The Trip

Perhaps you made a deal
Under these low clouds
That smell of the sea

Exchanging your burden
With something warm
And featherly white

I think it matters not
When I see you on the street
Limping with your plastic bag

That time melts our feet
Into the landscape.
Just take away fifty years
And we all stand on the same spot.

Arrival

It gets bigger every year. "I don't
know if I want to go this time". I say
to Dee, but she's got her tickets six
months in advance. Every year
cannot be as good as the last, and
sure enough, we're limping there,
Dee with poison-oak on her chin
and fingers and me with a possibly
broken foot, the result of a reckless
dive into the American River. I set to
work on the Airstream, installing a
stove and an altar, changing the
curtains into a girly lace affair. It
looks right, and once again, I can't
wait.

The desert looks so inviting. We are
the only car on the road to Gerlach.
The light is uplifting, magnifying the
details of the landscape all the way to
the distant mountains. It's not even
that hot at three in the afternoon.
The six hour ride from our house in
Diamond Springs to the Black Rock
Basin seems like no time at all. The
older you get the more you learn to
manipulate time. Make it go
deliciously slow or compressed like a
blank stare. Dee falls in and out of
sleep; she hasn't slept in days since
she had to avoid her irritated spots. I
think of nothing, I ask for nothing on
this trip.

We find a nice patch to set up the
Airstream, then take a quick nap.
Dee falls into a deep sleep in the
middle of a blasting techno beat next
door. At dusk we head to the main
camp, and right away I regret not
having my camera with me. A group
of ten or eleven dancers are
reenacting in slow motion hand to
hand combat, but it is done in a mock
religious ceremony, Krishna drums
and singing. It is so beautiful. The
dancers are all yoga masters and the
bendings go all the way in every
direction. One of them, a handsome
boy, takes a break next to us. An
admiring girl joins him immediately
and he is soon helping her with her
moves, exaggerating her stretches, or
putting all his weight to flatten her
further. He is serious, she is playful
and inviting.

We have our picture taken by a
professional photographer, who has
set up a tent nearby, one Polaroid for
us, two for him. The night is
pulsating with music and people
now. It is time for us to retreat.


First day

I wake up before dawn. The sky has
just enough orange light to cast the
tents and trailers in a green shade. I
bike to main camp to get a hot Soy
Chai. I love early mornings, and I
love the people that are up early,
with contentment in every eye. As
I'm making my way to sit down
among the bodies on the sofas, I hear
someone calling my name. It is Gene.
I am supposed to meet him on Friday
at noon. He is sitting by himself and
the early sun makes his eyes look
bright yellow. It is his first time here,
and he is taken, going on about how,
in some Native tribes, the person
who got the highest status was the
most generous. I tell him I tried to
explain the atmosphere but you have
to experience it first hand. "A
Country! We need a country founded
with these principles. It doesn't
matter if it doesn't last or gets
corrupted! Why is there cruelty when
everyone prefers otherwise? It is so
much more fun to give than go on
gathering stuff." Gene continues. I
have a smile on my lips.

Dee and I are lounging in front of
the Airstream under a tarp, lazily
checking out the contraptions
passing by in our "street". She is
reading The Maggot, and I'm reading
sentences here and there over her
shoulder.


Encounter

Standing in line in front of the Porta-
Potties, I can't concentrate on
anything; too much movement, too
many colorful costumes and blinking
things in the air and on the ground.
"Do you mind if I go first. I'm in
need." I turn back, and to my
surprise, for the voice seemed
coarser, I see a tall girl in white
bikinis. She is unusual looking, with
dishelved hair, and high construction
boots. "Sure." I say. When I'm done,
she's waiting for me. I hadn't noticed
her green eyes before, or how she
held herself, self-mocking and
amused. She spoke as if reading
from a book, waiting to craft every
sentence like a multi-faced prism.
"Thanks, patient." She says,
squeezing my hand. "I'm Mart. I'm at
Faith and Serious, in a white tent.
Before dinner-drinks, if you want."
On the way back I'm wondering how
old she is. A lot younger than I first
thought, somewhere between sixteen
and twenty something, but as hard as
I try, both extremities seem plausible.
The speech a bit too learned. I don't
mention anything to Dee, and feel
guilty about it, but also more
dreamy. "There is a pottery class
today between five and eight. You
get to keep what you make." Dee is
telling me. "Hmm." I answer.

