The bodies move and sway

But this is not dancing. Not to you, you who grew up on another land

Where dancing was spiritual, ritual. where people moved in time with music

In search of a release, an answer, a desire fulfilled. Where

Dancing felt exciting and dangerous, where people responded to the slightest of changes in the sound:

A new clap, the ring of a bell, a snap, a cymbal

The deepness of a bass that reverberated through your body that it felt like it was pushing you into the ground, into your loins.

No one is dancing with their legs, their hips, their arms. Instead they stand and sway, staring at the DJ, the lights

Talking with their friends, a shuffle of the shoulders, the performance of a good time.

It’s a different time now or was it always this way and you don’t remember? Nostalgia smoothing out the edges as it tends to do. Two larger women barrel through past you as through your body is a revolving door. They barely notice your existence and you mutter to yourself, “well I guess PLUR is out the window.”

Along with those swaying there is a constant stream of people who whizz past you, from the front, from behind, a kind of conga long of content creators and people dressed for Coachella.

Times are different and this is the night: spending six hours walking, shuffling, swaying from point A to point B. A thought crosses your mind:

People don’t want to stand still because then they have to look into a stranger’s eyes. They would have to actually listen to the music, their own heart beat, their own thoughts. Are people actually thinking about the music, you wonder to yourself, or are they in search of their next beer?

The club is now the bar: as they sway, people have side conversations. You watch as a guy asks a girl what parties she’s been to, someone pulls out a phone to show a friend his new dog. A guy show’s his bro a meme with you interpret as how he’s feeling about the party; it’s a picture of a guy from the 80’s in a pastel polo shirt with the collar popped up. In the background is a rainbow and the caption below reads Muy Gay.

Conversations are side quests and there’s a part of you that doesn’t mind them. You sued to be able to approach people by turning to someone and say,

“Hey, I like your dancing!” They would smile, maybe even give you a hug.

But you can’t really say that when no one is really dancing.

There are still people who get it. Like attracts like.

You see someone who actual knows the words to the track and you sing together for a bit. You both look at each other and the stranger smiles,

“Wait, are you Filipino?”

Instantly, you are cousins. No hug but a fumble of a dab. No one cares. It’s still a party. You look at each other and he asks, “which one of us is Kuya?” Looking at him, you see so much likeness in him. “It might be me,” you say to him. “But maybe not?”

You both laugh. “We’re blessed to look young,” he says and in that moment you soak up his words.

“Nice meeting you!” Another dab and away he goes.

Later, while you’re trying squished between people trying to get to the lockers, a group of partiers see you and try to guess your ethnicity, “Indiaan?Mexicaan?”

You say what you always say in Dutch, “Ik kom uit Canada maar ik ben Filipijn.” I’m from Canada but I’m Filipino.

You could just say ik ben Canadese but you know what they want to know.

This time, just to be cheeky you ask in Dutch, “And you/en jij? Where are you from/Waar komt jij vandaan?”

“Hilversum.”

A woman tries to squeeze past you but we’re all locked in, squished together. You try to keep your hands up and away from her body.

Her eyes are barely open but she’s looking into your face.

“This is crazy, right?” you say to her. All you want, like everyone else, is to grab your jacket from your locker, get on your bike, and head home.

She tries to focus her eyes on you. Her friends are behind you, calling her name. She gives you a shrug. “The world is burning.”

(what a time to be spitting bars.)

“Yeah,” you say. “It sure is.”

“The world is burning and here we are, at a rave. The world is burning and all we can do is dance.”

You watch as she gets swept away in the human tide.

========

RIP the originator, who manifested this universe of techno that we all live inside of. You changed the world, the way we hear things, the way we party. Thank you.

For someone like me, who’s lived in Amsterdam for over a decade, Amsterdam Dance Event has been an annual pilgrimage. This year was particularly interesting because it felt like I was dipping my toe back into the nightlife scene after a few years of feeling disconnected from it.

While this year I actually had more financial stability to potentially spend on more events, I knew I had to be more strategic with my time and energy. Sadly, that still didn’t save me from falling ill, even while keeping my party consumption at an all time low with a few beers here and there.

I attended four events which, for me, was a lot in comparison to the lean years when I was finishing up Uni. I was fortunate to score tickets to the Dutch National Ballet’s opening event of Swan Lake Remixed which I reviewed for Bachtrack. The other event is attended were all day parties, meaning they started in the early afternoon or evening, and finished by 11pm - enough time for me to bike home and still get a good 5 to 6 hours of decent sleep.

I anticipated this might be a rough ADE since my cold was starting to manifest a few weeks prior. At my age I am wary of my health. While I am a big believer and advocator for dance as a practice of healing, I’m not so sure how good it is to dance for hours on end then bike home in the rain.

There will be more thoughts on ADE to come when I’m feeling more myself but a few things I’ll share before I go and rest:

• It was a smart move to invest in a proper rain jacket and some waterproof sneakers. Even though I didn’t need it as much as other people who were partying well into the morning, having dry, warm socks was a game changer.

• The industry needs to bring back Club Kids, meaning, actual individuals whose profession is to come and make events visually interesting: drag queens, fashionistas, queer people with style. You bring them back by giving them free access to your events. Why? Because they add the vibe, they bring energy, they make a party interesting.

• I thought the online discourse around ADE was well balanced this year (at least on my feed). There was a lot of promotional information but a lot more content creators talking about ADE from their perspectives and more discussion around how challenging ADE is because of the weather. October is a very hit or miss time to come to Amsterdam. This year was particularly tough and I’m glad people were speaking on it.

• Dancing has changed and I need to accept that. It feels like a fever dream at this point but I remember going out and being so inspired by people expressing themselves with their bodies on the dance floor. The dance floor still exists and people are moving, but not with the same intensity or sense of abandon. People blame iPhones but I don’t actually think that’s the case. I think there has been a massive shift in the culture that has gotten complacent. The club is the new bar: on the dance floor you’ll see people chatting about their day, sharing pictures on their phones of their last vacation, making selfies with their friends. No one is getting lost in the music. Everyone is talking through the music. In fairness, I had some lovely conversations, some about the music and DJs but also about moving abroad, finding love, and missing friends.

• ADE is incredible for Amsterdam. Each time I biked to a new venue to attend one of the day parties I kept thinking how lucky I am to live in such a city that has such a love and respect for electronic music. I got to see corners of the city I don’t normally go to and I had more fun this year actually speaking to a few people in Dutch. If I’m in a financial position to do so I would consider buying a Pro Pass next year because it would be a more stress-free way to attend more events, maybe even include a night party here are there. But who knows - let’s get over this damn cold first.

It’s a fitting analogy to compare the world’s largest club festival to a marathon, particularly since the Amsterdam marathon just concluded this past weekend. The five-day conference and festival annually attracts more than 500,000 people to the city. Industry big-wigs attend keynotes and beef up contacts, young bloods attend music production workshops with elite DJs and producers, and ravers and clubbers alike party the night away. Inspiring, overwhelming, educational and a whole lot of fun, Amsterdam Dance Event is everything you want it to be and then some.

The pandemic hit ADE hard as it did with many creative institutions, but now in its 30th iteration, Amsterdam Dance Event appears stronger than ever.

Eleven years of living in this city and I’ve had my fair share of ADE moments. I can still remember my first party seeing Black Coffee at Radion. New to Amsterdam’s club cultural scene, I was quite touched when the security guard pulled out my inhaler from my bag and said, “be careful inside because it’s quite hot and might be hard to breathe. If you need a break just find the wellness people and they can direct you to the rest area.” Never had I received that kind of care in parties in North America, where security was ready to confiscate anything that seemed remotely out of the ordinary.

With an event so big, ADE through the years often left me feeling exhausted and worn out. It’s hard to know where to place your focus when there are just so many things that beg for your attention. It’s a challenge building an itinerary where everything requires you to travel across the city while also being on your feet all night dancing. At ADE, sleep is optional.

My clubbing days or certainly not over but they are more curated. As much as the scene is divided on Festival vs. Club/Rave culture and the rise of techno concerts, as a self-proclaimed boomer raver I’m very happy to be able to attend festivals that end before midnight. As more producers and professional DJs are themselves getting up there in age, I think the industry is embracing the financial potential in giving club experiences that allow people to still have a 9-to-5 lifestyle.

Ironically, some of the people who would enjoy and benefit from the community aspect of ADE often have to forfeit the event. ADE tends to fall on the same week most University students have their end of semester exams. Moreover, many parties are overpriced and sold out by late summer, early fall. Still, the exclusivity of the scene also makes for creative opportunities to party with many ADE events throughout the city being free. Rain or shine (and there’s usually plenty of rain), ADE is a nice way to (un)officially end festival season before the long winter months take hold.

The past few years have been quite lean for me while I was in Uni. Having started a part time job has allowed me the financially means to plan a bit more ahead and buy a few tickets in advance.

I’m both excited and apprehensive. Lately, I’ve been feeling under the weather and I can’t seem to shake it. Perhaps my body is winding down to conserve its energy for the days ahead.

