We arrived in line after driving through the dark out of Reno, and were there to see the sun rise on the playa. It was truly magical, and also a real test of patience, endurance and good will. Just as nothing can prepare you for the beauty of a woman dancing on top of her jeep silhouetted against the dawn, nothing can prepare you for the exhaustion of driving for 16 hours straight with nothing ahead of you but an environment seemingly designed to make sleep impossible. So you drive, and take frequent sips of beauty to keep you alive.
* * *
Wendy and I have been here a day and a half, and we’re sitting at the table in the RV, and I’m telling her that I’m pretty sure we’ve somehow got this gifting thing wrong. Every gift I’ve offered so far has been turned down, and I’m wondering aloud if it’s because I’m a playa virgin and I don’t get it, or maybe I’m offering gifts to playa virgins and they don’t get it, but so far it’s not feeling a whole heck of a lot different than what is referred to as the “default world”. Wendy tells me that Tara said that people will say no here, and that we should do the same, and that part of the magic is that people will actually be authentic about what they are interested in receiving. It’s a good point, but I’m unconvinced. I just can’t believe that those people yesterday didn’t want help getting their art car inspection-ready, or that our neighbors who weathered last night’s dust storms in their tents didn’t really want a home cooked breakfast in an air conditioned RV.
As we’re having our conversation and munching on soft-shelled tacos, we’re watching another one of our neighbors construct his shade structure. We’ve christened him Captain Underpants because this is what he wears while he works, plus sneakers and a hat. He and his buddy are also sleeping in tents, and the wind has been blowing up dust non-stop since Monday afternoon. They look hot. And dusty. And tired. In other words, they look like a couple of men who would say yes to a soft-shelled taco. So we decide to give the gifting culture one more try, and Wendy walks over to their camp to make the invitation.
Two minutes later, we have two enthusiastically grateful men in our kitchen. And we decide that, just like in the default world, it’s all about timing.
* * *
Monday and Tuesday, we walk all around Black Rock City and are surprised that mostly people are not available for community interaction because they are setting up their camps and building. Most of the art cars we encounter are on their way to the Department of Mutant Vehicles for inspection and are not picking up passengers. Our vision of cruising around the playa with new friends on cool art cars, like our vision of what a gifting culture would be like, dies a little bit in these moments.
Then, a giant white furry four poster bed pulls up next to us. The drivers are two young men from Israel. They have just completed their inspection at the DMV, and we are their first passengers. We jump onto the bed to discover that the furry white platform is deeply padded and deliciously comfortable. I sink into the fur smiling from ear to ear, and one of our hosts reaches down and strokes the top of my dusty head as if I’m his favorite child.
We find out that these two men are currently living in Atlanta, and that they drove across the country towing their furry bed. Our journey ends with theirs back at their camp. We hop off and head for more adventures on foot, and the dream of touring the playa on cool art cars is given new life.
* * *
Right along Esplanade, someone has constructed a playground merry-go-round, and Wendy wants to ride it. We leave a pink cosmo party that turns out not to have cosmos after all and head for the merry-go-round. Wendy jumps aboard, resplendent in a purple tutu, pink scarf and polka-dotted panties, and I grab the bars and start to push. Another woman joins us, dropping her backpack on the sand and jumping on. A young man comes barreling up on his bicycle, barely stops his forward motion long enough to drop his bike and then grabs the bars and helps me to push. We get the merry-go-round up to a breakneck speed and jump on, all of us whooping and squealing and grinning at each other.
After a few minutes of spinning, the happy party disbands as quickly as it formed. As we walk away, albeit a bit unsteadily, Wendy tells me that one of her few childhood memories is of riding the merry-go-round in Liberty Park. Looking at her smile and her tutu, I can see that little girl in the woman she has become.
* * *
We walk out to the Man on Tuesday night and spend a few moments sitting underneath the pedestal structure. All around us, people are writing on the 2 x 4’s things that they want to release in the flames when the Man burns on Saturday night.
“What are you releasing?” Wendy asks me.
I think a minute and then tell her, “I’m releasing being a muse. I want to be a treasured partner.”