In the afternoon, we strike a
conversation with a man with grey
braided beard on a bike. He is from
Irika, at the border of California and
Oregon. He is a miner and with his
partner purchased sixty acres of
tailings from old mines to recover
some of the gold left behind. "The
tailings are like reversed ground. The
big rocks are on top and finer soil
beneath. We didn't realize how
heavy the boulders were, so we
started selling them to the
landscapers and before we knew it,
the rocks were bringing in more
money than the gold ever could! And
they are on top! Trucks just pull over
and load them up!" We never find
what we hope, but activity, or the
journey, are constantly unlocking
doors. We are forever thankful to
this Bounty-World full of wonder.
White sand rises like smoke, black
mountains crisp in the horizon.
Happiness rides behind us. As we
get older, we recall the days of no
pain, but when we sit with no pain,
we want pleasure, or more.


Wish

Five o'clock. Dee is gone. Can I not
go? Walk around the Playa instead.
As I'm debating, I'm half-way there,
a bottle of Champagne dangling
gingerly in my hand. A white tent,
white sand ground. Mart is wearing
lace pants, white. The corner of her
eyes narrow and bend slightly up.
She is beautiful. Her beige hair, cut
like nothing I've seen before. "Hi."
She says, dragging me in with a
smile. We are on the floor, she is on
top, panting, eyes open now more
than they should. God! All this
attention! All this lust! What is she
on? It doesn't take long. I'm utterly
out of my league. She is now asleep,
I am hard inside of her, the
champagne bottle at the entrance,
forgotten. Now my head is racing. In
the back of my mind, this was a
possibility but it happened so fast
that I had no time to react. I get a
glimpse of the peaceful face from the
corner of my eye, her profile with the
right curves, childlike and serene. A
feeling of wellness descends upon
me. I'll deal with whatever needs
dealing later on. It doesn't matter
what happens to me. This is an
important event. I cherish the fact
that she took charge. I cherish being
wanted. What happens when she
opens her eyes? When she notices
the lines around my eyes, sober, in
the harsh light of the morning? "You
are gorgeous." She mumbles in her
dream. I'm thinking that I've fallen
asleep in the lounge chair next to
Dee. I force myself to remain
motionless. Her breathing is strong,
thirsty. I wait to wake up. My left
arm is completely asleep under her
head, and I can't feel my fingers. I
untangle myself, still hard since I
haven't come. It is dark outside. I
take the bottle and melt into the
night. The stars are out, and soft
music is coming from somewhere, a
Hayden waltz sung by angels. I get
lost for the first time, and then
overshoot the Airstream. I must
have walked by it. Dee is not back
yet. I lay down, helpless. Sleep at
last. Remember? I asked for nothing.


Lucky

Now I'm following Dee's bike
through a maze of carts. Now we are
on a merry-go-round. Now we are
climbing slabs of granite. Now I'm
sitting in a corner of a dome listening
to Jazz, or is it Heavy Metal? Finally
back to the white tent. She runs to
me, holding me by the shoulders.
Same clothes, same taut face. "I have
to tell you about me." I start. She
laughs. "Why?" "To explain why I
ran away." I say. "Ok." We sit down,
and talk, and talk. Montreal, Ottawa,
Toronto, Dee, Kim, Suzy-May,
Diamond Springs, vs. Singapore,
India, Nepal, Vegas, Jeff, Mary-Ann,
little Sarah, Sainte Thea center for
addiction control, two years at
Mom's, seclusion, loss. We are
inches away. I am lost in those
illuminated eyes. "Jam, you came to
me. I followed you the first day.
Seeing how you held your
sweetheart. As I was packing I was
saying please, please. No more
attention. No more guys trying to be
funny, or whatever. Let me look
around, please. Something soft and
beautiful." And what can I say?
"What would you like me to do?" I
ask. "Let me think about it." Mart
finally says. "Be brave." She adds
while pushing me gently out.