It feels good knowing that I don’t need to do it all. My hope is to be intentional and stay present, to connect and recommit myself to a sense of joy that has been lost over the years. I am hoping for some good storytelling and musical moments with some thought behind it.

I want to be surprised.

Recently, my livesafterdark instagram feed was flooded with images of the last moments of Amnesia’s closing party that happened just a few days ago. On October 10th, in celebration of the club’s 50th Anniversary, Amnesia curated an epic lineup in which DJs Joseph Capriati and Josh Baker closed out their set with Armand Van Helden’s ‘I Want Your Soul’, a seminal house track released almost 20 years ago.

The moving images of the party depicts a packed club, drenched in light, hands waving in the air, the crowd singing together at the top of their lungs: “I want your oh, I want your soul / Do you want it right now? / Oh I can’t let go.” Scrolling in bed, watching this crowd go mental filled me with excitement, nostalgia, and something akin to deep pride knowing that there are people out there in the world who are not afraid to let loose and party. The party slogan for the day and night event was “This is What Freedom Feels Like”, and the choice of Van Helden’s track as the final moment of euphoric hedonism was party perfection.

It’s important to note that I have never been to Amnesia or Ibiza. As a small-town boy who grew up in the suburbs of Montreal, I never even dreamt that I would ever make it this far to call Amsterdam my home. In my early raving days in Toronto, Ibiza seemed like a mysterious, magical island completely out of reach.

When I was wearing colourful clothes and big pants, young Europeans were heading to Ibiza and engaging with electronic music in a completely different context and background. One could argue that despite House and Techno being birthed in North America, today, Europe continues a strong love-affair with dance music.

In a world that seems to be getting bleaker by the minute, it feels almost vital to have moments of joy like what I saw from these Amnesia closing clips. As someone who has not prioritized techno tourism, nor has been able to do so financially, I’m actually quite happy that many people who attended this party captured the precise moment the club went off. The viral moment seems to be a good counter argument for much of the clickbait discourse around phone policies and lack of dancing in today’s club scene.

The clips show a crowd full of individuals both with and without phones, bouncing up and down, uninhibited and unbothered. No one appears remotely self-conscious or annoyed by bumping into strangers, and the they all seem genuinely happy to dance together, sometimes face to face, often ignoring the DJs in favour of being lost together inside of the music.

In a sea of images of “raves” circulating our feeds that are not raves at all but DJ concerts where the “audience” simply faces the DJ, the videos circulating of the Amnesia closing party feels transgressive and a reminder that it’s always been the dance floor that makes the party and not the DJ.

Still, I remain critical. As someone who has arguably aged out of clubbing I often wonder how accepted I would feel in these spaces despite the fact many headlining DJs themselves are in their late 40s and 50s. The pseudo anthropologist in me fused with FOMO wonders who are the type of people who are privileged enough to make it to Ibiza and if queerness is welcomed and celebrated. Again, these are questions I have without ever having been to Ibiza myself.

Will I ever go? I don’t know. I hope so. If not now, when, but if so, with who?

What does it say about the culture when a predominantly techno DJ like Capriati closes an important set with a classic house track by a guy from Boston? Certainly, there are iconic and canonical techno tracks dipped in nostalgia to end a club set with. For me it is clear: at the end of the day, people want to hear vocals they know, they want to be able to smile, sing and dance together. Some of my favourite moments on any dance floor are singing out loud with strangers. It’s probably why this moment at Amnesia touches me so much.

Van Helden (56) is a DJ and producer whose track record speaks for itself. The video for ‘I Want Your Soul’ (2007) depicts a hot summer day in NYC reminiscent of Spike Lee’s Do The Right Thing. A man purchases a boombox that transports him back to 1992 at the beginning of the electronic music movement. The video is a “day-in-the life” of city life in America. The community is made up of people of colour, dancing together.

How far the video seems from the scene of Europeans dancing at Amnesia’s closing. But maybe that’s the message: to never forget where this music came from, to remember this music, at its heart, is a rebellious act of joy for those who exist in the margins.

I’ve been loving this warm fall weather but there’s a part of me that gets slightly anxious thinking about the upcoming winter months. I have no hard scientific proof but I feel like this warm weather could also be a warning for an unusually prolonged dark and rainy winter to come.

Do you feel like meandering with me today?.. Like a tiny boat traversing an Amsterdam canal on a lazy Sunday, come hang out with my thoughts.

In simpler times I feel like I had more instances to meander aimlessly with friends.

Once upon a time I lived in Toronto, a Toronto where artists still owned the streets and could afford an apartment in Little Italy or by St. Lawrence Market. A city so vast and yet I had time to visit every café and sit and write, I knew which bookstores had decent bathrooms, where to catch the latest foreign film with complicated stories about the sexual lives of adults and where I might see a a bare ass or breast, the flash of a penis. We could spend hours wandering the streets, finding the perfect spot to grab a coffee and…

well, basically do nothing and just talk shit.

Do people still talk shit? Or am I too much of an adult for that? I used to think heteronormativity with its pre-ordained structure of marriage and children stripped away the joys of coffee dates of meandering conversations, replaced with school pick ups, ballet lessons, soccer practices and birthday parties. But here I am, a childless adult with similar pressures and anxieties to perform, be productive and make money that small moments of deep talk also elude me.

Thankfully this Substack allows me to speak into the void, hoping bits of this prose reaches people longing to press the pause button from time to time.

I miss you friend, come breathe and shoot the shit with me.

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The universe must have heard me bitching about not going out anymore because last week I found myself out with some friends on two separate occasions. One was an after work RnB party on Friday. The theme was Aaliyah and the party is literally called After Werq. Then on Saturday I went to an early evening Disco party which started at 6pm and ended at 11pm.

While the two events seemingly catered to two different crowds and genres, they shared a common thread. After Werq hit all the right vibes. The DJs curated a setlist of crowd-pleasers and hidden gems, from Hip hop, to Motown, RnB and funk. It felt a lot like the Montreal club scene from back in the day and that really put me in a good mood. It’s such a vibe singing Chaka Khan, Soul II Soul, Toni Braxton and New Edition with strangers. You know people were feeling it when they started doing the electric slide.

A little peckish from dancing, my partner and I left the spot and bought some sweet potato fries and mozzarella sticks around the corner from the venue. It was fun way to wind down, eating outside on a bench, realizing that everyone around us were probably just starting their night out.

Comparatively, the Disco party the following evening was an unexpected joy. I was a bit nervous when I entered the club with my friends, wondering how many people would show up at a dance party at 7:30pm. I shouldn’t have been worried because as we headed down to the basement where the dance floor was, we immediately were greeted with a full crowd already enjoying the disco music.

Sure, most of this music, both Hip hop and disco, are often relegated to house parties, long car trips or even weddings, but there’s something special when you get to hear it through big speakers on a dance floor, with people who really appreciate the music and enjoy dancing.

And yes the crowd was older at the disco but there were also quite a few young people who were in attendance as well. Looking across the dance floor I tried to imagine what it must have been like for some of these people in their youth, hearing and dancing to this music for the first time. What a privilege it is to see them all moving to the same music after all these years.

“Did you find it fun,” a friend of mine asked, “coming to a disco party instead of a techno club?”

“Of course,” I said enthusiastically. “I don’t believe you can really like techno music without a healthy appreciation for disco.”

Where do you think all this dance floor music originated from? Jazz clubs, Rhythm and blues, Hip hop, Disco, House… all of it a way to express oneself, to escape the hardships and structures of society, to connect with one another through dance.

There’s something really beautiful watching a grown, elderly man with slick hair and a fat belly, dancing with his wife with hands in the air to Diana Ross singing, ‘I’m Coming Out.’ That song resonates with him in ways that I won’t ever fully comprehend.

Both parties reminded me that, regardless of age, dancing is our god-given right. And I hope I will continue to dance as long as I have it in me.

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I don’t feel like writing today. The last week or so I’ve been sick with a cold. One of those annoying ones that just make you feel a little limp with that itch in the back of your throat and just enough chest congestion to know that you’re not breathing right. I’ve set a timer for myself to write thirty minutes and then just call it a day.

I haven’t been sleeping very well which hasn’t helped. I’ve been indulging in my vices too much, spending hours on my phone, scrolling for things that I know are just making things worse. Like eating a smorgasbord of junk food, it can’t be good watching fifteen second clips of Naomi Campbell strutting down a 90s catwalk, thirst traps of shirtless guys dancing on a yacht only to be disappointed to find out it’s just AI, Ed Sheeran crying over being canceled, how to cook the best steak with fresh herbs in the middle of the Alps using a small axe and watching the best bits of comedians talking shit on their respective podcasts. Surely, it can’t be good for a brain to try and process so many things so rapidly. I try to convince myself that this is what adulting looks like but to be honest there’s something about the whole mess of social media that just feels like a version of rock-bottom to me. I need to get out of the algorithm and touch grass.

