢ, atͦᶠ dˡuͣsͨkͣᶰ,
҉ ̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ |̿ V ̿| ҉҉ |̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿' ҉
wᶠeͣ'ͥˡll ͭtͦalᶰkͦ ͭoͥfͨ ͤmy sͥˢecrͪeͦʷt pͭaͪiͤn:
҉ ̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ |̿ V ̿| ҉҉ |̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿' ҉
ᶠ ͥᵍTͧhͬeͤy sͦᶠay,ͭ ͪtͤheˢrͧᵇeʲ'ͤsͨ ͭyoˢuͧᵖtᵖhͦˢ ͤiͩn tͭhͦe ᵏwᶰoͦʷrldͥˢ⏤
҉ ̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ |̿ V ̿| ҉҉ |̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿' ҉
Whͣatˢ ͤhͨaͦᶰpͩpͣeͬʸneᵖdͪ ͤᶰtͦoͫ ͤᶰmͦᶰineͣᶰ?
҉ ̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ |̿ V ̿| ҉҉ |̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿' ҉
Anͤdͯ ͨaͤᵖnͭoͥtͦᶰheˢrͦ ͫtͤhͭiͪnͥᶰgᵍ, aͭ ͪcͣlͭue:
҉ ̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ |̿ V ̿| ҉҉ |̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿' ҉
ͤmͫyͤ ͬᵍbͤˢeing ͣᵍwͣaͥᶰsˢ ͭseareͭdͪ ͤby aͫ ͦfͬlͤame
҉ ̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ |̿ V ̿| ҉҉ |̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿' ҉
ᶠ.ͧᶰ ͩTͣhͫeͤᶰyͭ ͣˡsaᵇyͣ ͨᵏtᵍhͬeͦrͧᶰeͩ's ͦᶠlovͭeͪ ͤallˢ ͧᵇaʲrͤoͨuͭnd⏤
҉ ̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ |̿ V ̿| ҉҉ |̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿ ̶̿' ҉
ˢWͧᵖhᵖaͦˢtͤ ͩdo tͭhͦey ᵇmͤˡeͥaͤnͮ?ͤ
҉ ̿ ̿|̿ ̿ ҉҉ |̶ ̶ ̶ ̶| ҉҉ |͇ ͇ ͇ ͇ ͇| ҉҉ ░░░░░░
—Sorry, mask slipped a little, where were we? …right. So. Gimme that corporate nightclub life, with all the mimetic trappings. It's like some kind of bluecollarface thrill to me. Like what Bruce Springsteen probably feels when he launches into those opening chords of ‘My Hometown’. Thar’s the proper way of things. A borough, Manhattan. A district, aptly named Meatpacking. Where there be models. Where there be bottles. Because, if no one is bridge-and-tunnel…
…everyone is.
—