If I had rear view mirrors, I would
have seen the tent receding, a jewel
in the night. My mouth is dry.
Exhausted. The joy is gone, replaced
by something like dread, but not
quite. "Where were you?" Dee asks.
Why not? Another session of pouring
out. I just skip the emotional depth. I
realize that she is crying. I laugh. I
always do, and she knows me well. I
just hold her and softly describe the
physical beauty of Mart, about the
absence of malice. The absence of
want. Just what is. Dee knows there
could never be another one, at the
hospital, holding her hand while they
carry the two months old Suzy away.
Two people joined by invisible,
indivisible thread. I realize that
whatever I do, I do for others. "I
want to meet her." We walk together
to the white tent. Mart is sitting at the
far end, waiting. She doesn't seem
surprised. "I have been saving these
for a special occasion. I think this is
special enough for me." She has three
purple pills in her palm, oblong, with
the word "Lucky" clumsily etched
across. Dee is considering. I can see
that she is impressed by Mart. In
Middle Ages, they considered Beauty
a gift from God, a sign of being
chosen. Although what does it really
mean, when it can be so easily
influenced by a couple of ads? Or
paintings? Or cave drawings? A
young supple body, not too much
physical hardship for women, the
opposite for men. Men. I am still a
boy and shall die a boy. "What is it?"
Dee asks. Mart says she is not sure,
all she has is the word of a trusted
friend who swears a mind altering
permanence. We are now sitting in
the middle, the two women holding
hands, and I a little to the side. Dee
too is shy. She is flushed and laughs
a little strangely. Whenever my eyes
lock into Mart's, I feel a deranged
obsession in them. How much do I
know her, after all? What makes me
believe anything she says? The
ornate details I guess. We have
decided to go for it. The atmosphere
seems devoid of danger. Anticipation
makes our hearts beat fast. What is
life but instances of intense being,
when you remember every detail,
every syllable in every spoken word?
The pill is already in my stomach.
Mart and Dee are making out. They
are sweating profusely. And then
they disappear. I am taken aback. I
don't feel stoned, just warm.
Actually I feel warm all over. The
tent hasn't changed. How can
anyone live in such a bare space?
What about water? Then I'm back to
the vanishing act. The sand doesn't
feel wet where they were. It doesn't
even look disturbed. What on Earth?
I am breathing deeply, to counter the
rising terror. A voice inside of my
head is saying "wait it out. This too
shall pass." My feet are unsteady. My
hurt foot is numb. I take myself
outside. Everything looks the same.
The same orange people chanting
about Santa being overworked, the
same cloudless sky. I finally make it
to the Airstream. It is also gone. Its
spot is empty. No trace of tires on
the sand. If my head wasn't buzzing
so loud, I could make sense.


Home

It is Saturday, the day of the burn. I
wonder from camp to camp, always
looking, and coming back to the
white tent. There is a fog in my head
that makes me loose track of time.
Decors change in an instant, the
person in front of me, old, then
young. My reality is like a series of
disjointed takes. It goes on and on.
The days seem to take forever. I miss
the burn, but am dancing in the ashes
with some unknown man who calls
me honey. It is the next day, people
packing, faces forlorn, cursing and
bumping their heads. I ask for a ride.
I hook up with a lesbian couple in a
red jeep with matching rings, giants
with short cropped hair. The ride is
instantaneous. I get off in Placerville.
But it takes two hours to hitchhike to
Diamond Springs. Then I'm walking
on Jeff Road. It is paved, not a good
sign. The house is not the same. No
carport, different cars are thrown
around. "Can I help you?" asks a
middle-aged woman with alarm.
"I'm lost." I reply and make my way
back down. Now what? What was
that pill? I go to the stream and drink
from where Rich and I went for a
shower under the fall. I eat
blackberries for a while, until my
stomach begins to hurt. I have no
wallet, no money, and even if I did,
I'm not sure anyone I know is here.

The next day, I walk all day. Rudy's
place is bare. The burned out
remains of a house stands where he
tied his horses. "Wanna come back?"
booms a voice in the clouds. No, not
clouds, just distance. It is a familiar
voice. How long has it been? A
week? Shouldn't the effects of Lucky
be fading out? "You didn't make it."
Says my amplified voice. "You died.
The three of you. You were
intertwined. It took hours to
untangle you." "What about the
kids?" I ask. "Affair of the State."

At last something that made sense.
Emotionless, I stand on Pleasant
Valley Road. The cars are a blur, and
a barrier. I wait.

To everyone at Burning Man,
I love you all.

The characters in this book start by being real.
They are not.