On My Way Home
by Barbara Sicuranza (continued)
Today is cooler and calmer then the past and Chris and I make way over
to the pyramid where Pogo invites us to take off our clothes and come
on upstairs for sweet shade and comfort. Pogo, my friend from New York,
a fantastic free spirit, is looking a splendor in his apeman costume for
the upcoming Opera this night. We enter the pyramid; it is a massive and
impressive structure. The ground floor trembles with drums and dance.
We climb upstairs, strip, and are soon laying about having our tarot read
on a rolling homemade deck. Everyone is naked, some are intimate but most
are sitting chatting, chanting. Indulgent, soon I'm eating cheese, then
chocolate, rare treats in this environment. The whole experience feeling
deeply sensual but not overwhelmingly sexual. I sit in the small window
and let glorious light crawl over me. Oh, so lush. Chris lounges and fills
my eyes, so lovely. He entertains his own eye, forever the photographer.
Soon I ruin the mood and ask Pogo if he would be interested in checking
out some forms so Chris and I can apply for our Green Cards. He laughs
and says, "Sure I'll take a look at your forms". The form requires we
do service for the camp. I do a little belly dancing number for Pogo and
the tribe. Chris offers his photos he has taken of Pogo, pending development.
Pogo eyes him, unsure if he has fulfilled the required service, and marks
the paper accordingly. The form also asks, "Was soup consumed"? Pogo writes,
"Not Yet". We hung around the pyramid absorbing a bit more magic before
turning in our forms to Teddy at the post office. Teddy with a keen eye
notes Chris' service discrepancy, and after some discussion and bribes,
he is approved. Our passports were stamped, we were issued Green Cards
reading: "OFFICIAL BLACK ROCK CITY CITIZEN This card certifies that the
Bearer of this card has successfully attained the Black Rock City (BRC)
Immigrations, Nationalization, Socialization Services (INSS) citizenship
through the INSS Spontaneous Volunteerism Program (Form 18794A/2C). The
Bearer of this card is a known participant of BRC, and as such is entitled
to all of the privileges encompassed therein and is exempt from spectator
status. Should the bearer of this card be found spectating, it should
be known that they have earned entitlement to this activity. Also let
it be known that the Bearer has either eaten or promised to eat soup".
Sun was setting, growing darker and cooler, we venture to camp costume
up and consume, yep, you guessed it, consumme, or rather, some soup straight
outta the can. Those polyester skeleton suits we found at the thrift shop
come in handy as the temp drops from 90 to 40. Mike happens by, the photographer
boy of our hitch is home, he asks if I' m eating my soup cold. I say "yes",
merrily. He says, "yum" and darkly withdraws.
Now for something completely different, Kevin flys in. The other half
of our hitch, all brawn and beauty in his batman outfit and a charming
cowboy to boot. Yee Haw. Night falls, and we crawl. Pitch blackest, save
star spots leaking, peaking through the clouds. We weave through camps,
sight by torchlight, Christmas lights, flashing disco lights, glowing
raver sights, firelight, neon and sparkling light. I wasn't even on drugs
and the scene was a wild and crazy trip. Chris and I fall into the stereo
egg chair and sit cupped comfortably together, and get down with James
Brown. I stop in at Elvis Yoga to fire out a few rounds of sun salutations
and your basic yoga wrap and roll, executed to " shake rattle and roll."
A 12 foot neon head rolls by, I think there are a couple of people in
it. I see Robots. A thirty-foot fire breathing dragon is battling a smaller
dragon, puppets are serving drinks and insulting people, dancers and dreamers
are passing by, pixies and pyrotechnics; this place has everything. Chris
comments that this artistic explosion should be an ongoing event. We talk
about what it would mean to create such a community, the problems, the
potential, this fantastic playground, the escape from our twisted world.
Jump start, change civilization, kick culture. He thinks, however, the
hostility is too big. Give it another few years, a few thousand more people,
and they'll be killing each other. I hope he's wrong. I like it here.
I watch this technicolor dream drip by and uh oh, oh no, here comes the
rain again, drip dry, by, bye.
Retreat to our "home" camp, no treat and another reminder to never, ever
under any circumstances purchase a 20 dollar tent from K-mart. The zipper
has broken and there is no way to keep the water out. Lightening flashes,
and we hear Burning Man radio suggests riding out the storm in a car (its
grounded). Stay out of tents, away from metals. Chris and I spend the
night in Mike and Kevin's rental car. Thanks for that hitch, that home.
Let's hear it for the boys. Bleary, sleepless at dawn we dispose of our
shitty tent and shake and angry fist at the giant corporate K. We creep
to Center Camp for morning ritual coffee and local paper action. A fantastic
group of cybergoths are taking their manmachine for a crawl. He is crawling
about on robotic limbs. Here a Satyr, there an angel, this guy has more
piercings in his cock than I can count. Too much to see...sensory overload.
The heavy, consistent overnight rainfall has weighted the earth. It is
much cooler today and there is nearly no dust in the air. My sandals are
soon caked with thick mud and my feet look and feel like cement blocks.
The two hour tour at Center Camp is capped with an offer of mocha for
barter by the coffee counter boy. I rush to the counter with my homespun
necklace, flashy red beads which reads, "I'm a burner baby." Each of my
barter baubles bore some unique phrase or design. Aforementioned coffeejerk,
scans my offering and flat out refuses. No deal. "No candy raver beads
for me" is his reply. Chris responds with humor, "You can't eat them."
Frat factions in the subculture. This weekend warrior, this 19 year old
eurobrat backpacker decides that an artistic labor that bore my sweet
sweat in the desert this very day, is not good enough for a bloody fucking
mocha coffee. At least he knew what he didn't want, the picky bastard.
Sadly, this exchange briefly affected my mood, but soon we were up, up,
and along our merry way, plenty of roads to choose from and miles to go
before we sleep.
Back on the road again we by chance run into Cary and Justin, a couple
of infamous Dazzle Dancers and all around beautiful folks from NYC. The
day is drying out and the earth is cracking up and falling in chunks from
my filthy Flintstone feet. The dust is also picking up and kicking up.
The air stays fairly cool.
I consider a stop in at Camp Carcass Wash, where you have the opportunity
to strip and enjoy being washed off while relaxing in a plastic chair,
get your hair washed. But the sky is overcast, the carcass washing water
is cold, people are screaming. Maybe later, if it gets above 50 degrees,
I'll get a washing.
Cary pouts about the inclement weather and we ride out another storm at
her camp holding onto poles and fabric to prevent the large dome from
blowing away. A very gusty storm, we squint out and watch neighboring
campers struggling to fill a large portable swimming pool. Cary, reading
the tank asks, "What's non-potable?" I tell her if she goes for a
swim, just try not to swallow too much water. We are all squinty and shouting
through the roaring wind, suffering a head full of dust when miraculously,
a package of dust masks literally blows into Cary's camp at my feet. The
universe provides. Even this barely cheers poor Cary. She's mostly pissed
because it's too cold for her to run around naked. Well it pisses me off
a little too. Cary looks great naked.