I started this Substack to remind me that I want to be a writer, that I am a writer, and that the way I process the world, what I see, how I behave, makes a certain kind of sense when I see it typed out. It’s chliché but writing is cathartic. It’s where I hear myself think.

I’m also a lazy fuck and a perfectionist. I don’t spend enough time on my craft, I hate sitting down and showing up, I lack discipline, the kind it takes to make a real go at becoming a novelist. University helped to bring a stronger writing practice into my life. This Substack is an attempt to keep that practice going. But like going to the gym and training my muscles, there are moments where I really don’t feel like showing up for myself.

Being a ballet a dancer (once upon a time) does help tremendously with discipline because no one gives a shit how you feel if that makes any sense. You don’t become a star athlete or Olympian by taking days off when things don’t feel right. That’s also why the Substack exists, to try and get me to commit to the page, at least once a week, even when I don’t feel like I have anything to say or when I feel under the weather like I’ve been these past ten days. I call myself lazy because I want the rewards of having written without putting in the work. Perfectionism is the perfect smoke screen. Why try when it’s going to be shit anyway? Why bother trying to write something or create content, when the world is moving so fast and anyway someone has already taken your idea and made an instagram story about it two days ago.

Today would have been my sister’s 54 birthday. I wonder if she were here, alive, and healthy, what would she be doing now. Her boys, both grown, are in the middle of becoming - laying foundations that will hopefully serve them and form the way they think and move through the world in years to come. If she were alive and healthy maybe most likely she would still be working, doing all the mundane shit that we all have to do, but I’d like to think of her traveling, visiting her sons in San Francisco or Philly which is where they are now, a traveling somewhere nice with her husband.

In reality we never talked a lot, maybe a few times a month just to check in. It was the sound of her voice that grounded me. I was such a nuisance, always bothering her with my silly concerns. I secretly hoped that she would commiserate with me, take my side. But mostly, in her loving older-sister kind of way, she would always bring me back to reality with a healthy dose of pragmatism. If I wasn’t complaining about a new ailment or life-problem I was secretly trying to make her laugh. If her job as an older sister was to keep me from spiralling into an emotional puddle, I felt like it was my duty to bring a bit of silliness into her life.

No, I will not be posting anything on socials about my sister today. I mean this Substack is more than enough I think. I hate how little and insignificant it all feels. It overwhelms me, this shared humanity that we’ve all lost someone, or will lose someone that has meant so much personally, but that no one will ever know or care to know about. It’s the cruel paradox of this world that you can lose something so precious while at the same time watch everyone go about their day like nothing happened and mortality is a myth.

This weekend I have plans to go out dancing and that weighs heavy on my heart. But what are you gonna do, you gotta keep living right?

Sometimes when I’m doom scrolling my favourite thing to watch are friends reuniting after not seeing each other, a daughter surprising her family for Christmas after living in Australia two years, a girlfriend surprising her long-distance boyfriend at his graduation.

I watch these videos in bed, in the dark, and let the tears stream down my cheeks because I cannot wait to see you.

But not yet, it seems. Not yet.

Hey there, in case you didn’t know, Lives After Dark is a weekly Substack where I talk about stuff often connected with club culture and sometimes the different facets of what a life looks like during and after tough times. Also I write some fiction. Yes this is a passion project and a labour of love, but if you feel like contributing by becoming a paid subscriber that would be very nice indeed. I believe it comes out to €5 a month so that’s a pretty good deal I think.

Early this morning as I was scrolling socials I came across a post about a person who DMed the promoters for a refund because they didn’t like the music at an after hours.

The organizers weren’t upset but instead posed a question, stating “not everyone is going to like every rave. Taste is taste… but how much do you research before buying a ticket?”

It made me think about all the tastemakers and gatekeepers of the so-called underground scene, and the kinds of club culture status one person can attain depending on the Djs one likes or the clubs you frequent.

Years ago, probably a year after I moved to Amsterdam, a DJ acquaintance of mine hit me up to see if he could crash at my place during Amsterdam Dance Event. He was lucky to enough to secure a gig during the conference and I was happy that I could host him. I remember vividly at one point during ADE I met up with him after one of the day workshops where he ran into a friend from Toronto. His friend asked us if we were going to see Hernan Cattaneo that night and I said we had tickets to see Solomun. The look of disgust on his friend’s face made me feel so embarrassed that I even mentioned Solomun’s name. What’s worse, I could sense that my house guest was just as embarrassed by this guy’s reaction.

That small interaction made me shrink into my clothes and through me into a dramatic inner turmoil. Was I not supposed to like Solomun if I wanted to be taken seriously as a purveyor of electronic music? What did liking Solomun say about me?

We did end up going to Solomun and I had a very enjoyable night. Over ten years later, I’m more inclined to buy tickets to other DJs, more local when possible. But I’ve never been much of a snob when it comes to electronic music. Recently, I also saw on socials a rather famous author (I can’t remember which and I’d rather not misquote someone) advocating for reading all different types of books. Books are not only meant to educate but they’re written to entertain, to open up different worlds. In essence, fuck what people say and read what you like. I have a similar sentiment toward underground club music which feels like both a gift and a curse. I feel it’s important to expose yourself to a variety of music and club scenes if you’re someone who takes a real interest in club culture. Sure, not everything is going to be your cup of tea, but who am I to yuck someone’s yum?

And who says that I can’t like or participate in different facets of the culture? Is it actually ok to be someone who is curious about Burning Man but dreams of getting into Panorama Bar, likes the idea of experiencing Tomorrowland at least once in my life while still wanting to go to intimate chic clubs in Paris or dank warehouses in Montreal? Is it ok to appreciate multitudes or more important to appear niche to be taken seriously?

We collect DJs like Pokemon cards. A friend attended Mutek and said he had the best time at a few parties. “Do you know Ben UFO?” He asked. I had to secretly fight the urge to be defensive and simply said, “yes,” even though I what I really wanted to say was “Duh, of course I know who Ben UFO is! I may not go clubbing as much as I used to but I still know DJs!”

I really don’t go clubbing much anymore and that is a concern of mine. I don’t know why exactly but it feels like a defeat somehow. It’s also perfectly fine to outgrow club culture, people do it all the time and so many young people (if the internet is to be believed) find it cringe for “old” people to be out clubbing anyway. I just don’t like the idea of a society that subconsciously dictates when I’m too old to go out dancing. I belong to the school of Bjork. I want to be raving until I’m 90 (or at least feel I have the option to do that).

Coming back to the initial rant of this post, I do believe that doing research is an important aspect of being perceived as someone who takes electronic music seriously. I genuinely enjoy when people can talk about their club nights out with a somewhat critical eye and ear and I’m slightly miffed when I ask someone about their night and who was playing and they have no idea. I’m an old school raver and I still strongly believe that a night out is primarily about the music. If you can’t tell me the name of a genre or at least a description of the type of vibe a DJ was creating I just automatically think you went to Croatia for some pics that look good on instagram. Again, to each their own and I don’t want to yuck anyone’s yum but I probably won’t take you seriously when it comes to clubbing advice.

Next month I have a few tickets for ADE and for the first time in a long time I’ll be attending with some people who seem to genuinely like electronic music. These are not close friends yet but certainly friends in the making and I’m excited to take in some of the Amsterdam nightlife with a few people I can connect with on the dance floor.

I have undoubtedly passed the age most people consider clubbing as part of their lifestyle. With the little amount of clubbing I’ve done in the last few months I’m not even sure I can even call myself a clubber anymore. I’m still looking for people to match my vibe, people who are responsible, who hold steady jobs, who party on occasion, who know when it’s appropriate to be messy, who see the dance floor as a place of connection and healing, who know how to express themselves through movement, who see nightlife as an interactive experience and not just a photo op.

If you’re out there and live in Amsterdam, hit me up. I know who Ben UFO but there’s plenty more I’d love to discover.

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Last week, a co-worker of mine asked me what I meant when I told him that lately I’ve been feeling the “back-to-school’ vibes in the air. He thought it was interesting because he was in fact going back to school after a hiatus for another degree (which quickly prompted my monkey brain to wonder, should I be doing another degree?), but I was merely referring to how the relaxed summer atmosphere was slowly changing like the weather, and that people’s energy seemed to be more focused and less relaxed.

It’s seems the most natural thing to me to default to the school calendar as the unofficial start to a “new year”. Isn’t that how everyone sees their calendar in western civilization? The year begins in September when students go back to school and the people go back to work. We all push ourselves till December holiday for a little reprieve or added family trauma. Then we head into the liminal space that is February where people don’t know what the fuck to do with themselves or pretend to love Vaentine’s Day and post about it on all our socials. Spring arrives when the women of Amsterdam start biking in skirts again (rokjes dag, it’s a thing, look it up), and before you know it it’s Summer again and people are frantically curating their holidays to produce the best images on instagram.

This September, I feel a bit manic. The last few years I’ve spent in classrooms and lectures, writing papers in libraries and trying to make friends. September with all the back-to-school feels without actually returning to school feels jarring and messy.

