I’m watching a movie, one I have seen tens of times and never tire of, as “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros plays in the background of the opening scene. I had seen Edward Sharpe live just five months before but it came over me like someone else’s memory.

To me, its almost impossibly cool that I saw them live. As it comes back to me I remember  how I felt alive as hell and how the live music woke me up.
I also remember, how trapped I felt being all alone at this outdoor concert in Brooklyn. Everyone around me sharing a picnic with a loved one or group of friends.
I picked my spot on the grass, set down the trash bag I brought to sit on, and I was by myself, feeling alone. I have attended countless concerts and festivals alone, and this time the powerful rush of the familiar and unwelcome sense of loneliness filled me with pain.
Then the music started.
I remember getting up and running to the crowd, leaving my trash bag and consciousness behind. I remember feeling free and like I was spinning and the music was my echo.
 
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I came to New York half expecting things to play out like a movie. Not in the way that movies turn out perfectly, have a happy ending or any of that typical crap.
It was worse. Deeper and more delusional.
You know how in a movie, someone will attend a crowded event alone and the writers have set up the scene and the character so that the audience thinks “Wow, that person is strong! Fearless! Doesn’t give a fuck!”? And the audience keeps applauding the characters courage to say fuck it to their pain and all the ass holes. And inevitably the character runs through the streets, or spins and spins in bliss and self-discovery. “Yes! This is awesome! I am a badass!”
Well life isn’t like that.
Nobody knew I was on a lawn somewhere listening music.
And if it comes up later, the first question I am asked is “Who’d you go with?”
I am not asked about the event, or the band, or even music at all. Instead like a punch to the stomach “Who was there with you?”.
I have tried various ways to answer this question, to say alone without sounding sad. After years of practice I have settled on “I didn’t go with anyone, just me.” And in response, almost every time, people ask “Why?”.
Their tone says something must be wrong with me. And hell, maybe there is. After all, the truth is, I couldn’t find anyone to go with me.
But I think the raddest, most important part is that I went anyway. I didn’t need anyone else. And I didn’t let others stop me from being around things that make me feel alive, like music. That’s the 5th concert I’ve gone to alone in the last 6 months. No one ever really knows.
Because it isn’t like the movies where the audience understands the unstoppable nature of the character is a loud and theatrical “fuck you!”  to society, to “Who’d you go with?”.
In life, real life, It’s waiting in line alone, drinking at the concert alone, a walk to the subway alone, a train ride alone, and walking in your door alone. Sitting on your bed recounting your night in your head, alone.
Its quiet.
Some days I go 12 hours without speaking aloud.
So if a girl has a life but no one ever knows, does it exist? Is it still a life?   If no one knows how I take my tea or whiskey, and if they don’t know what makes me breathe, who would know if I stopped?
I keep going for music and art. I keep going for me. 

If a girl dances in Brooklyn, but no one sees her, did she ever dance at all?