CLUBBING 2020
ica sadagat
object permanence
There’s a poem by Nicole Sealey that I think about whenever I think about X on the night of the day we met in the middle of May. Do you know the one? “Though we’re not so self- / important as to think everything / has led to this, everything has led to this.”
Our first text conversation, before that day in the middle of May, was catalyzed by X’s question, “Do you like house music?” It was a cold spring morning, grey and grumpy. But the inquiry of X made my blood heat and rush to my cheeks to my knees to my jaw to my chest whose muscle started to beat like a jungle set at 3 AM.
I sent a voice note “YEAH” after muttering “oh fuck” to myself. X hadn’t heard my voice before that — a thing about me I purposely keep close because I understand the impact of knowing a person’s sonic.
The date on that day in the middle of May started with a walk then a dinner then another walk then two drinks. By drink three we were in thirst. In truth we were already there before any liquid was poured. But the bars were too chill, cabs too fleeting. X was in the city for a few days for an art show and sharing a hotel room with our mutual friend who was arriving at an unannounced hour that evening. And I had just moved to Jersey so naaah. “Why don’t we go to a club?” I offered. Entranced by Massive Attack playing in the hotel lobby and I dunno maybe by me but mainly by us, X looked at me and nodded “I don’t care as long as it’s loud and dark and I’m with you.” The pulsebeat of my voracity needed to gtfo and get to a place to get with X asap.
We got into a car in the Lower East Side and rode over the bridge to Williamsburg then arrived at a spot that is now closed. But on that night in the middle of May this club was open and asked for no cover, much like us. When we entered the space the dance floor was full yet the bar was vacant so we got our drinks with ease and found a booth to libate in each other.
I cannot tell you what was playing. I cannot tell you what I drank. I cannot tell you that we danced because we didn’t. The pulsebeat of our voracity heightened with every song and I can tell you I never stood up.
This was not a dungeon or a BDSM club or some slimy spot in midtown with a racist name. This was a regular degular Nu-Brooklyn jawn on a Thursday night.
For hours we animated on each other on top of a red vinyl bench under, unbeknownst to us, a spotlight. We pushed and pulled and choked and bit to whatever rhythm the subwoofer proclaimed. I think a group of skater dudes watched us and at some point we became privy to their gaze. We did not stop.
This is a story about clubbing in the sense that the club on that night in the middle of May was our bed our soundtrack and our shield and its memory its sounds its textures are what led us to each other. In this way. Because the intoxicating physicality of the club was not confined to walls but already grafted to our bones. We were at the club for so long and only so long though its object permanence was felt and marked by indelible somatic memory that stretches beyond time: an untz, a womp, the humid perpetual hum.
“There’s a name for the animal / love makes of us,” which are the lines that follow in that poem, and there’s a name for the animal that night in the middle of May made of me.
Our first text conversation, before that day in the middle of May, was catalyzed by X’s question, “Do you like house music?” It was a cold spring morning, grey and grumpy. But the inquiry of X made my blood heat and rush to my cheeks to my knees to my jaw to my chest whose muscle started to beat like a jungle set at 3 AM.
I sent a voice note “YEAH” after muttering “oh fuck” to myself. X hadn’t heard my voice before that — a thing about me I purposely keep close because I understand the impact of knowing a person’s sonic.
The date on that day in the middle of May started with a walk then a dinner then another walk then two drinks. By drink three we were in thirst. In truth we were already there before any liquid was poured. But the bars were too chill, cabs too fleeting. X was in the city for a few days for an art show and sharing a hotel room with our mutual friend who was arriving at an unannounced hour that evening. And I had just moved to Jersey so naaah. “Why don’t we go to a club?” I offered. Entranced by Massive Attack playing in the hotel lobby and I dunno maybe by me but mainly by us, X looked at me and nodded “I don’t care as long as it’s loud and dark and I’m with you.” The pulsebeat of my voracity needed to gtfo and get to a place to get with X asap.
We got into a car in the Lower East Side and rode over the bridge to Williamsburg then arrived at a spot that is now closed. But on that night in the middle of May this club was open and asked for no cover, much like us. When we entered the space the dance floor was full yet the bar was vacant so we got our drinks with ease and found a booth to libate in each other.
I cannot tell you what was playing. I cannot tell you what I drank. I cannot tell you that we danced because we didn’t. The pulsebeat of our voracity heightened with every song and I can tell you I never stood up.
This was not a dungeon or a BDSM club or some slimy spot in midtown with a racist name. This was a regular degular Nu-Brooklyn jawn on a Thursday night.
For hours we animated on each other on top of a red vinyl bench under, unbeknownst to us, a spotlight. We pushed and pulled and choked and bit to whatever rhythm the subwoofer proclaimed. I think a group of skater dudes watched us and at some point we became privy to their gaze. We did not stop.
This is a story about clubbing in the sense that the club on that night in the middle of May was our bed our soundtrack and our shield and its memory its sounds its textures are what led us to each other. In this way. Because the intoxicating physicality of the club was not confined to walls but already grafted to our bones. We were at the club for so long and only so long though its object permanence was felt and marked by indelible somatic memory that stretches beyond time: an untz, a womp, the humid perpetual hum.
“There’s a name for the animal / love makes of us,” which are the lines that follow in that poem, and there’s a name for the animal that night in the middle of May made of me.