Somehow I’ve managed to keep this Substack going just enough to make me feel like an actual writer, but finding the time to write anything else feels laborious and daunting. How do I make time to write in what feels like an already busy schedule? Theoretically I understand that to start anything requires breaking things down into smaller and smaller chunks. But even the chunks seem to float around in my brain like pixie dust beyond my grasp.

Or it’s the pressure of filling those precious days off (sometimes not even full days off, but half-days, hours even) with everything artistic, creative or relaxing. Yeah a day off! I should write a ten page short story, read three chapters in my book, take myself out on a walk, try that recipe I saved social media, have a drink with friends and do a Yin yoga class. But before that should I do the dishes or laundry first..?

I worry that I’ve filled my days with so many things to do, that I haven’t actually invested any time to just be.

Recently I told a friend over the phone that sometimes I think I have a hard time allowing myself to be happy, to allow myself the gift of slowing down without guilt or shame. In a world that often rewards over productivity, it’s hard for me to know when to put on the breaks…

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I’ve always been somewhat of a multi-hyphenate personality. The passion to DJ, to write, my past life as a dancer and performer, my skills as a dance teacher, have always kept me curious and energized.

But deep down I also hoped that at some point all of those things that I love doing would somehow come together into one defining career or vocation, and that all these different identities would finally become one. Finally, I wouldn’t have to be Mark, a writer who also teaches Zumba and DJs on occasion and likes to party. One day, there would be this one job that would encompass all the things I like, and all my passions would align and I could finally just be me.

But at this stage in the game of life, I’m not so sure all my messy identities are ever going to come together. Maybe this is just it: a messy life with different identities and ways of being, multiple jobs on the go, different plates spinning in the air threatening to crash down at any moment. Maybe life is just a series of different things on a to-do lists pulling and prodding at me at different times, demanding equal attention when it’s impossible.

My solution to this is a reframe.What if I could look at myself differently than just a messy creative who can’t seem to focus enough to get his shit together? Instead of making myself feel bad for having different passions on the go I wondered what it could be like if I could look at my life as a quilt. A beautifully colourful blanket with different parts of me woven together, existing alongside one another, complementing each other.

It’s early days yet and I don’t know if this new narrative will hold. I hope it will give me enough grace to breathe through the quiet moments that I’m always rushing to fill or enough space to feel grateful for all the avenues of creativity that keep me curious and give my life meaning.

Life is messy and I don’t think it ever comes together the way we think it should. I just hope I have enough thread to keep all the bits of me together.

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Last week I was talking with a colleague at work about the summer and Pride and what kind of parties he’s been going to lately (namely after hour loft parties that go on for days was his answer.)

“I never see you out.” He said looking at me.

I told him that I did but even when I mentioned the clubs that I tend to frequent I realized it had been months since I’d been to any of these venues.

This has not been much of a dancing summer I’m afraid and if I’m being completely honest with myself I’m unsure if I actually miss it. Clubbing has somehow lost a bit of its lustre. Everything is over priced and too loud and too late at night. I want to give myself the space to outgrow things with grace. However, when you start a Substack about nightlife and club culture, it' starts to feel a bit disingenuous when there are no boots on the ground.

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Luckily, I still have so much dancing that permeates my life outside of dark dance floors. As a freelance dance fitness instructor by day, I still get to express myself through my body, rearrange my molecules and shake off a healthy dose of negativity replaced by dopamine and serotonin.

The downside is that most of the time on my days off from teaching, the last thing my body wants to do is go out dancing. Dancing for my own pleasure often takes a back seat these days.

Sometimes I really do think I should just bow out and stop going out altogether. But as an OG clubbed, hippie-raver, there’s a part of me that feels like it’s my duty to show up, take up space in dark rooms and be the light that lets people know that I have a right to be here, I belong here, no one is ever too old to dance…

As much as social media would like us to believe that people have stopped dancing (and yes, there is documented data that backs that up), people are still dancing at the parties and festivals I’ve been to in Amsterdam. It warms my heart to see swaying bodies, arms in the air, people smiling lost in the music.

But what I don’t see so much, and I haven’t seen or felt for some time is a sense of openness on the dance floor. I think there is a dance floor culture that is missing or had indeed shifted to something more individualistic or exclusive. People don’t dance to be in communion anymore. They dance to be seen, to strengthen an already existing friend group, to fulfill a performative function that signals an underground social standing.

We have lost a sense of intimacy with strangers. We’ve lost the knowledge and the ability to mingle and merge into other people’s spaces with respect and love. There is a silent dialogue through dance that is missing. And I think it’s up to us OGs to bring it back. Which probably means showing up on the dance floor at 3am from time to time.

In my youth, people used to come up to me,

Strangers,

Smiling with big black saucers for eyes and say,

“Hey, I like your dancing!”

We would smile and hug

So intense and sweaty were those hugs

And I would say, “thank you!” and then they’d be gone.

And a moment like that could keep me dancing for another two hours

Because I felt seen, appreciated, witnessed

It’s rare,

But sometimes I’ll still see someone on the dance floor with great energy

and pure intentions

And our movements might sync up

Or I’ll marvel at the way s/he expresses the music through their body

(I don’t want to scare anyone. Nowadays it can some off creepy or cringey but I try not to care.)

Sometimes, I’ll see this beautiful human angel on the dance floor and I will say,

“Hey, I like your dancing.” And that is enough.

Earlier this summer, I said that to a guy and he was so touched.

He said, “next time we should dance together!”

I can’t remember his face. But if I’m lucky, I’ll run into him again on another dance floor.

Let me clear, this is no way a humble brag that I was able to read some books over the summer. As someone who holds a BA in Literature and Society from the Vrije University in Amsterdam, one would assume I am devouring books on the daily. I am most certainly not. In my household, my husband puts me to shame, often reading multiple books at once, many of them hefty in academic jargon that it would take me hours or weeks to fully grasp certain paragraphs.

It actually takes me many days slowly reading each page before I attain any kind of flow. This is why I like the beach so much. I find laying on a beach gives my brain enough relaxation and decompression to actually focus on something like a book. The beach also gives me permission to just be inside of the pages without a sense of guilt or that I need to be doing something else. At the beach, I’m able to surrender myself and my imagination to the pages. I also get distracted easily and I have to reread many passages, especially when they are descriptive, in order understand what is going on.

As you can see from the photo, my summer reads thus far are kind of all over the place. I have no discerning taste for what I read. I’m like Goldilocks, trying to find what fits my mood, my schedule, my brain capacity, at the moment I am reading it. Generally speaking, if I can’t seem to get past the first five pages (or the first chapter) I will put the book down. If the chapters are too long I will stop and maybe continue at a later date or never return to it again.

Somehow, these books (plus a few others) hit the sweet spot and made the cut.

As an aspiring writer, a lot of the time when I read I’m also just genuinely impressed that these authors have been published. Sometimes, I’m also tinged with jealousy.

Looking at the selection of books I’m also struck that there is an imbalance between the genders. I’ll have to be mindful of that for my future reads. My partner once spent a period reading only female authors and I found that really commendable. Shannon Chakraborty’s book The Adventures of Amina Al-Sirafi was a very satisfying page turner. An adventure tale set throughout Africa with some magic sprinkled in, it gave a refreshing twist to the pirate genre with the protagonist being a woman captain. There was some nice queer-coded moments in there as well. It’s part of a series with the second book just recently published so I’m excited to dive back into that world, maybe in the winter months when I’m longing for some sunny adventures.

Dinniman’s Dungeon Crawler Carl was also a fun romp set in a dystopian future where Earth has collapsed and has become a part of a televised Galactic to-the-death reality show/video game for Aliens. For me, it was giving Hunger Games for the hungry gamer crowd. Some very witty dialogue that did make me chuckle out loud (and that’s hard to do). Dinniman has created a very distinct and recognizable voice in Carl. However, sometimes I did feel like I was in a long conversation with someone who was mansplaining an entire video game run to me. But it’s not over! The book ends with a set up for more books to come. I’ll also probably take some time before revisiting this world.

I took a hard left from the entertainment literature to read Stein’s Paris France. The book was published just as the Nazi’s took over France during the Second World War so the book has an ominous undercurrent while Stein describes Paris and Parisian people, their culture and sensibilities. Stein is very particular in how the uses words and syntax which made the text both reach and complex. I found myself reading passages over and over to capture its meaning. The writing lingers in a liminal space between prose and poetry and memoir. Her use of repetition in words and phrases and her cadence seems like the precursor to what the beatniks were doing in America. Fascinating read and a lovely ode to Paris in the midst of a tumultuous world at war - something that feels very present today.

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I don’t know Ben Lerner’s works and I feel like as a literature scholar I should. Transcription falls into this new category of works where Covid and the pandemic makes an appearance. I imagine most books that take place present-day will be addressing this in their works in some sort of fashion (Moore and Szalay also write about Covid in their respective works of fiction). I read this book for a book club I will be attending later in September and I am very glad that I did. Much like Stein, Lerner has a very particular way of expressing ideas and feelings through images and language. I was impressed with the kind of mood he was able to sustain and whilst writing through shifting character perspectives. The book has a good way of making the reader feel slighting discombobulated and curious at the same time. There’s a lot that can be unpacked and discussed here: familial relations, false memories, plagiarism in Academia, masculinity. I’m looking forward to discussing it in book club.

