🧬吐き気がするほどロマンチックだぜ

今回の話だけは、
英語だけ置いておきます。

Some stories are easier to tell in another language.

🥀
Underground live houses always smell the same, no matter how many years pass.

Cigarettes.
Sweat.
Beer.
Hot amplifiers.

Back then, we lived inside that world.

Live houses.
Bands.
Tattoos.
Underground culture.
Love affairs.
Pregnancy.
Running away.
Music.

Everything tangled together.

My second son’s father was a band guitarist.

Gentle.
Slow.
Kind-hearted.
But unable to carry responsibility.

When I was young, I got divorced once and was left holding a child, not knowing what to do anymore.

So I called an old lover.

We met a few times.
Then I became pregnant.

He wanted me to abort.

He offered money.
He said he would go to the hospital with me.

But I told him:

“I’m keeping the baby.”

That was where our lives split apart.

He ran away.
I gave birth.

But I never hid his existence from my son.

For years, I showed him old live videos on YouTube and said:

“That’s your father.”

So my son was never searching for his father.

He already knew.

A few years ago, he went to a live show.

It was a memorial event for an old underground friend — the same friend who had introduced me to his father long ago during our underground live house days.

And by coincidence, the event happened to fall on Father’s Day.

At the underground live house, his father was quietly drinking coffee while listening to the music.

He still didn’t drink alcohol.

My son casually asked for a photo together.

His father simply thought he was another young guy at the venue.

Then, just before leaving, my son quietly said:

“Thank you for bringing me into this world.”

Later, the photo was sent to me.

I looked at it casually at first.

Then suddenly I froze.

Ah.

I forgot.

When we were young, we got matching tattoos together.

After we broke up, I covered mine up, so I had almost erased the memory itself.

But seeing that photo on Father’s Day, with my grown son standing beside him, brought everything back at once.

Underground live houses.
Band musicians.
A man who ran away.
A woman who gave birth.
A memorial live show.
Father’s Day.
A son wearing sunglasses.
Tattoos from our youth.

Everything stayed messy.

And life simply kept going.

Romantic enough to make you sick.

Like a song by The Stalin echoing somewhere underground.

I was about to fall asleep with YouTube playing in the background.

An OSHO discourse was on,
repeating:
“Celebration… Celebration…”

At that exact moment,
I experienced something like a Kundalini rising for the first time in my life.

Right then,
my LINE notification went off.

The photo I received
showed a father and son together.

It all felt almost too perfectly timed.

A life rooted in underground culture,
and yet,
for one strange moment,
everything felt like celebration.

2025.6.15

At a memorial live show for an old bad friend.

#地下ライブハウス
#90年代
#パンク
#ハードコア
#地下文化
#バンドマン
#刺青
#アンダーグラウンド

#Celebration
#TrueStory
#Underground
#LiveHouse
#Punk
#Hardcore
#JapanesePunk
#90sCulture
#UndergroundCulture
#TattooCulture
#TheStalin