I was left unconscious, defenses stripped slightly, but not enough that the act of honour could be persuaded to leave the room. Metric was tonight, a lovely affair of bodies pushed skyward. A music flushed press of too many, my feet left the ground trying to defend myself. It was mass and gravity, it was swaying and jumping and plastic earrings. Andrew behind me held me down, he was my anchor as I wielded female hips to stave off the asymmetrical haircuts that were bigger then me. If I were to lift up my arms, it would be like I was flying in a salt sea of nodding heads. Next to me for a song was the shortest Metric fan ever to live. I feel beaten now, bruises are blossoming like little flowers under my skin. Petals of red so far and ache. I fought back, protect protect. When someone leapt from the stage, they impacted on my head, my arms trapped by my sides, my hands caught in someone’s nasty woolen jacket, by the lack of air to breathe. Peaceful protest, hands sliding down shoulders and heads resting on shoulders, there was no independent movement but only the mecca surge, the sweaty crush of beat and sweet voice belting out from a slim shaking frame. We were crowd summary, we were laughing.
However, a fauxhawk mosh pit does not stop me from taking video clips.