Probably the most annoying read for me this summer was Moore’s Not Good Enough. A debut novel about a gay protagonist who attempts to pick up the pieces of his life after a sudden break with a boyfriend of nine-years, it’s a gay novel that’s just good enough to be published and something I wish I had written. Out of all the books this one sort of checked the beach-read box. There was a kind of airy, rom-com vibe to it, a book that felt easy to slip back into without any sort of heavy investment. If I’m being completely honest, I felt like the characters were all slightly off-putting and made me confront a lot of my own internal homophobia, in that the story reminds me so much of a messy youth that I am glad I’m not a part of anymore. Drinking and being in the throes of chaos is a being plot device here and the fact that the protagonist was prominently using Facebook as a millennial sort of took me out of the fantasy. But that could just be me - are millennials really using Facebook that much? What gave the book some gravitas was the ending which didn’t wrap everything up in a bow as I suspected it would. It was a serviceable book and Moore will certainly crank out more of these in the next few years. I wish I had written, though I really can’t stand these characters. I need a minute with myself to process why these characters irritated me so much. Perhaps it’s just too close to home (or a particularly time in my life that feels so far away at the moment). If you’re gay, you’ll understand when I say that this book is drama.

I was very curious to read Szalay’s Flesh because it was the winner of last year’s Booker Prize and during my BA I had a class about Publishing where we discussed a lot of about the industry, how it works, and what the literary world looks for in an Award-winning piece of writing. Flesh was the quickest read I had all summer, I spent a weekend reading it from start to finish, which shocked me because I really don’t read like that. I just love a book that can hold you captive in the first few sentences and then you’re just in it till the end. There is a simplicity to the book which is so hard to cultivate. Szalazy is not fussy in his writing and yet who knows the exact words and phrases to use to build a world in the reader’s imagination. This is a character study of one man’s life and the subtle and profound turns it takes just from choices that are both within and without his control. Szalay’s book asks us, does the flesh truly obey the mind? Are we really in control of our actions, our behaviours? I was very impressed by this book. It’s going to sit with me for a bit, which is a testament to the writing. I really hope they don’t fuck it up by turning this into a movie or a limited series for streamers, but why do I already feel like some dip-shit is already pitching it or workshopping it somewhere? Which goes back to my question about the Booker Prize: do books that win awards need to show potential for adaptation to the screen?

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Last weekend bloomed another heatwave. By the time he made it to Houthavens the sun was already making its descent. The throngs of pretty bodies clustered along the wharf like lazy sea lions huddled together to get the last bit of golden rays.

Fires everywhere big and small. We all feel how the Earth is shifting, how our world has altered. And yet in this tiny country we still bask in the warmth of a good summer. Underneath our delusion simmers the knowledge that the longer days of heat that we enjoy to tan our bodies means migration, environmental changes, loss of life.

Two things can be true: we are grateful and guarded.

(Sadly and thankfully the hot streaked has ended, at least for now. A forecast of rain for the next two weeks is the reprieve the brittle grass and dry soil need. This long stretch of grey marks the end of a summer and a return to structure and seriousness.)

He questions everything and for the first time in a long while he allows himself the luxury to sit with them. Unfixable, unknowing, questions as gifts, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped in riddle.

For instance, are friends really that important?

He’s observing all the people along the wharf and on the dock, a British Mom taking her kids out onto the water on a SUP as the Dad looks on from the dock, three strapping men taking turns diving, a crew of older Dutchmen continually drinking beers as they blare hard techno from a portable speaker, a group of girls lying on a patchwork of beach towels, sharing chips and hummus and their plans for next summer…

He’s grappled with this for most of his life. A desire to belong to a community, to some place, creating a solid sense of identity. This longing now feels ancestral, an heirloom passed down from generations, from a lineage of people who were colonized over and over, struggling to find a place to belong.

There was a time where friends seemed vital. It gave him energy to be deep in conversation with someone or to be a warm body in a group. The simple act of being in close proximity to people, to share the same air, gave him energy and inspiration. Sadly, he’s become more wary of who he spends his time with, finding conversations to hold a weightiness that he can’t always hold up. Why can’t he just listen to people and let it go?

Does the need for friendship change with age? More questions that remain unanswered.

***

So when is the right moment to bring up your dead sister?

Meeting a new acquaintance over dinner the subject of family inevitably came up. “How many siblings do you have?”

“I have three sisters. An older one and two younger ones.”

But he never told him about his older sister who died. And why should he? Is it necessary to share this bit of information every time he meets a new person? He may never see this person again. Why put that in his head, leave him with that image of him? After all, he’s more than just a lost loved one.

But she’s there in the dark. Always with him. She colours his joy and deepens his sorrows. She doesn’t speak to him like he wishes she would, like they do in the movies sometimes, like a ghost.

But he sees her in his mannerisms, in the way he carries myself, the way he approaches certain people and situations. He has absorbed her somehow. Sometimes, when he laughs it feels foreign. Not forced or performative but somewhat unfamiliar. Can someone’s laugh change over time?

Staring out at the dock, he marvels at the glistening bodies clamouring for the last rays of light, the sunset glow reflecting off golden brown skin. He keeps to the shade, the summer air still warm in the dark like a hug from an old friend.

There’s a shadow in him that is her, a sense of her that never seems to leave him. Mourning is not what people say it is. It’s so personal, so special and unique. In his heart he believes that there’s a gift in there somewhere but the mystery has yet to be unraveled.

They say time heals but maybe that’s bullshit.

He still grieves but he cries less.

Which is a relief.

I haven’t been dancing very much summer and that worries me.

The start of the summer felt promising. I went to see Gilles Peterson at Lofi for Rainbow Disco Club and I thought I was being both smart and strategic by buying a few tickets to some events in advance to take advantage of the early bird prices and to give me a few milestones to look forward to throughout the summer months.

Silly me for planning ahead. Though my sun/heat rash took less time to heal than I imagined, my cold/flu coincided with most of the events I had planned on attending. If I was smarter I would have put my tickets on ticket swap but I was just too tired and weak to bother. Money down the drain. Not too much but it adds up in the end. So much for trying to organize my club life.

While dancing has always been a passion of mine, as of late I have started to question how smart it is to monetize one’s passions. I was so young when ballet and musical theatre was my full-time job. I had youth on my side to give me enough extra energy to still go out on the weekends, even after a long run of shows. Although being a dance fitness instructor satisfies my dance cravings (and gives me a paycheque), I’m less inclined to go out dancing as a form of release, relaxation and self expression. And I don’t necessarily think that that’s a good thing.

As an OG Raver I still think that showing up to a club or party to dance is a vital part of club life. Clubs used to be a bastion for the queer community, a place for us to feel safe to explore and develop our physicality, to connect through moment. This wordless form of communication between friendly strangers has since petered out. The club is now a concert venue where groups of individuals sway self-consciously in close knit circles amongst their core group of friends. Those who don’t dance use the dance floor as a thorough fare, aimlessly walking in time to the rhythm in lieu of full bodied expression.

Of course I’m aware that this is a generalization.

There are many parties and festivals out there where dancing bodies are still visible and valuable. But in this society of late-stage capitalism I wonder if clubbing is nothing more than a bourgeois past time, an opportunity for those with disposable income to feel chic as opposed to making new connections and friendships.

Clearly, this is a person gripe of mine. I was never lucky in building a friendship group, something I have absorbed through American media that has left me feeling less than. This feeling of lack has been made worse by Dutch culture where friendships are not only important and a symbol of a healthy lifestyle, but are often formed in middle school. I have witnessed how powerful and loyal Dutch people really to their adolescent and sometimes college friendships. In truth, I both admire and envy it.

Perhaps I was a bit unlucky with my recent University stint. If people were going out dancing, it was rarely with me and for the most part people either didn't appreciate electronic music with the same fervour as I did or preferred drinking at smaller bars or venues over all night dance parties.

But maybe the tides have changed. At my part time job I’ve discovered that many of my colleagues actually like going out to events. While I’ve been sick binge-watching the entire second season of The Agency (have you seen it? It’s soooo gooood), many of them have spent the summer going to Porto for Primavera, boat parties in Croatia, Pride events, Dekmantel and Loveland and Whole. When I hear their stories and adventures, the mishaps and joys, I think of myself connected to them like a coral reef. I imagine their experiences as an extension of my own.

Recently someone texted me if I had any desire to go to Glitterbox at Amsterdam Dance Event. It was on my radar but with no one to go with I considered not going. Eleven years I have lived in this city and somehow it feels I may have encountered my people. Is this the beginning of a new chapter on the dance floor or the final party before the end of an era? Time will tell.