Wendy nods. “That’s a good thing to release,” she says.
“How about you,” I ask her, “what are you releasing?”
“I’m releasing struggle. I’m done with it,” she answers.
“Oooh, good one.”
We sit again in silence, holding hands and contemplating a world of ease and boyfriends.
* * *
A few feet away from us under the man are a group of people of every age, gender and color sitting in a circle. They join hands and begin gyrating and giggling, declaring to all passersby that they are creating a portal. One couple is finally convinced to sit in the center of the circle and experience the portal. Wendy and I watch in silence as the gyrating and giggling kick into high gear.
I turn away from the strange little scene and look at her. “You know, I have it that if I were more evolved, I would be over there in that circle instead of sitting here judging it.”
“I know what you mean,” she says, “I think that me being over here means that I have too many hang ups. I should be more self expressed and willing to do that shit, but mostly I just think it’s stupid.”
We look back at the portal and the couple upon whom it is having no visible effect that we can discern.
On the playa, as in the default world, clearly, Wendy and I still have issues.
* * *
There’s a thing that veteran burners say to each other: “welcome home.” They say it in a literal way, to welcome each other back to Black Rock City, but they also say it to express a lack of surprise at any of the amazing and unpredictable things that happen here. Used this way, it is delivered with a heavy dose of irony, as if anything could be considered unpredictable in Black Rock City.
A prime example – on Thursday night, I’m walking home from a night of dancing at the Opulent Temple, stopping by Center Camp to collect my bike. As I stand next to the bike trying to solve the problem of how to climb on and ride while wearing a skin-tight black evening gown, I hear live music. Live jazz music. And it sounds like paradise after the thumping techno at the Temple, so I head on over to the Jazz Café to check it out.
Inside the café, I sit between two men as the combo launches into “Blue Monk”. At solo time, the first to step up is a saxophone player who is wearing nothing but a cowboy hat. The next soloist is a trombone player dressed as Scooby Doo. As he finishes, the crowd cheers him with cries of “Ruttro!” and “Rooby Roo!” The man on my right offers me a flask of rum, smiles and says, “Welcome home!”
* * *
On Wednesday, Wendy and I discover a true treasure: the Hangout Spot at 5:00 and Chaos. The Hangout Spot is a web of hammocks suspended under a green parachute that rises and falls with the wind. At any time of day, you can tuck yourself into an empty hammock and relax. The host of the hangout is Satyr, a delightful man who circulates among his resting guests spreading the love with attentive conversation.
Or sometimes with his pierced tongue.
* * *
At 12:01 a.m. on Thursday, it’s officially Wendy’s birthday. I jump up from the bed where Wendy and I are taking a break in the RV and dash for the door, my intention being to interrupt the karaoke in progress in our camp to make everyone sing “Happy Birthday”. Wendy thinks that I won’t actually do it because I’m currently in my underwear, but she miscalculates. After three days at Burning Man, being seen in my underwear is no longer a concern that pierces my consciousness. I hear her squealing in dismay as the door of the RV slams behind me.
I run to the stage, ask for the microphone, and then announce to the neighborhood that it’s time to sing and celebrate in unison. Wendy is thoroughly serenaded and hugged, and then repays my devotion by punching me in the arm as we walk back to the RV.
* * *
It’s Thursday afternoon, and we’ve finally found Tara and Logan and their latest construction project, the pendulum bed. The pendulum bed is a circular platform about six feet in diameter suspended from a tall teepee-like frame. Canopies draped over the top of the frame keep the platform in shade as the bed swings gently in all directions. At the moment, there are five of us reclining on pillows, drinking beer and discussing what we did last night.
A man dressed in a squirrel costume rides up on a bicycle and asks if we know where the Man vs. Monkey camp is located. Apparently, this giant bike-riding squirrel is a messenger with a package to deliver. None of us know the location of the camp, but we do have a lively discussion about the probable size of the nuts on such a large squirrel.
After the messenger rides away, the topic of conversation turns to the hallucinogenic properties of various drugs. One of our new friends is speculating on whether the mushrooms she took last night caused her to hallucinate.
