On My Way Home
by Barbara Sicuranza (continued)
Cool weather didn't seem to deter too many of the hippie, pagan, nudist
exhibitionists in attendance. I'll tell you though, the weather was a
factor in our decision not to perform with the Opera as Sunsnake and Moonchild
as per Pogo's request. Could not get into wearing nothing but body paint
in 30 degree weather. But on the night of the burn, hundreds of spirited
naked suns and snakes did, I couldn't help but wonder...body paint.....does
it keep you warm?
Fire in the hole. Fire up the whole. We caught the man already ablaze
and it's going up ahead of schedule, they say, an unexpected spark. All
perfectly normal for playa time. Creatures roll out towards the burning
effigy, and all slowly awaken to new ritual twilight. Fantastic spectacle.
Most everything burns. Except for the giant man made of books. The artist
says he will not burn. "Only communists and nazis burn books", he says.
I decide not to ask him what he means by communists.
We continue to cruise the heavily psychadelic afterburn. Everywhere splashes,
flashes and dashes. Whoosh. They haven't got words for the things I saw.
We take a ride on the largest, fire-breathing dragon. Its like a bus inside,
equipped with a stocked bar. I trade beads for a cocktail, the pretty
barmaid is very pleased to receive them. We hang around a while, waiting
to enter battle with another dragon waiting for us on the playa. The beast
is too heavy, some must abandon the dragon. Tickets are demanded. "What
are tickets?" someone asks. We are informed that tickets are bible pages.
Chris happens to have one in his pocket, it was handed to him wordlessly
as we sat around in Center Camp days ago. Never know when something might
come in handy. We decide to abandon dragonship anyway, wishing the warriors
well.
We head off in search of Dr. Megavolt. He's not too hard to find. Standing
on top of a large truck, between two enormous Tesla coils, encased in
metal, brandishing a metal pitchfork, Megavolt dances with electric lightening.
He splits volts across the sky with his pitchfork and sends currents through
his body and out of his hands. The crowd screams for Dr. Megavolt. MEG
A VOLT. MEG A VOLT. Wouldn't you? Yee Haw.
Around 2AM we pack it in and drift towards the main entrance to hitch
a ride to Reno to catch our 7AM flight to Vegas, then switch planes, and
then on to Denver then switch again and then head finally on to NYC. Only
a half hour of begging at the gate, most of the cars are too crowded to
take us, but we are told once, "I'm sorry, that's just not my thing."
We finally land a ride in an RV with a very sweet ride to Reno. Once inside,
I fall dead asleep, awaking only when we are stopped for speeding. Our
driver, a sober scholar and gentleman, talks his way out of a ticket.
I awake again in Reno around 4:30 AM, as our lift stops for rest before
skipping on to their base in San Fran. Again, lets here it for the men.
We call for a taxi to the airport at an abandoned hotel. Our cabdriver
calls us out as burners saying, "Ya'll smell like cowboys." Uh huh and
Yee Haw. Bet your sweet ass we do. Ripe and right as rain.
We spend the next two hours lurching around the airport with a handful
of scattered, scraggly burners. They're easy to spot in this bleak florescent
light. Very "Night of the Living Dead." "They're coming to get you, Barbara.
Look here comes one of them now." Except, I'm one of them now. Instead
of eating flesh, we smile at each other, knowing, been there brother.
Picking up our electronic ticket seems like a joke, isn't there a form
I should be filling out. We are embraced by a total stranger, a fellow
burner, no mistaking, we all look like the tired tramps we are. This hulking
Scandinavian, laughs with tears in his eyes as we stand on line. We are
leaving and nobody is saying goodbye. We are bringing more than stink
and dust and material exchanges. I'm getting on a plane with more of myself
than I came with. All because, for one week, I was supported and accepted
by a community, in the process of being guilty of nothing more than expressing
my beautiful "self." That is the very same spectacular self you're walking
around with and strangling at the smallest infraction of social misconduct.
The trick in life is letting it go and holding on to something else, this
formless idea of true freedom. Something like faith, a belief in balance,
in duality, the all and the individual.
I got a lot thrown at me at Burning Man, a lot of swimming around in my
soul. We get what we look for. I imagine some folks got really stoned,
saw some really cool shit, got a lot of boners and even got laid. Well,
right on. I think everyone is doing whatever it is they need to be doing,
at any given moment. That's the glory of choice. Hey, it's your canvas,
paint it.
Meanwhile back at the airport filled with grandiose advertisements, and
judgments, concepts imposing who, what, or how I should be or behave.
These lines are so very different. How quickly I remember them, hard,
harsh, and crystal clear. I fear, these meaningless things (I do and don't
want), these people (I could be), this "real" world (I'm in and separate
from). So aware of different directions. Lines we create where lines don't
exist.
On the plane I dream fight club, pyrotechnics, antiestablishment, lost
in my coffee staring at my single serving lie.
But I know a place of my existence - Byron Bellatrix
a part of some mad free collective consciousness
the sweetest piece of my being
is a soul swinging
somewhere between Black Rock City
and "home."