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I love a good party. Every summer, Pride is one of those events that can elevate and punctuate the season. For many queer people it is our favourite holiday, and for the straight-identifying population, especially in Amsterdam, it’s an opportunity to hop on a boat with several cases of beer and some big speakers with friends, and dabble in some glitter as a kind of hallowe’en for heteros if the theme were camp-meets-disco.

I’ve lived long enough to witness and participate in several Prides in different cities and countries. So much so that this year I ended up working instead of out on the streets celebrating. Last year, when I knew that Amsterdam Pride was also representing World Pride I had tried to get my two friends from Canada to consider coming for the occasion but to no avail. With no one to party with, the idea of Pride sort of lost a bit of its lustre. As it turned out I got a nasty flu and was also still recovering which made things doubly depressing.

It’s an embarrassment of riches to live in Amsterdam, the first place in the world to legalize same-sex marriage, but over the years you start to feel like once you’ve seen one canal boat parade you’ve seen them all.

In truth, it is an amazing sight, if you can actually see it. Finding a spot along the canal means showing up hours earlier and for a short immigrant like me, attempting see anything above the towering shoulders of very tall Dutch people takes its toll eventually.

These little petty annoyances are just that, petty.

I often worry that my criticism borders on cynicism but there’s a part of me that wants to balance out the performative joy I tend to see on social media. Everyone is everywhere, having a good time and doing the most. (I really need to take a break from Instagram and touch grass).

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Mark: Tell me the story of how Prik began?

Jelger: I started Prik in 2006 with Gerson. At the time we were a couple and then we eventually became business partners.

M: How did you meet?

J: Back then I was going to these queer underground parties. There was this space in the city centre above the Aldi and they had a party called Spellbound which happened once a month. That’s how we met. We’d also hang out with friends at some of the gay bars but they were never really my cup of tea. I always found them a bit too commercial. That’s when Gerson and I started thinking about opening our own bar.

We were both in our late twenties. Gerson was a buyer for HEMA and I was working in horeca while I was studying business management and photography so I had some experience working a bar.

M: Was it difficult to find the location for Prik?

J: A little bit. We always wanted to do something in the centre of Amsterdam because that’s where all the gays bar are, but at the same time we didn’t want to necessarily be on one of the well-known gay streets.

M: So, it was a choice to not to own a bar on Reguliersdwaarsstraat for instance?

J: There’s often a lot of bar-hopping when you’re on a street like Reguliers. We wanted to have a space where we could do whatever we wanted and create our own identity. Something unpretentious and where people could feel comfortable to be themselves. We also wanted it to feel playful and kind of flexible so people could sit during the day but also have dancing and music at night.

M: And now it’s been twenty years!

J: When we started we thought, let’s see what happens after five years. If we’re still having fun after that, we’ll go another five years. Time flies!

M: What do you think it takes to keep a business successful like Prik running in Amsterdam?

J: Well, it’s not easy. I think it takes constant work and attention. After Gerson decided to stop, there was a moment where I wondered, do I really want to keep doing this? It felt like things were starting to slip a bit because I wasn’t focused, and if the leader isn’t paying attention then neither is the team.

M: How did you turn that around?

J: Our manager Davide wanted to become part-owner. Being an owner is different from being a manager. You have more of an investment to the bar and the team. Davide’s also younger than me so he brings in a lot of fresh ideas and new energy. Maybe the clientele at the bar would have kept getting older as I get older but with Davide, there’s a younger crowd too. We have a diverse patrons here which is really nice.

M: Prik has been a landmark for the gay community for many years now. How do you think the community has changed over the years?

J: I still think the gay community is thriving. At one point I felt there was a lot more acceptance which meant gay people could frequent bars outside of the community more easily for instance. But lately I’ve also heard young people say that it’s becoming less tolerant so having places for queer people to feel safe are maybe becoming more important again. Of course, everyone can be whoever they want to be everywhere in Amsterdam, but I still think there could be a need for something more.

M: Like what, for instance?

J: I think it could be nice to have more queer cultural spaces in Amsterdam or spots for daytime activities. There’s quite a bit happening in gay nightlife but not so much during the day. I think that could be interesting.

I also think the nightlife model has changed where there are more parties as opposed to gay clubs. There’s Raum and Tilla Tec which, I think is stopping soon, though hopefully something else will open up afterwards. Otherside is also hosting queer events.

M: Is that a nice development to have more of a focus on parties?

J: On the one hand I think it’s nice, but I think at Prik we want to also focus on bringing back that local gay club feel where there’s always something going on every Friday, Saturday and Sunday. So, even if you went by yourself, you could start to build a relationship with the space and the people who frequent it.

I do believe there is a loneliness issue that can’t be solved by being on the apps. That’s why a neighbourhood bar like Prik is so valuable. It connects you with the community in a different or more meaningful way.

M: For people visiting Amsterdam for the first time, what are some of the queer spots you think they should check out after coming to Prik for a special cocktail?

J: I always say go to Club Church. There Thursday night is always full of self-expression where anything can happen depending on the people and the vibe. Spijker Bar is also good if you are into a bit of an older crowd, Raum is good for a real underground club vibe.

M: The outdoor street party that Prik hosts one of the highlights every Pride season. How did that come about?

J: Every year the bar would have an anniversary party which kept getting bigger and bigger. By our eight anniversary we were already getting warnings from the police and on the ninth anniversary we got shut down because there were too many people.

Then for our tenth anniversary we thought we can’t just have a party anymore, we have to do something bigger. Since the bar’s anniversary is just a few weeks before Pride, we decided to talk with the municipality and with their support we were able to close off the entire street and have a street party.

Amsterdam is hosting World Pride this year so the street party is going to double in size with two stages over two days.

M: What’s the best part about doing a two-day street party?

J: When it’s past midnight and knowing that everything went smoothly!

M: Twenty years on, are you able to sit back a bit and enjoy some of Prik’s success?

J: Yeah, I do enjoy the success of what Prik is, especially when people tell you how important the bar is for them and for their social life.

Having a co-owner who looks after a lot of the managing has helped create a more 9 to 5 structure for me. These days I don’t work behind the bar so much anymore. I can finish my day and go home and cook a nice dinner with my partner. I have time to read more.

People sometimes say they miss seeing me but that they still keep going which is nice. It feels good knowing that I don’t have to always be here to keep this place going, and that Prik doesn't revolve around me.

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Outside the venue by the parked bikes, he was frustrated that he’d made such a rookie mistake. He’d forgotten to take out from his bag a small round container that was packed with “in-an-emergency over-the-counter drugs”: paracetamol, advil and some anti-histamines in case, god-forbid, he had an allergic reaction to something he ate which sadly had been happening more frequently in the last few years.

There was no way the security at the venue would let him bring a container full of drugs into the club so he had to find a place to stash it outside. He thought of leaving it in his bike basket but that felt too risky. Someone might take it and the anti-histamines were not purchased in Amsterdam but were delivered from visitors passing through from Canada. Losing even a few of them would be significant.

Searching for a spot, he was reminded of years ago when he was staying at a friend’s studio apartment in Manhattan. She was a former dance colleague who retired and moved back to the States to study Art History. While he was visiting, she stayed with her boyfriend who was living in the Financial District. There’s a pink rock the size of my hand by the bushes outside the apartment, she said. I’ll just leave the keys there. It seemed crazy that anyone would do such a thing, but New York City is a crazy place and after finding the solitary key and feeling relieved to have found it, it made sense to him that in a city of millions of people, a random robber looking for a key under a rock in front of a specific apartment is highly unlikely.

He opted to leave the container on the ground by the outer wall of the building, close to his bike. Hidden in shadow, it seemed logical to him that no one would find it unless they knew where to look. His only hope was that he would leave the club before some drunk guy would use that particular corner to take a leak, but judging from the amount of parked bikes, it seemed like a slow night.

He gave himself a strict exit time of roughly 2am, which he lovingly refers to as Toronto time. Back in the day when he was partying in Toronto, most bars, including some clubs, would close at two in the morning. By 1:50 someone would grab the mic and you would hear over the speakers, first call for last call. At 1:55 again the voice would return, last call at the bar. By 2am the music was turned off, lights turned on and everyone scurried off, looking ghoulish in the harsh light. There were occasions when the lights would go on and the person you were flirting with all night looked nothing like he did, filtered through smoke and coloured lights. Sometimes ac club would be so dark, the only way you could see how someone looked was to hope he’d ask for a light for his cigarette and then you could shove a lighter close to his face for a more accurate look. Back then, people smoked in clubs.

Now the security takes your phone and covers the lens with a sticker. It’s more of a deterrent than anything. As he got to the dance floor, he watched a guy with a bunch of his friends head toward the DJs, phone in hand. Two DJs were playing a back-to-back set to the small crowd that was slowing starting to grow. He watched, as the guy held up his phone to try and videotape the DJs but then remembered that his phone had a sticker and chuckled lightly to himself, putting his phone back in his pocket.

He wondered what kind of pictures he could get away with in a venue that actively deters it. It’s a noble effort from parties and venues to keep phones off the dance floor. Queer spaces are sacred and for many a place of safety and self discovery. Even so, he missed capturing the vibe of a space with his phone, the silhouettes of bodies in motion, the strobing of lights inside a liminal space.

