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He's a strange guy.
Met him in a strange place, to begin with. I've told a lot of people that story by now. How there was no introduction, no hellos. That's just how he likes it. There's that instant connection you only really feel in clubs, when you realize you're a human being doing loud things with other human beings and enjoying it too, appreciating it. You don't need to trust them then. That's not the point. You don't have to know people. You just have to feel it. And that's his forte. That's why he came with us out too, I think, because we stayed the longest, learned his lines. Chanted the loudest. I remember very little else of that night. That makes sense. In a way it was all his night. His creation. The sunrise over the blackened roofs in Coal City is the clearest memory of them all. That's when I became a person again, rather than... What would you call it. A spectator. A conduit of the music, maybe. A thing that experiences, but doesn't feel much of its own. That's when they became people, too, rather than bright colors and disco lights.
He didn't talk at all, that first day. He couldn't. Having screamed until he was hoarse, out of breath and aching, he only wheezed and smiled at us, pumping his fists excitedly whenever Andre raised his voice. We didn't discuss it much. Just said we were travelling, looking for a place to Be. He nodded. Andre patted him on the shoulder, Acele wanted to check out his equipment. He had more of it at his older brother's house. As per usual I can't remember much of what I did and what I said. I didn't care much for the speakers, I do know that. The means to bring about music isn't the point. You can do it with only your hands. You don't even really need to hear. The vibrations should be all you need.
As hard as it is to believe, I guess that was when I finally put a name to that force I'd been trying to describe. People say I just like music. I don't just like music. There is something in the music that wants to be named. And he'd called it the "hard core."
He never goes anywhere without those headphones. A permanent fixture of his person, as much a part of him as the hair on his head, he's always, always listening to something. Usually the same something as it was last week, and the week before that. I don't mind. I think Andre minds, if just a little bit. Acele? – who knows. Wherever he is, he is moving, nodding his head even on those few rare occasions that the headphones are hanging around his neck, as if the beat continues on inside him, where only he can hear it. I imagine sometimes that I can hear it too. It's like he's so in tune to that energy that it's part of him. It's always there.
Sometimes people say he's spending a lot of time in his own world. What a useless way to put it when it could be all of our world. If people only tried to hear it too. But, it seems not everybody can do that. Their ears pick it up, yes. But they don't understand.
He's loud. Always has been. And the way he talks is a mess; we all know he's faking the accent. He really is from Gottwald, or at least, his father was, but he plays it up. And, much like some sort of magical guru, a sight-seer from a book, he speaks in lyrics. Almost-riddles, I guess, although after a few weeks I understood him perfectly. What with that, and the always moving around, it's undeniable that he takes up space. But that's why he's with us: we have the space. We like his music.
I know some people can't stand him. His brother sure couldn't. Or his dad. In the same way not everybody can stand our music; it's too much for them. It overwhelms. For the truly miserable, coming in too-close contact with the world spirit is painful. Lots of people can't bear to feel the hard core simply because they close their minds to it on purpose, frightened of the way knowing it will change them. He, being a catalyst of that spirit, scares those that are scared of freedom, repulses them. I still remember the look on his face after leaving his appartement for what I know to be the last time. He hadn't yelled back. He hadn't said a word. He didn't say a word for another day or so. When when he finally did, he talked about music.
He loves music. Of course he does, so do we all, but he loves making music. People underestimate just how important that is. And just how hard it is to be an artist. I think I consider myself one, although, being ill both politically and socially, and overall just rather strange, I wonder if other people think the same of me. Can one be an artist of thought, or is that just philosophy? If not, is carpentry considered art? Either way, music isn't as easy to make as you'd think. Acele, for example, keeps trying. She never seems to get it right though. Quietly, she has her ideas, and then falters, somewhere halfway between development and execution. He never falters. He's been mixing his own tracks since forever, he says. Strangely, she can't bring herself to be jealous of him. It's a different kind of music she's making, she says. You can't compare them anymore than you can compare the quality of a painting to that of a poem. Really, I think she's merely grazing the truth. She knows the hard core. She understands it, to some extent; she must; I've seen her. That's why she can't stay mad at him. She feels it too, then, just like I do. I can't stay mad either. That's telling.
Hell, the nickname that's as good as my real name by now, means 'paranoid.' That should tell you everything you need to know; I am not a people person. With him though? Didn't matter. Never mattered. As easily and simply as when I was a child, as if I'd already known him since I was a child, I never doubted him. Every human being needs at least some adjusting before I can really connect with them. But with him, it was as though we ran on neighbouring channels, compatible almost instantly, although I tried not to let on.
Trying to describe him is hard. People tend not to get the full scope of things. They misunderstand. All those times where people told me, told Andre or Acele, that he is strange, distant, stupid even, ring clear in my head every time. It makes me so angry. He doesn't care one bit, and I don't understand how. He says he doesn't understand why he should mind. Maybe it's because he's simultaneously great and horrible at dealing with people. He's the party boy, so he knows how to work them when it comes to music. He's also almost impossible to understand at times, and on the few times where you can tell he's trying to act 'normal' he always ends up with this oddly blank stare, curios, but blank. Puts people off. Scares them.
And I say all these things to try to make you understand, that these are all things he is. And yet, or maybe, yes, because of this, there's this sort of... Light.
It follows him around. Like a spotlight mounted just behind him, in the back of his head. And it lights up the world, not glaring but brilliant and sparkling, multicolored just like disco lights, like the vibrant speckle of stars and spots on the floor in the clubs in Coal City. Not everybody can see it. Almost nobody can see it all the time. But I know, I know it's there. As strange as he is, he is brilliant and, and this is what I'm trying to get at, awfully, wonderfully human. More than that. Not more than human. More human. Human, but louder, brighter than that. No wonder he takes up space. No wonder he frightens the miserable and the close minded. There's something about him that's just so bright.
That's not to say he isn't also my friend. I don't think he's some kind of a saint. No. It's weird like that. Impressed and intrigued though I am, I don't exactly look up to him. He's a friend. One of the group, just like me. There's no question of status, right? I'm not trying to sell the idea of some hidden, almost innocence-like figure among us. I don't want to sell it. I'm just... Noting.
I watch the light from a distance, and, to keep up appearances, I try not to let on that it is blinding.