i discovered punk in pieces, the first being style. faded black and white photographs of girls with black gelled eagles' nests of hair, eyes heavily outlined like in my grandmother's beloved edward gorey books. glimpses in movies of red mohawks, army pants, studs. but most importantly, my conception first grew from C's ever prismatic mind, a flowering of nighttime, intoxicants, beautiful violence, feral behaviour, childlike fun, and of course, mystery. the girl dressed in a yellowing wedding gown, with a rat on her shoulder telling c she didn't have jack shit when she was her age. the art of lacing a safety pin through a part of your body, control of pain, endorphin rush, decoration. the disregard for rules, in attire or attitude. the discovery of expression. the beauty of c, eyes rolled back, goldfish orbs suspended in egyptian kohl, expression that of a silent movie sufferess, face white, blue green mohawk reflecting the bluegreen lovebirds perched on her shoulders, pecking at the glass beads hanging in little braids at the sides, ornate lingere showing through her translucent cut off ancient t-shirt, old brown black crinolin skirt swarming around ripped up fishnets, diving into old army boots. grinning skate boys, dark smoky bars where there was always a way to get in underage, and the feeling that as the sun set the day was rising. like most things directly of this world, the reality caught up to her dream, and as time shifted and syracuse rained, as people changed, the bars closed, and the music focus shifted to hard core, she sequestered herself to her rooms in the best bitter tragedienne manner she could, refusing to forgive the changes. she was perhaps 15.