HOME | DD

Description
Tempests and Punk Mentality

This park is so full of beauty.
It used to be more beautiful, but that was long ago.
Life used to be more beautiful, but that was long ago.
People were various, now certain things are expected.
To be different is to lose status as a real person in society.
To be punk is to be different.
If you are different, you are a freak.
I live to see the punks, the freaks, on the news.
However, their numbers are falling fast.

I sit on a flat-topped boulder with my sketchbook in hand.
The boulder rests on the edge of the woods that I love so dearly.
The trees of these woods haven't had a single leaf grow for years.
They are bare.
Through autumn, winter, spring, and summer, they remain skeletons.
The leaves haven't budded since the last storm.
The storms stopped thrashing this small town after punk died years ago.
I think that's why he comes here.

I've heard stories about how it used to be.
There were different clothing styles.
I recall hearing “gothic” and “preppy” in the wild tales.
All of these styles are things of the past.
The last style to go down was punk.
It was the strongest, for punk was not merely a style of dress.
Punk was a mentality.
A strong one, at that.
They refused to back down quietly.
But with the whole world against them, they had no choice.
They are nearly extinct.

Now, there is one style: "modern."
Plain t-shirts, straight-legged jeans.
No variations except for color.
Life is “easier” this way, according to authorities.
“Without prejudices born from differences in clothing,
the world is a better place.”
I had agreed with this statement.
That is, until I saw him.

I've seen him here a few times before.
He only comes when the sky is blanketed with thick, black clouds.
He always sits on the bench underneath the big willow tree.
His ear buds run from his ears to his iPod.
Also decorating those ears are many small, metal loops and studs.
There are at least four on each ear.

Oh, how I long to see the face of this mysterious stranger.
For now, I am fixated on his eccentric hair.
His mohawk reminds me of the plume on a Trojan helmet.
It tapers as it reaches the back of his head.
It's black, but the very top is a pretty bluish purple.
I watch it move subtly as he nods his head to the beat of his music.
I wonder what he's listening to.
I wonder who he is.
I wonder why he dares to rebel in this society.

I've only seen photographs and videos of this type of person.
His dark blue, denim pants stop at his knees and are cuffed.
They're tight around his skin, unheard of on boys these days.
Around his neck is a black, leather collar with spikes placed evenly around it.
The band on his wrist matches it.
He's different, a freak...
I cannot take my eyes off of him.