“Of course,” she says, “I just had a conversation with a giant squirrel on a bicycle, so who’s to say I’m not hallucinating right now?”
It’s a question no one on the bed can answer.
* * *
In Center Camp, you can complete a Census Form if you feel like telling the Burning Man organizers about your bad self. Some of the form is given to standard demographic information, but an entire section asks you to rate yourself on various qualities using a scale of 1 to 9, where 9 is “exactly like me” and 1 is “nothing like me”. The interesting thing is that the form asks you to rate yourself based on how you are at home, and then how you are at Burning Man. The qualities listed include things like “concerned about others” and “self expressed”.
Wendy and I visit Center Camp just about every day to feed my caffeine habit and check out the scene, and we complete our census forms during our Tuesday morning visit. Both of us are really struck by this you at home vs. you at Burning Man section, and both of us conclude that, if you are only self expressed and concerned about others during one week of every year, then it’s kind of a fraud.
A week in the desert is a wonderful thing, but in the end, it’s bringing that spirit to every corner of life that intrigues us the most.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Don't you dare question my patriotism!
I just finished watching Real Time with Bill Maher, and I have to tell you, I'm pissed off.
One of the guests on the panel was Andrew Breitbart, a conservative author and radio personality who often subs for Dennis Miller on Miller's radio program. Breitbart pulled an old favorite from the right wing talk radio playbook and accused another panelist of being unpatriotic for questioning the war in Iraq.
I have had it up to here with having my patriotism and support for our troops called into question by the fact that I did not and do not support the war(s) in Iraq. Rather than engage in a reasonable conversation about differing points of view regarding war in general and the dubious nature of both of our forays into Iraq in particular, people like Breitbart shut down the discourse immediately by branding anyone opposed to war as opposed to and undermining our troops.
And I'm telling you, if you have a question about whether I support the men and women who put themselves in harm's way daily, perhaps the resounding smack of my palm against the side of your face will settle this question decisively once and for all. Because if you dare question my honor one more time, I am going to hit you. Hard. And probably give the response that the so-called liberal media seems too mamby-pamby to deliver: a heartfelt invitation to go fuck your collective right wing selves.
Because I firmly believe that I support our troops more honorably than the Bush administration and the talking heads like Mr. Breitbart who backed up that administration's decision to send the sons and daughters of America into the desert under false pretenses. I fail to see how asking them to put their lives on the line in service of a lie can be construed as support. If you ask me, a more authentic expression of support would be the careful consideration of any directive that puts them in harm's way.
I believe that the men and women of the armed forces deserve to engage in missions that allow them to truly be heroes. So don't tell me that I'm not a patriot because I believe that causing them to lose life and limbs for a deception was an inexcusable betrayal.
I'm not a believer in war. My preference would be that the troops were never sent into combat at all. But I am realistic about the fact that we are still in process of evolving toward a place where war is a distant memory, and that this process of development will include a few more skirmishes before it reaches that point. And the men and women who march into those skirmishes will always have my support and gratitude.
America is a free country, and the quandary of that situation was expressed beautifully in the movie "The American President" in the final speech of fictional president Andrew Shepherd:
"America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You gotta want it bad, 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say 'You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours.'"
I believe in that quandary, and the inherent goodness in grappling with the problems presented by free speech. So I would never shut down the Breitbarts and Hannitys and Limbaughs of the world, even though they make my blood boil. But I will also claim my right, as a patriotic troop-supporting American, to shout back at the top of my lungs the most constuctive thing I can think to say at this moment...
"You hypocritical shitbag assholes!!!!"
One of the guests on the panel was Andrew Breitbart, a conservative author and radio personality who often subs for Dennis Miller on Miller's radio program. Breitbart pulled an old favorite from the right wing talk radio playbook and accused another panelist of being unpatriotic for questioning the war in Iraq.
I have had it up to here with having my patriotism and support for our troops called into question by the fact that I did not and do not support the war(s) in Iraq. Rather than engage in a reasonable conversation about differing points of view regarding war in general and the dubious nature of both of our forays into Iraq in particular, people like Breitbart shut down the discourse immediately by branding anyone opposed to war as opposed to and undermining our troops.
