Home Again, Home Again

by

Jiggedy jig.

Slowly re-entering the atmosphere.

Slowly.

I woke up from my nap and my first thought was, “fuck, it’s a white out.”

The blinds in the house were pulled, cream-colored blinds, and the sun was filtering softly through the air, all I could see was white and cream and sunshine.

My next thought was, “where are my slippers, I need to go to the potty.”

Ha.

I don’t need slippers, I can just get up and get off the couch.

Secret sauce.

I have not done a lot of getting up off the couch.  I rather knew this might happen, so I did the work that needed to be done before I lay down.  I also was not going to lay down on my hosts beautiful leather couch with my dusty playa self.

Despite being apparently quite cute.

For Oakland anyway.

I got flirted with at the Lucky by two different men.

What’s up Oak Town.

I looked cracked out, or so I thought, and I felt mentally addled.  Fuck, I still feel mentally addled.  How is it that I was completely competent less than twenty-four hours ago, working, grooving, shaking, getting it done, and now I am mental nincompoop.

My brain was left on playa apparently.

Then again, I did not get much sleep.

Not much at all.

After the Man burned on Saturday, best man burn I have yet to see.  And my third, yes third, time in the inner circle, I ran out and about with my new friends–Dubble, Jazz, and North.

Dubble works for the Artery and is the manager responsible for making sure all the art installations on the playa are properly lit.

Remember boys and girls to wear your blinky lights, don’t be a dark wad!

Gah, I hate blinky lights, but you really have a hard time seeing out there, there is no ground light.  Granted, there are camps and areas that have lighting, people do hump in generators, but for the most part, Burning Man at night is a dark, mysterious proposition.

One in which you may fall into the arms of a delicious stranger, or run your bike into the guard wires for an art piece and get your poor self strung the fuck up and yank right out of your seat and scarred for life.

See Mrs. Fishkin’s arms from last year.

Not fun.

See also the ranger that ran right into the guard wires for an art installation that was not properly lit.  Dubble intercepted the call on the radio, I had happened upon him as I was making my way out to the Office for Action Girls birthday on Thursday of the event, and he dashed off to investigate.

The art piece had long guide wires to secure it in heavy winds and the lighting was not sufficient, if you happened to be riding blithely along in the dark headed out to the Temple, you would not have seen it, and insert Ranger, you would run into it.

Dubble yanked a large batch of assorted battery operated blinky lights out of the back of the golf cart, started up a small generator that was hidden on the site and lit the piece up.  Then he jumped in the cart and sped across the playa to where the artist was camped, roused a group of them out of their tents, and got them back to the piece to properly illuminate it.

That was just one of many lights that I watched him place.

I don’t often think about the work that is involved with making Burning Man happen, until I was right there in it.

I have volunteered at Center Camp Cafe and made coffee–tip those baristas people, they bust their asses!

I have nannied–do not ever condescend to the playa nanny you boob, one of the hardest most isolating jobs ever.

I have now fluffed–ice, ice, baby. Heave and tote, service that golf cart, zip here and there, run and fetch.  Fluffers are hard workers, you should see what they do for DPW. This is not a light job, despite the “cute” name for it.

Speaking of names.

I may have actually gotten a playa name–Mistress of all Things Good.

Quite a mouthful, but I like it better than my handle on comm–yes, I had a radio for the first time this year–Mama.

I did not choose that, it was given to me by Juno and Schaasfma.

Oh, I get it, I am maternal, but it feels a little inauthentic when I am not a mother and I don’t know that those are the kinds of shoes I can fill.  I am not Mama Grace and I certainly am not Crunchy Mama, those ladies have shoes I do not even know how to fill.

Although, I got to get some sweet acknowledgement from Crunchy despite my total ineptitude on comm one evening.

Erica and I were out in a dust storm the night the Anubis piece burned.

Anubis Pre-Burn

Anubis Pre-Burn

Anubis Burns

Anubis Burns

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And as we were wheeling about on the golf cart, we came across a man passed out on the playa.

No lights, except a faintly glowing raver stick wrapped around his neck, no shoes, no socks, no coat, no water bottle.

Assed out on the playa.

I asked if he was ok and he was obviously not.

I called 911.

“Where are you?”

Fuck if I know.

I am totally dyslexic, it’s a white out, and I had just climbed Star Seed, a 40 foot sculpture

Star Seed

Star Seed

by Kate Raudenbush, so I was a wee bit exhilarated and scared too, I did not want to fuck up on comm and I wanted this kid to get taken care of.  I was not going to leave him to be trampled by the exodus of people who were going to be making their way from Burn Wall Street (yuck, I did not like that piece) to the Anubis Burn.

 

“Repeat where are you?”

“Uh, shit, um, somewhere between Kate Raudenbush’s bush and Burn Wall Street, next to the Lollipops.”

Oh fuck my mother.

Did I just say I was by Kate Raudenbush’s bush on comm for the entire Media Mecca team to overhear?

Yes.

Yes I did.

Oops.

One of many verbal faux pas I made on playa this year.

Erica just about peed her pants laughing later as we were re-playing the series of events from the on comm verbal diarrhea to the response from the guys at the Bureau of Land Management (God, they were sweet, funny too, although they came across as gruff at first, it was rather hard to take that seriously when they were draped with Mardi Gras beads and they gave us temporary tattoos of Sheriff Star badges), “we’re by Kate’s bush and the Lollipops!”

Giggle.

The people at the Bottle Cap Gazebo gave us a wide berth we sounded like we were high as kites, but it was just the adrenalin.

There is so much more I want to write about tonight, but as the clock ticks forward and my body gets more and more used to being out of the altitude and in the Oakland, I am growing mighty, mighty weary (I only drove through the night, leaving playa at 8:30p.m., three-hour exodus, drive to Reno, no hotels, sleep in rest stop in the Sierras for three hours, drive to San Francisco, drop off Juno’s aunt in the Mission, drive to Oakland, get totally lost, get unlost–thank God for Google maps on my Iphone, go grocery shopping at Lucky, get to Grace Land, unload van, do three loads of laundry, unpack from playa, put away all playa gear in basement after sorting, cleaning, and organizing, take hot shower, eat bowl of cereal, make bed, call off work tomorrow, take shower–oh my God–take nap, wash more laundry, try to get off couch, fail, snuggle with kitties).

Can’t imagine why I am exhausted.

A cup of tea, an apple, an early night.

On a king size bed with fresh sheets next to a vase of flowers I picked from the garden.

Home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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