Number nine.
The Man burned tonight. Saturday. I watched it on a fuzzy full-screen livecast in my friend's basement, idly fingering the playa dust surfacing on the thighs of my Levi's as I shifted on her black leather sofa, wondering whether I'd leave a mark and whether, if I did, she'd be glad of it. Three fingers wept blood, not from sharp rebar or pinching tent poles but from the clips holding pouches to an Army surplus utility belt I'd donned specifically for this, a local Burn Party full of pre-burners, ex-burners and folks who'd stayed home this year for reasons too various to recount. I was the weirdo, the odd woman out, the one who had gone Sunday and come Friday and now faced the inevitable question, "Why did you leave so early?"
My answers vary: "I wanted to decompress." "I missed my dog." "I didn't want to get stuck in Exodus." "I just wanted a short week."
I knew something would get between me and the burn, as it often does. I spent a lot of time alone this year, wandering, sitting, reading, thinking. It was a need for downtime (and a sunburn on my shins) that finally sent me packing at 12:40pm Friday and kept me going for the 11 hours it takes to get from 9:00 & Hummer (Black Rock City, NV) to NE 69th & Burnside (Portland, OR).
But here's the thing: I did it alone. No spare driver, no hotel reservation, nobody waiting for my call. Dinner alone at the Black Bear in Klamath Falls, pink hair and suspicious locals and all. If I had crawled aboard an alien craft, nobody would have known. If my car had caught fire by the roadside, it's only mildly likely that my iPhone and its ICE entry would have survived (and I've only just realized that my long-lost ex was still listed as my first contact--that has now been changed). I just needed to prove to myself that I could, in my 9th year, make it out there and back on my own. Truth be told, I doubt my friends even noticed; the hard fact is that I needed to prove it to myself. I never discussed it with them or with anyone, but it was there from the moment I decided to go. I needed to shack up with a few familiar demons, if only for a short time. I needed to know that those demons may still walk beside me, but they no longer cause me to run.
So I made it home. I unloaded my gear, took a shower, checked my email and crawled into bed with my dog and my comatose housesitter. I awoke early after a fitful sleep and re-acclimated to my life. I watched movies, petted the animals and reminded myself of all the reasons I love who and where I am. I thought about the people I'm proud to call family and friends. I went to a party and reveled in the parts of Burning Man that I missed.
More than that, though, I congratulated myself on the parts of my life that, in the desert and on the road, finally found their place behind me.
The Man burned tonight. Saturday. I watched it on a fuzzy full-screen livecast in my friend's basement, idly fingering the playa dust surfacing on the thighs of my Levi's as I shifted on her black leather sofa, wondering whether I'd leave a mark and whether, if I did, she'd be glad of it. Three fingers wept blood, not from sharp rebar or pinching tent poles but from the clips holding pouches to an Army surplus utility belt I'd donned specifically for this, a local Burn Party full of pre-burners, ex-burners and folks who'd stayed home this year for reasons too various to recount. I was the weirdo, the odd woman out, the one who had gone Sunday and come Friday and now faced the inevitable question, "Why did you leave so early?"
My answers vary: "I wanted to decompress." "I missed my dog." "I didn't want to get stuck in Exodus." "I just wanted a short week."
I knew something would get between me and the burn, as it often does. I spent a lot of time alone this year, wandering, sitting, reading, thinking. It was a need for downtime (and a sunburn on my shins) that finally sent me packing at 12:40pm Friday and kept me going for the 11 hours it takes to get from 9:00 & Hummer (Black Rock City, NV) to NE 69th & Burnside (Portland, OR).
But here's the thing: I did it alone. No spare driver, no hotel reservation, nobody waiting for my call. Dinner alone at the Black Bear in Klamath Falls, pink hair and suspicious locals and all. If I had crawled aboard an alien craft, nobody would have known. If my car had caught fire by the roadside, it's only mildly likely that my iPhone and its ICE entry would have survived (and I've only just realized that my long-lost ex was still listed as my first contact--that has now been changed). I just needed to prove to myself that I could, in my 9th year, make it out there and back on my own. Truth be told, I doubt my friends even noticed; the hard fact is that I needed to prove it to myself. I never discussed it with them or with anyone, but it was there from the moment I decided to go. I needed to shack up with a few familiar demons, if only for a short time. I needed to know that those demons may still walk beside me, but they no longer cause me to run.
So I made it home. I unloaded my gear, took a shower, checked my email and crawled into bed with my dog and my comatose housesitter. I awoke early after a fitful sleep and re-acclimated to my life. I watched movies, petted the animals and reminded myself of all the reasons I love who and where I am. I thought about the people I'm proud to call family and friends. I went to a party and reveled in the parts of Burning Man that I missed.
More than that, though, I congratulated myself on the parts of my life that, in the desert and on the road, finally found their place behind me.
1 Comments:
i just found this. and as a 7th year burner who hit the pavement to the echoes of the exodus volunteer's radio skwaking "the man is burning" i get the ache and the pride and the stranger-in-a-strange-land feeling. and the joy in rest. all of it.
here's declaring i wish i knew you better, dear.
meowz and love. k8
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home