And I'm telling you, if you have a question about whether I support the men and women who put themselves in harm's way daily, perhaps the resounding smack of my palm against the side of your face will settle this question decisively once and for all. Because if you dare question my honor one more time, I am going to hit you. Hard. And probably give the response that the so-called liberal media seems too mamby-pamby to deliver: a heartfelt invitation to go fuck your collective right wing selves.
Because I firmly believe that I support our troops more honorably than the Bush administration and the talking heads like Mr. Breitbart who backed up that administration's decision to send the sons and daughters of America into the desert under false pretenses. I fail to see how asking them to put their lives on the line in service of a lie can be construed as support. If you ask me, a more authentic expression of support would be the careful consideration of any directive that puts them in harm's way.
I believe that the men and women of the armed forces deserve to engage in missions that allow them to truly be heroes. So don't tell me that I'm not a patriot because I believe that causing them to lose life and limbs for a deception was an inexcusable betrayal.
I'm not a believer in war. My preference would be that the troops were never sent into combat at all. But I am realistic about the fact that we are still in process of evolving toward a place where war is a distant memory, and that this process of development will include a few more skirmishes before it reaches that point. And the men and women who march into those skirmishes will always have my support and gratitude.
America is a free country, and the quandary of that situation was expressed beautifully in the movie "The American President" in the final speech of fictional president Andrew Shepherd:
"America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You gotta want it bad, 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say 'You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours.'"
I believe in that quandary, and the inherent goodness in grappling with the problems presented by free speech. So I would never shut down the Breitbarts and Hannitys and Limbaughs of the world, even though they make my blood boil. But I will also claim my right, as a patriotic troop-supporting American, to shout back at the top of my lungs the most constuctive thing I can think to say at this moment...
"You hypocritical shitbag assholes!!!!"
Monday, January 19, 2009
Adventures in Dating and Self Discovery
I'm back in the world of dating. This is a world mostly reviled by single people as being torturous, but I'm not so firmly in that camp. Mostly I find it interesting, occasionally awkward, and very educational.
At least that's how I'm attempting to view my blind date last Friday night.
Before getting into the details, I should share a few about myself that will set the stage a bit. I'm 42, have never been married and have no children. I own my home, and have an executive position where I work. I've held a so-called executive position before, but it was mostly for the vanity of the company that just about everyone, excepting maybe the janitorial staff, were given the title of Vice President. My present job is not that. This time, I've been given the title along with all of the accountability and work hours appropriate to that title. Luckily, I passionately love my job.
I've never tried to avoid marriage, am not opposed to it in principle, and would gladly enter into that union with the right person. From that statement, you might conclude that I'm picky, and you would be right. When you love your life, you do tend to get picky about people applying for permanent membership to your lifestyle. But I have been in a variety of relationships, from long term unions to what a friend of mine referred to as "delightful dalliances", and none of them have been inconsequential.
So I was a little taken aback on Friday when my date asked me if I thought that I was commitment-phobic, and still more surprised when he asked if I believed I was avoiding marriage as an attempt to avoid becoming a grown up.
Wait a minute - isn't this a confusion of the stereotypes? Aren't I supposed to be asking him these questions? In a shrill and accusatory voice?
Life is unsurprisingly full of surprises.
I didn't have much of an answer for my date in the moment, beyond a shocked expression and the oh-so-articulate response of "uh, no." But, after a bit of reflection, I believe I have one now.
The simplest answer is that I just don't measure the success of my life by traditional symbols, and don't have any plans to change that. Yes, my last relationship ended in a proposal of marriage, and I could have said yes. But would that have been any real accomplishment? Would I experience any personal satisfaction years from now by being able to say, "I've been married for 25 years to a man who only proposed to keep me from walking out, and we've been suffering together ever since."
Good lord - and imagine if I had brought children into that joyous union. My trophy, their burden. Would it prove my worthiness?
