An illegal techno rave in an commandeered hotel. Commandeered by squatters – parties in the event rooms and bar, residence in the hotel rooms.
My life wasn’t great at that time. I was definitely living a nomadic resistance, with a cash in hand ad hoc job.
This pub was legendary.
Two months later, I had moved in.
A month after that we were together.
Two and a half years later, our relationship is difficult to define, but we are still hopelessly intwined.
He chooses to live his life this way now, I’d say. Don’t get me wrong, I do quite enjoy the squatting vagabond lifestyle. It suits me to some extent, because I can do it with some finesse. I’m resourceful and will pragmatically learn some new shit if I need to; hospitality and human psychology though salte my area of expertise. Adeptly articulate (when I choose), this party animal can schmooze angry owners and sweet talk party hosts and DJs. It helped back then. My skills an asset.
There’s just a tiny human I love much more than the copious free entries and next to free dope. The discount drinks and raver reputations I have cast aside, opting for the more wholesome version of me that my little man has coaxed out through motherhood.
My love is stuck in the perpetual cycle that is break in, squat, go to court, face eviction. He fails to prepare himself with the next building, and when he does, his authoritarian tendencies tend to rub others up the wrong way.
Yes, you may be right, but you have to choose your words wisely. The people are sensitive junkies, don’t you know?
He seems relatively clean now, which helps us. One day we will party again, just for a night, like we used to.
For now, momma bear needs to think of little bear and provide – if he cannot provide, no problem, but I cannot sacrifice or cut short any of little bear’s necessary attention to give to him.
I’m sorry, that rave has been shutdown.
Motherhood: Incoming 