It was early and people were walking in and out of the room, unsure if whether the join the few people dancing or opt for another drink at the bar. Earlier that day, he threw out his back so even he was unsure of what his next would should be: keep dancing or go home?

Luckily, the crowd picked up just before 1am, a standard peak hour for a “regular”night out. The dance floor had the advantage of feeling large but being quite intimate. Even a party of only a hundred or so people already made the space feel full. As more people started to stream in he noticed a cluster who were busying themselves on the dance floor with a phone flashlight on, searching for something on the ground. Lost drugs? Keys? A contact lens? He hoped they would find what they were looking for.

Despite his tired legs and bad back, he felt buoyed by the music, a cross section of 90’s nostalgia with sexy, grimy bass lines. Two men took up space in front of him, both shirtless, wearing jeans. The sight of them and the rancid smell of poppers and body odour took him back yet again to Toronto, to his youth, where the combinations of those two scents were so prevalent.

Even though he didn’t stay long - couldn’t stay long: he had work the next day - he enjoyed what he was seeing and hearing. He felt fairly certain that some good mischief would he happening by 4am. The music was all the right amounts of sexy. Not overt or performative.

He stuck to his schedule and left before the night took off and got good. Was the price tag worth it for just a few hours on the dance floor. He wasn’t sure, maybe? He missed the days when you could enjoy this kind of premium experience for free at your local bar or club. We expected more from our local clubs and bars back then. But the world costs more now. This is what we’ve created.

On another night, if his back wasn’t so out of whack, he might have stayed, but maybe it saved him from make some terrible choices. He looked around the room with a sigh and left quietly, and wished the security a good night before exiting the club (be nice to your security guards folks).

His drugs were exactly where he left them.

Share lives after dark

I was having a hard time reading her. Such a small book, the cover unassuming, not fussy. Pretentious purchase perhaps? Most likely. We were wandering around Paris for three days, living out a flaneur fantasy. Buying a book entitled Paris France while in Paris, France was the literary equivalent of buying a beret and traipsing around the city with a baguette under his harm.

Was I stupid? Even trying to read some of the witty passages to my husband in bed I found himself slightly tongue tied, short paragraphs of run on sentences, placing imaginary commas where he thought they ought to be, rereading aloud one sentence more than once to gleam its meaning.

(It was one of his favourite trips in a long time, one that he will refer back to in his mind for years to come. Not because it was his birthday, though that was part of it, but that the three days, to quote Stein, felt “peaceful and exciting.”)

I had a difficult time planning what to do for my birthday, mostly because I felt pressure to make something of it. Was there something wrong with me for not wanting to have a big party in celebration of being, well, certifiably old? Later, it made sense that I was apprehensive to do anything that drew too much attention to me. This is the plight of the summer baby who struggled with having birthdays when school was over and most of your classmates were on vacation. I don’t think I ever expected much from my birthday and I definitely don’t know.

A month ago, I made a lame ass attempt to potentially plan a dinner but when I brought it up to a couple I know they wondered if I might be open to the change the date to accommodate their travels plans. That didn’t sit well with me. Like I said, I’m not much of a birthday person, but surely I shouldn’t be trying to accommodate other people on what’s supposed to be my “special day”.

She is not the first to say it but when super model Alex Consani said “closed mouths don’t get fed,” I felt it deep in my bones, and told my husband a few months before my birthday that I wanted to spend it in Paris. No more pressure to make an event or party, no more trying to invite or coerce people to come visit and celebrate my birthday, just me and him in Paris.

Even though we’d been a few times for short trips with family or the occasional conference, Paris has a kind of allure that I’m still captivated by.

We were not there to go to the Louvre, or the Eiffel Tower or Paris Disney, though any of those things would have been great. All I wanted to do was be in a nice air-conditioned hotel, in a nice party of the city and walk around, eat good food, drink good coffee, and buy some books.

There were things that anchored us, a delicious sushi dinner on Rue Sainte-Anne, skipping Shakespeare and Company to peruse the oldest English bookstore in the 1st arrondissement, an evening at the ballet to punctuate our final night, but mostly we allowed ourselves the luxury or not having much of a plan, letting our feet, our hearts and our stomachs guide us.

We walked by the Seine to check out JR’s installation on Pont Neuf which was sadly, already closed. We saw the line of tourists by the live music venue I had seen on Instagram and instantly aborted and walked home instead (I started calling the hotel “home” as in “shall we go home and take a nap before dinner?” I was doing that annoying thing I always do when I look around a neighbourhood that’s not my own and say, “I think I could live here.” Bitch, of course you think that: all you’re doing for three days is spending money, walking and eating. If you had to live here you would have to work, and that would be an entirely different story.)

No this is not a perfect city. That doesn't not exist in real life. Even parts of Paris smell like hot, humid urine in the summer. People walk too close behind you while talking with their friends, there are cities of tents under bridges for asylum seekers. Paris, in the heat, is a true melting pot. It is the epicentre of the remnants of colonialism. Paris is extreme, it is diverse, it is a place of cultures and ethnicities blending into one another, creating the fabric of the city. It cannot be contained nor segregated. Paris feels alive.

I feel provincial in Paris. I was nervous to go to the Palais Garnier to see the Paris Opera Ballet. Would everyone be in gowns and tuxedoes? Would they kick me out for wearing Asics sneakers with my dress pants? But then I try to calm myself down, think rationally. I try to talk myself up and say to myself, “I’m allowed to be here.”

But even still, as I enjoy the opulence of the theatre and watch the most beautiful dancers perform in front of me, the little boy inside of me can’t believe that I’m actually here, in Paris. That this is actually my life. I had so often dreamed of getting out of my Pointe Claire, the suburban city on the west side of Montreal island. Never in my wildest dreams could I ever imagine I would be here for my birthday.

I like Paris for its third spaces. I like that Paris feels like a city because there is both the need, the necessity, and the desire to go out into the city, to explore its offerings and to be in connection with people. I like that in almost every corner something interesting is happening.

After the performance we were still a tad peckish. Where was that cure spot near our place? But then we turned the corner and there it was. We sat street side and watched the world go by. My heart was full: how is this real?

We enjoyed our prosecco with a simple smoked salmon sandwich with homemade chips and later a decadent piece of chocolate tart. It was past eleven but the waiter was clear that the kitchen stayed open till midnight. He was young twink but already blasé about work and life, not interested in performing for us, but offering no nonsense, impeccable service. We relished our meal thinking how difficult or impossible it would be to find such a meal so late at night in Amsterdam.

More trips to Paris in the next year. I am manifesting it. She is a city I would like to get to know more.

Closed mouths don’t get fed: more trips to Paris.

From Timmy’s comments that tanked his Oscar hopes to Rosalia donning pointe shoes for her live concert, ballet seems to be having a moment. The most recent manifestation of this is in Olivia Rodrigo’s music video for ‘Stupid Song’ from her latest album You Seem Pretty Sad for a Girl So in Love; an album that perfectly encapsulates the trajectory impossible young love that inevitably unravels. The sound aesthetic that is tinged with nostalgia and celebrates the music of artists like The Cure, Liz Phair and other alternative rock and emo of that ilk, truly has scratched an itch for a closet grunge-lover like me.

Rodrigo’s concept for ‘Stupid Song’ shares an interesting connection with her debut video ‘Drop Dead’ which has the artist dancing through Versailles in a baby doll dress, at one point playfully mirroring some ballet gestures (I don’t know Rodrigo very well but it’s clear she is no stranger to a dance studio).

The use of New York City as a kind of companion piece to ‘Drop Dead’ and its Paris location is a clever concept. Most people attuned to ballet know that it was King Louis the 14th who popularized ballet in the 17th century and in fact made Versailles his home.

The video also appears to be referencing the iconic character of Carrie Bradshaw from the television series Sex and the City which made Sarah Jessica Parker a cultural and fashion icon. It’s hard not to think of New York without thinking about the significance of this show. The tumultuous romance between Carrie and Mr. Big/John reflects the kind of complicated yearnings and heartbreak that is the conceit of Rodrigo’s album.

Whoever had the foresight to use professional ballerinas, especially utilizing the talent and artistry of local working New York dancers deserves an ovation. I was worried when I first saw the first glint of pointe shoes in the video which quickly turned to both relief then glee when Tyler Peck bourréd into frame. There’s nothing worse than seeing someone who is not a ballerina act like a ballerina on the screen. Not only is it cringe it’s actually quite dangerous for the performer. On average, it takes at least a decade of consistent training to create a professional ballet dancer, someone with the artistic and athletic ability to perform, emote and push the human physical form. Imagine training to be a tennis star or basketball player but added to it you have to make it look graceful and easy.

If Chalamet brought ballet into the cultural zeitgeist as an art form on the brink of extinction, I would argue Rodrigo helped resuscitate the art form and champion it as a symbol of feminine power.

