Almost There

by

I can taste the dust.

I can smell those fires burning.

I can.

I am in Reno.

Nevada.

It’s legal here.

Guns and dogs?

Sure.

Racing?

Yes.

Pulling into the Grand Sierra in Reno the parking lot there was a huge mass of racing trailers and trucks.  There was a car race from Vegas to Reno today and in the hotel there is also a gun show and a dog show.

Plus slots, craps, poker, blue hairs, kids up way past their bedtime, tipsy women in elevators in heels that hurt with breast jobs that hurt to look at, I had too, she had glitter scattered across it, overly air-conditioned rooms and scary hotel carpeting.

Yup.

I am not in San Francisco any more.

I am not quite to Burning Man, it still feels way far away, but tomorrow, after one last stop at the Whole Foods to grab salad bar for the road and last-minute food stuffs (mom makes a special dish for the camp dinner) we hit the pavement and eventually the dust.

Today felt like a lot of hurry up and go and stand still and twiddle your thumbs.

It is challenging to be at the mercy of another’s schedule and as the parents were wrapping up their work things, phone meetings, e-mails, errands, I watched the kiddo.

I started my day after a night crashed out on the guest bed, waking early, thinking I may want to sneak in a shower while there was still running water to abuse, but I realized I left my hair brush back at Graceland.

Which sucked, since I had bed head from the night before.

Oh well.

I just brushed that out of my head.

Despite the loveliness of the event it was a one time thing and having suddenly realized I want more, I happily pulled the snarls from my hair.

I did not wash the man out of my hair so much as just brush him away with a small moue on my face and the happy thought that I am ready for something else, some one else, and with that, he was suddenly gone.

Another memory of a man not quite enough for me.

The lover who I was with before I left for Paris is happy and in love and we’re friends, good friends, but just friends, the Mister is too busy with his job, the crush was a fantasy.

The reality is my slate is clear.

I am free and available for dating.

Bring on the men, the boys, the dating, the romance, the bicycle rides, the hands in my hair, I may have to audition a few.  I will know when he kisses me.

It’s been a while since I have had that kind of kiss.

I know it exists.

They say, who they is, fuck if I know, that the playa provides.

I will let you know.

You will be the first to know.

I will have internet access (dad works in tech and we will have a satellite in camp and a hard-line) and thus, I will be blogging everyday.

Yay.

Happy about that.

Happy to be free for what the playa provides, happy to be here listening to the “rock” station at the Grand Sierra and sitting in my underpants writing my blog.

I am practising.

I usually go pant less on playa.

Not under pants less.

Thank you, I am not one of those prone to flashes of nudity.

No, take your dusty butt out of my line of sight please.

It’s been a long interesting road getting here and I was thinking in the car ride up that it has been a year of not sleeping in my own bed.

Really, I left my bed in San Francisco at the room I was renting in the Mission when I moved out and left for Burning Man before moving to Paris.

I could have put it in storage, but I was under the impression that I would not need it.  I would be in Paris for ever and ever and who needs to keep it?

I have slept in hotels, on sleeping bags, in airports, train stations, I have slept on couches, house sat in the Castro, Cole Valley, St Germain-en-Laye, France, in trailers at Burning Man, on a blow up mattress in a very, very, very dusty tent, on a fold out futon couch in Paris for six months.

But not my own bed.

I am willing to work a lot out there, in the dust, to not only make my rent for next month’s move in, but to finally, after a year of transition after transition, have my own bed.

And when I have that own bed, I will have a boyfriend.

Not a one night stand.

Not a lover.

A man.

A partner.

God damn it.

At least I got the information I needed to have.

I am going to go out and have fun and do whatever the fuck I want or whoever the fuck I want, and, oh, I am blowing hot air up your skirt, I am going to be too busy baby wrangling to be getting any.

But I would like a date, a bike ride to see some art, and a kiss.

If the Universe can provide me with a Bambi Airstream to spend my three weeks on playa, it can cough up a kiss.

I believe.

Come on believe with me.

We are almost there.

I am almost here.

That is truly the experience of Burning Man.

Spending half the year prepping, packing, and obsessing about is so that I can be so screamingly in the moment my skin feels like baby fresh nerves of glitter have been spread over me and dipped in dance music.

Time for bed.

Time to let the Universe do what it does.

Time to go earn myself a new bed.

Sweet playa dreams my friends, until next we meet.

Under the hazy moon in a honeyed sunset sky.

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