by Adrienne Fisher

In Pennsylvania, on I-78 between Allentown and Bethlehem, there’s a certain stretch of highway. It’s unremarkable as far as highways go. Three lanes, concrete median. Semi-trucks huffing up inclines, cruising down exits to one of the Lehigh Valley’s myriad warehouses or industry parks. The road dips and bends moderately to cut through the gratuitously hill-stroked plains of eastern PA. You can slide right between these two towns without ever thinking twice about the path you’re traversing, mind tuned to autopilot, focus laid on the future at Point B. That’s likely the point. Car travel can be so boringly utilitarian.

I graduated high school ten years ago, in June 2005, and on that night that particular expanse of highway came alive. The lane markers glowed wildly, a rapid strobe as they faded in and out of proximity. Yellow floodlights at the side of the road tubed and curled into one another as I sped past in my first car, a 1992 Ford station wagon, weaving around puny speed limit-abiding sedans. The speedometer never quite worked past 60mph, but even if I had known to temper my speed, I wouldn’t have done it anyway. I was literally racing into the next stage of my life and away from the old one, milking the tired and true metaphor of transition for all it was worth. I was alone; the friendship politics of adolescence had left me socially solo, with no carpooling options for graduation. Something Corporate’s “Hurricane” was pouring out of the speakers at max volume. I drove barefoot, graduation gown open, with my cap and stilettos piled onto the passenger seat. I rounded a bend at the bottom of a gentle hill going at least 90 with my left arm dangling fully out the window. I screamed Andrew McMahon’s words back at him. I remember thinking, in real-time, that I was living a moment that mattered a lot.

I tell this story because a story like this – of the significance I levied onto the staggering feeling that I felt – would matter to absolutely no other audience in the world outside of the one reading this blog. The moments in our lives that get permanently tamped into our memories almost always coincide with a song and a feeling, a communion of fleeting and ambiguous concepts that would slip away into nothingness if not for the importance we place on them and the songs we use to soundtrack them. The music’s a mnemonic. I remember that moment, just like I remember plenty of others like it – just like you remember plenty of your moments.

That day, when I graduated high school, I never thought I could be a music writer. Five years later, when I graduated college, I never thought I could be a music writer. Today, right now, as I ignore my nine-to-five inbox at a non-profit publisher and hide out in a dimly lit corner of the office to write this, I still don’t really think I can be a Music Writer™. But after dozens and dozens of album reviews, show write-ups, ten-year retrospectives, commentary pieces, AOTY lists, long-winded editorials, band showcases and a lengthy interview or two – it kind of seems like I am. I might be. It’s hard to tell sometimes. Although, to that end, I’ve only really ever been sure, fully and legitimately, of two truths: that I can string a damn good sentence together; and that I love this little weird kinda-punk microcosm of a scene down to my stupid emo-or-not-emo-I-don’t-know-I-love-Fall-Out-Boy guts. Those are my truths. They are inalienable and they are mine.

I had just turned 25 when Zack offered me a chance to combine my truths and gave me a platform to say all the shit I’d only ever been able to say to myself for the twelve years prior. I had finished college but I had no real experience, no relevant contacts and no real grasp on the importance of the “reply all” button (I do now, don’t worry. I’m a goddamn professional) – and we all know that a degree means shit in the face of all that other stuff. My reality at the time was the bleak story we the millennials all get to share in miserable solidarity together: moved back home after college, got a job at the mall since it was the only place that would hire me, and drove into NYC at every opportunity to attend every show I could. Applying to write, unpaid, for POZ was an attempt to anchor myself in my scene – where my heart was – since I couldn’t seem to figure out how to do it in a career.

Over the past three years, POZ has been an outlet unlike one I’ve ever had in my life. My contributions and participation expanded into a more integral role after just a few months, and my involvement felt like it mattered. Even after I got myself a “real job” and moved away from my parents’ house, writing about music and coordinating projects for POZ was my solace, my chance to develop a skill outside of the traditional workplace, my cement binding me to the world and the bands I love. Moreover, the POZ team, through a dash of coincidence and a bunch of incredible personalities, have become some of my closest, most trustworthy and reliable friends. Talking through ideas, editing their words, cheering their accomplishments and working every day on this passion project together – those are the things I will miss most dearly and deeply about this blog. I can always write, whether or not it gets read. But I’ll be hashtag blessed to ever again work with another team so thoroughly packed with intelligent and awesome humans. To my brother in the Rebel Alliance (Connor), my former Jewish camp counselor-turned editor (Jesse), and my premium homie (Zack): thank you. I am not just a better writer and professional because of you, but a more progressive thinker, a more critically minded reader, a more thoughtful human being. I hope, somehow, that I’ve contributed even a fraction of that for you all.

I’m not really sure what to do now. As evidenced by the introduction of this essay, I tend to internalize the big changes in life down to the very molecules of my being and, believe me, I’m feeling the void of POZ already. I’ve been crying (a little) and thinking (a lot) about what’s next. I don’t really have a backup plan and that was probably a mistake. But business as usual at work, in my cubicle, has never been enough for me, and if there’s one big lesson I’ve learned from POZ and ZZ, it’s that the side hustle is what keeps you sharp when the obligation that’s putting money in your pockets doesn’t. It’s what facilitates personal growth when a cold and sterile day job just doesn’t cut it. It’s where you can evolve the thing you love into something you love even more.

I was driving back to New Jersey from my parents’ in Allentown early last week, just a day after Zack broke the news to the staff that he would be closing down the site. I felt sullen, fixated on the nature of endings. Same highway. Same summer evening air flowing through the windows. A new car with a functioning speedometer – the cruise control set on 74mph. I didn’t even have time to think about it when it happened, but Spotify radio spit something up at me: Something Corporate, leaking through the speakers. (I swear, I’m not making this up for the sake of continuity.) Same song as it was on graduation night. I was here again, living a moment that mattered, even though the girl driving on graduation night barely resembles the woman writing this today. Yet, it was the same moment, an organic re-creation ten years down the line, marking an ending while signifying that there were still beginnings to be had. Conveniently and overtly metaphoric, of course, but even a tired metaphor will still bear meaning to someone. Some things will always change, and music things – especially when they’re everything – will be important forever.