Delicate does not mean weak and in ‘Stupid Song’ the dancers featured in the video hail from two of the biggest and most acclaimed ballet companies in the United States (American Ballet Theatre and New York City Ballet). For ballet dancers everywhere, especially young teens who are beginning their professional careers seeing Tyler Peck and India Bradely in an Olivia Rodrigo video is affirming, unexpected, and kind of a big fucking deal.

Tyler Peck has been a star of the New York City Ballet for years. She’s a seasoned performer with impeccable technique and musicality. India Bradely is a rising star of the company, and is part of a new generation of artists who continue to push the art form for more diversity and inclusion. When I saw this two dancers in ‘Stupid Song’ I thought, “Okay Olivia, kudos to you. You’ve done your homework.”

Yes the video shows the women in pink and dancing on pointe, but ‘Stupid Song’ also shows the different shades and power of femininity, subverting the clichéd tropes of ballerinas. At one moment in the video, the dancers perform in the middle of the street, almost at risk of colliding with oncoming traffic. As the song reaches its climax the dancers become more wild and emotive, pink tights are stained in dirt and their hair, now released from their buns, are thrown about wildly as their bodies bounce off each other.

The symbol of hair plays an important role for a ballerina often signifying the unraveling of a tormented soul, as in Giselle, or a kind of freedom of expression as in Balanchine’s Walpurgisnacht. ‘Stupid Song’ helps de-mystify ballet for the tik-tok generation to also show that ballet is not just a “pretty girl” in a pink tutu. Ballerinas are women who are strong, powerful, frightening, exciting, human.

It’s exciting to see an artist finding creative ways to be in dialogue with other artists from different art forms. Like her latest album, Rodrigo has managed to pay homage to something in a significant way that doesn’t feel exploitative or self-serving. I can imagine a young girl somewhere not knowing anything about ballet, then seeing this video and dream of becoming one. The idea of that tickles me pink.

Share lives after dark

I read somewhere that life happens in 7-year cycles. These seven year chunks track your development from childhood to adolescence to adulthood, from emotional development to Saturn returns and everything in between. If anything, it’s a good way to reflect and process things that have happened in your life, and to prepare yourself for the next chapter.

I guess one could say I’ve been going through a seven-year itch, literally. I first discovered I was having problems with my skin during the summer just before the pandemic after a short vacation. For the last few years I experimented with the idea that the skin reactions I was having in the summer - little bumpy rashes that pepper huge areas of skin on various parts of my body - were due to my pre-existing condition of eczema exacerbated with sunscreen that I assumed was clogging my pores.

Eczema has always been a problem of mine but over time I pretty much aged out of it, finding topical creams that kept it at bay. Growing up I always enjoyed tanning and the way I looked as the colour of my skin deepened to a mocha glow. Being a July baby, summer was my jam.

Well not anymore.

I had high hopes that I had figured out my summer skin predicament last year, when I discovered a zinc sunscreen that seemed to keep the red bumpy patches from manifesting. Still, as a precaution I continued to keep my sun exposure to a minimum, and have accepted over the years since my first outbreak that sitting out in the sun to tan is something I could no longer do.

As a new seven year cycle begins for me this week, sadly it seems that I just have to accept that me and the sun are no longer friends. At least, not like we used to be. A short vacation to the beach, fully protected with my sunscreen and under the shade of an umbrella with short bouts in the water to cooldown, did nothing to abate the onslaught of itchy red patches forming all over my chest, back and arms.

I love a beach. I love the way my body and mind relaxes and I feel as though I finally have the bandwidth to sink my teeth into a good book. I was so happy to have finished a substantial novel on the three days we were at the beach…but was the cost worth it?

Once the rash spreads there’s nothing much to do but wait it out. Perhaps it’s wisdom in this new phase of life that helps me be a little kinder to myself when my body seems to revolt and rebel. Already I am imagining how grateful I will feel when my skin goes back to normal after a few weeks.

But there is a kind of grief I am feeling in this moment. It’s the realization that I can’t avoid or deny this issue any longer and that fundamentally my relationship with the sun, with nature, needs to change if I’m to enjoy the summer. Looking at my skin and feeling the pervasive prickly itchiness reminds me of ways that I continue to be othered, that I can no longer sit in the sun or go to the beach with friends in such a carefree way like other people do. It reminds me of how un-normal and freakish I often feel.

It may seem like an odd correlation but since losing some significant people in my life in the past five years, grief has become a central feature in my adult life. It comes in waves of different intensity, some that laps up quietly on the shore, other times a tidal wave of angry, violent emotions. And in this time of adulthood I don’t think anyone prepared me for the ongoing micro-mourning processes one has to go through. Grief and mourning, big and small: the loss of a job, a dream that is slowly dying, the grief of losing friendships to geography, marriages, or time, the real death of loved ones who never come back in this lifetime, the mourning of a body you no longer recognize or understand. The mourning of certain naïveté.

In the early stages of Adulthood, when a career is so important, we often talk about successes and failures. “It’s not about how many times you fall, it’s about how quickly you get up.” They say.

I never really understood how powerful something like grief can be in one’s journey in this lifetime. But just like love, happiness, anger, joy, it is an emotion that is there, that is to be experienced, that is to be in relation to.

When my rash exploded after a previous summer where I thought I had it all figured out, I let myself weep for a version of me that probably will never be anymore, that carefree version of me who can sit in the sun and bathe in its rays while reading a good book. There seems to be so many things to grieve and mourn in this stage in life. But I guess for me, in this new seven year cycle, it’s about understanding and mastering the ability to experience both grief and joy, for finding ways to love the skin I’m in… in all it’s facets.

****

“Why are you wearing a long sleeve shirt? Are you crazy?”

He cowered slightly. “I have this really horrible heat rash and I’m kind of self-conscious about it.”

“Heat rash?”

“Yeah. For a while I thought I was allergic to certain sunscreen but now I just think I have a sensitivity to the sun.”

“So, you’re allergic to the sun?” He looked at him quizzically.

“Yeah, I think I am.” He felt embarrassed. Who’s allergic to the fucking sun?!

“So, what you’re saying is, you're a vampire.” He gave him a wink.

He smiled, thinking about his Substack, Lives After Dark, and all the fun and adventures he’s enjoyed in the night. He was grateful that his friend didn’t make him feel like freak, like someone who didn’t belong on this planet.

“Okay vampire, just don’t bite me!”

They both laughed.

Share lives after dark

Can we talk?

I started a piece earlier today, something about how I’ve given up on the idea of friendships. Not because people suck -

and people do suck (and by the way I include myself in people) -

But what I wanted to write about was how I’ve been trying to unlearn my adolescent and asinine ideas I’ve created around friendship. Expectations that, in the world we live in, are impossible to meet. I can often hold people to such a high standard forgetting that I also am able to drop the ball, forget to text people back, ghost people on their birthday, leave people on read.

These days I’m just trying to be a better friend to myself. That’s what I wanted to write.

That was before someone accidentally locked their bike to mine.

It was an off day. Slept poorly and woke with a deep heaviness in my bones. I lost my AirPods at the gym while training and still haven’t found them. They’re hiding in the left pocket of a hoodie I took off and somehow misplaced.

The bike incident at the end of the day was just the cherry on top of a lacklustre day. Who is in such a rush that they don’t even see that they’ve locked their chain to someone’s else’s bike?

To be fair, having to use public transportation because someone has accidentally locked their bike to yours is not such a big deal. But I’ve been running on fumes these past few months hoping this new work schedule would slowly starting to feel more natural over time and sadly that hasn't really happened. Mostly, I just ache all over.

(The thing about being a dancer is that you feel and interpret everything that is going on any our body. What does it mean that you have a weak left ankle? That after standing for four hours your right hip begins to ache? Why is your head so stuffy? Is the sharp pain in your neck serious or will it just go away on its own?)

Is it time for a little break?

Since my early twenties I’ve been doing this thing that seems to help me when I’m down,

like really down.

Like, there were times I’d be scrubbing toilets as a busboy thinking, what the fuck am I doing with my life? Or I’d go home after a long shift as a waiter in tears because a customer yelled at me for messing up their order. Or like now, when I’m trying to write something interesting, all I can think is, this is such shit.

When I get really down on myself I’ll find a moment to look up at the sky (if I’m outside) or just quietly (or out loud) say to myself:

THANK YOU

That’s it. I don’t know why that helps me but it does.

Maybe it’s because it’s a reminder that some things are actually random and nothing is personal. Like it’s a fact that someone locked their bike to mine, but it wasn’t a sign from the universe that my life is broken. It’s just something that happened today.

Anyway that’s what I do. When I feel like I’m really in the mire, or drowning in quicksand, I’ll dig deep and just say THANK YOU, to no one in particular and everything all at once.

Because that’s a muscle worth training: to feel grateful, even when it’s not easy to feel grateful.

Anyway, sorry this is a shitty piece of writing that totally amounts to nothing. I’ll be taking a two-week break after this and be back on June 30th. Maybe I’ll have something more interesting to share then.

Share lives after dark