The Tree of Disbelief.
I sculpted until the light was so dark, I couldn't see the wire well enough not to cut myself on it. Until my contacts burned and my head pounded from squinting. Until a blister flung itself from the soft skin on the inside of my thumb, and I swore that I was bleeding from every fingertip.

And while I was sculpting, I thought about what I was sculpting for: art for it's own sake, Burning Man and my theme camp, the thousands of bawdy revelers streaming through the dome, the joy of watching my hands develop a second nature as they spin flax into gold, my own self-satisfaction at being the artist.

And then I thought about disbelief, and how my own work actually speaks to me. I don't believe in God and I never have, even while I sang 'Born Free' at the top of my lungs on the car ride home from Sunday School. Was that a rational decision for an 8-year old girl? Disbelief was instinct. I don't believe we should live our lives in a way that is not truthful to our own souls, and I weep for the angry middle-aged women who wail that they have never spread their own wings to fly; disbelief is bravery. When I feel my energy sparkle and flow under the prick of an acupuncture needle, my belief in Western medicine begins to wane; disbelief is experience. And sometimes I do things that I know in my belly are wrong, because I am temporarily a slave to my own luxury and sense of entitlement. Sometimes disbelief is a shady deal that our mind makes with our heart, to prevent us from shivering at the coldness within ourselves.

Do you believe me?

Going Home.

From Russ:
"My favorite memory from being on the esplanade was when our camp, Foreplay Lounge, was “raided” one night. Our bar was packed solid... had been the whole night. Piercing through the other-dimensional babble created by all of those people came the haunting shriek of a post-apocalyptic police car. The Mad Max vehicle stopped in front of the Foreplay Lounge and emptied. Five burners wearing riot gear rushed into our camp amidst indiscernible dictations from a bullhorn. Panic seemed to ensue reflexively. “GO! GO! GO!” the loudspeaker ordered. Civilians scattered in the form of a circle leaving the mock-officers to pounce on some slow-moving bystander in the clearing. They wrestled him to the ground and, armed with some lubricant, proceeded to give their victim a brief cavity search. Then, they were on their way faster than you could say, “Lobster Car”. I remember the gasps of unsettled laughter and general amazement which followed. Only one of us was sitting weird, but we were all walking a little funny. A few minutes later, a 40ft dragon and a boy wearing scuba gear inside a giant water bubble drove by and it was business as usual."

Blood Sugar Sex Magik.

Blood.
Cycle One: Igniting
If you look carefully, you can see me as I see myself. Waves crest both in violence and grace, casting out deadlock, mortal enemies of inertia. Cherry blossoms fall sweetly without withering, willing performers in a waltz of transience and time. Pine branch juts its evergreen needles skyward in winter, enduring.

Cycle Two: Carving
The first caress of the gun sends rivers of chi down into the floorboards. Short, short, long, long, a morse code of pain tapping outwards from my spine. I tell the artist what I tell my acupunturist: I can't talk when the needle is on. My brain plays with the sensation, testing hypotheses: penance for the wrongs that I have done, a necessary rite of passage, simply the price to be paid. Tracking the density of my nerve endings, inch by inch as the burning waxes and wanes. An hour later the colors bleed into me, blessedly softer on the welting surface of my backbone. How long before I squeal, weep, cajole, beg for forgiveness, a dishonorable prisoner of war? I drop my head into the crook of my elbow, I can smell him on my wrist, I lose myself in the memory until it's over.

Cycle Three: Cleansing
Unsheathed. The boiling water coaxes crimson from between my legs as it pulls shards from my back, my body and spirit seemingly purging in unison. Yet still, I do not feel empty. Linger behind me, and these pictures will whisper my secrets.

Sugar.
The tip of the tongue welcomes sweet, and then salt, and sour and finally bitter in the farthest corners. Like a lover, a drug, a poison, a poem rewritten as it is drawn in deeper and reveals its true nature to the flesh that can receive it. In time, with our mouths wide open, we learn every nuance. If I tilt my head foward, flavor and fragance tangle like yin and yang. Black coffee holds no mystery with my nostrils pinched shut. The body finds its muse through the soothing balm of their spices intertwined; by this, above all else, will you know.

Sex.
Your eyes are jagged icicles boring twin holes through my breastplate, melting and pooling in the heat in my belly, sprouting hot-pink peonies, dripping slowly down my thigh, molten lava that sputters and sparks as it returns to the earth.

Magik.
You have been met in the darkness by a conjurer of words, wine, and song. A silver-tongued spellbinder has you drowsily in tow, and you will awaken in a country you have never seen. Strength wears many false mantles: the tang of a lime, a hesitant smile borne only by the lips, promises made for their own sake. You true valance awaits you in the warm light of morning; in sleep, the sorceress loosens her lead. Take playful words, honest words, and put them in your pocket for the long journey home.

The waves crash, the cherry trees weep, and the pine endures.

Hemingway wasn't a natural, either.
My mind is soft today, not like oatmeal but like sand, slippery mismatched thoughts rubbing together chaotically as they briefly collide and then carry on their way. They are all unique in their structure and origin, yet I fail to parse them as they glide casually past, catching finally in the small crevices between my toes to be tracked through the house, one tiny idea at a time.

I fear sleep, eight long hours in which precious musings can arise unbidden and escape unnoticed.