Yes, I've had the corporate job with the six figure income and the excessive air travel. But was it really a triumph to be able to claim an empty title in a company with no leadership and less integrity? Should I have stayed so that I could claim the symbols of adulthood supposedly inherent in that kind of career advancement?
My proudest accomplishments are that I'm happy and satisfied. I discovered this in the answers to my date's questions, and that alone made the evening worth it. I don't mind that he asked the questions - my strong suspicion is that he was only expressing out loud what he may have been asking himself for some time.
I truly hope he finds the answers. In the meantime, I'm off to my next opportunity for self discovery.
I just hope that the next one comes with a little more action. ;-)
At least that's how I'm attempting to view my blind date last Friday night.
Before getting into the details, I should share a few about myself that will set the stage a bit. I'm 42, have never been married and have no children. I own my home, and have an executive position where I work. I've held a so-called executive position before, but it was mostly for the vanity of the company that just about everyone, excepting maybe the janitorial staff, were given the title of Vice President. My present job is not that. This time, I've been given the title along with all of the accountability and work hours appropriate to that title. Luckily, I passionately love my job.
I've never tried to avoid marriage, am not opposed to it in principle, and would gladly enter into that union with the right person. From that statement, you might conclude that I'm picky, and you would be right. When you love your life, you do tend to get picky about people applying for permanent membership to your lifestyle. But I have been in a variety of relationships, from long term unions to what a friend of mine referred to as "delightful dalliances", and none of them have been inconsequential.
So I was a little taken aback on Friday when my date asked me if I thought that I was commitment-phobic, and still more surprised when he asked if I believed I was avoiding marriage as an attempt to avoid becoming a grown up.
Wait a minute - isn't this a confusion of the stereotypes? Aren't I supposed to be asking him these questions? In a shrill and accusatory voice?
Life is unsurprisingly full of surprises.
I didn't have much of an answer for my date in the moment, beyond a shocked expression and the oh-so-articulate response of "uh, no." But, after a bit of reflection, I believe I have one now.
The simplest answer is that I just don't measure the success of my life by traditional symbols, and don't have any plans to change that. Yes, my last relationship ended in a proposal of marriage, and I could have said yes. But would that have been any real accomplishment? Would I experience any personal satisfaction years from now by being able to say, "I've been married for 25 years to a man who only proposed to keep me from walking out, and we've been suffering together ever since."
Good lord - and imagine if I had brought children into that joyous union. My trophy, their burden. Would it prove my worthiness?
Yes, I've had the corporate job with the six figure income and the excessive air travel. But was it really a triumph to be able to claim an empty title in a company with no leadership and less integrity? Should I have stayed so that I could claim the symbols of adulthood supposedly inherent in that kind of career advancement?
My proudest accomplishments are that I'm happy and satisfied. I discovered this in the answers to my date's questions, and that alone made the evening worth it. I don't mind that he asked the questions - my strong suspicion is that he was only expressing out loud what he may have been asking himself for some time.
I truly hope he finds the answers. In the meantime, I'm off to my next opportunity for self discovery.
I just hope that the next one comes with a little more action. ;-)
Friday, December 12, 2008
An Introduction
Welcome to the first blog, the maiden voyage of a mouthy maiden. There is much to say, much to explore, and with any luck, much to enjoy.
Be warned, this blog is unapologetically narcissistic. It's about my life, my thoughts, and various things that I think are interesting. If you find them interesting too, we'll be pals. If not, you'll post comments that offend li'l ol' narcissistic me and the others in my tribe, and I'll probably delete them.
Just being honest - which I hear is a lost art.
Actually, the true lost art is remaining committed to the truth and being able to tell it in a way that creates connection rather than alienation.
With that in mind, I'll do my best.
Be warned, this blog is unapologetically narcissistic. It's about my life, my thoughts, and various things that I think are interesting. If you find them interesting too, we'll be pals. If not, you'll post comments that offend li'l ol' narcissistic me and the others in my tribe, and I'll probably delete them.
Just being honest - which I hear is a lost art.
Actually, the true lost art is remaining committed to the truth and being able to tell it in a way that creates connection rather than alienation.
With that in mind, I'll do my best.
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