How About The I am Tired Blog

by

Yeah.

I know, that doesn’t sound really tantalizing, now does it?

Doesn’t really give the reader anything to sink their teeth into, but as I am sitting here scratching my head over what to write all I am doing is procrastinating getting this blog started, so better a bad title then no title at all.

If I can just get into the meat of the motion, get into the action of doing something, than something will come out of the process.

It’s the action.

It’s not the thinking.

I can’t think my way out of a paper bag.

I am like a cat.

Content to sit still and pretend that no one sees me or hears me, nothing in this brown paper sack, move on, twitch, twitch, twitch, swat.

I am a bit more noticeable than that I suppose.

“Look at your blond hair!” She said to me in parting, as we went out ways, she back to Moss Beach, me to 7th and Irving.

Blond now.

Pink tomorrow.

Purple too.

Not exactly tomorrow, but Saturday.

That’s about it, that’s what I was thinking, how can I write a blog about my hair, aren’t I done writing about my hair.

Aren’t I done thinking about myself?

Who’s going to date a girl with purple and pink and blonde hair?

What will they, the infamous they, think of me when I got to Wisconsin for a visit.

Who the fuck cares?

I was also thinking about what I want to submit to the Burning Man blog.

I have been thinking for a while that I should send them one of my blogs about being a nanny on playa, perhaps a kick in the butt to work on a book proposal that I have been thinking about for years.

Again, it’s the taking of action that saves me, not the thinking.

I went into my archives and I have to say.

Fuck, I am a better writer than I was four years ago.

Hell, I am a better writer than I was last year.

The constant daily practice has honed a voice and a style that I have for the writing.

It is spare and direct and concrete.

My imagery is better.

My metaphors better.

My phrasing much better.

The essence is still there, but I couldn’t really read what I wrote.

I realized that if I did submit something to the Burning Man community, a dry run, I suppose for the project, that I would have to rewrite what I wrote.

I would do a new piece.

And that tired me right the fuck out.

I got up and made a cup of tea and decided that I had nothing further to say about it, that it was a stupid idea and who the hell wants to read about adventures in nannying on the playa.

Is there a way to be of service, to share my experience and move forward a community idea or am I just self-aggrandizing: look what I do, aren’t I special?

I am not too sure.

I suppose it’s just that I can see photographs in my head and I would like to have a collective space for them all in one piece.

Ah.

That could be the start.

I could do a photography essay.

That could be the way to go.

I could simply gather all the best photographs that I have taken and put them together.

I don’t have to ask for others photographs, I could use the ones I have in my own photo archives, then seeing the overarching picture I can write the story.

Really the story comes down to how I learned to let myself be more my authentic self by being a nanny at Burning Man.

“You were hiding your Mary Poppins in the closet,” a friend of mine said when I told him that I had been considering toning down who I am and how I dress in regards to a position that was being offered to me.

A position I did not end up taking, but it did allow me to see that indeed I was worried about the clothes I would have to wear.

Would I suddenly be raiding the racks of the mundane, or would I allow myself to flower and bloom and wear pink and glitter and sequins and bedazzle myself at work?

I choose flower.

I am grateful my families are all Burning Man families.

They have all gone to the event.

They have photographs of their experiences there.

They are themselves.

“You’re like Mary Fucking Poppins with tattoos,” a mom, another Burner,yes, said to me last year, and there it was my playa name, after many years of just going by my own name, my own little playa handle was given to me.

I do like to carry an umbrella with me on playa, it’s a great portable shade structure.

I just looked up and saw a polaroid a participant took of me and the little girl that sparked the entire Burning Man nanny gig, the year is 2010, I am wearing dusty blue jeans, cowboy boots, a green tank top, a ruffled apron and huge sunglasses, my tattoos are in full affect, my hair is cropped short and spiky, faux hawk that year, and I have my polka dot umbrella open sheltering my little girl charge from the sun, her hair is in multitude of braids that I spent hours on and she’s got a dusty bandana wrapped around her neck, a sundress on, little red crocs and white ankle socks, she’s sucking on an orange Mister Freeze Pop.

The photo behind that is her in a pink tutu and her mom’s oversized sunglass and me sitting next to her in polka dot tights and my own huge sunglasses.

Not only has the experience of being a nanny at Burning Man helped me to find my inner Mary Poppins, it has also shown me how to better take care of myself so that in turn I can do my job, which is caring for a small child in some very extreme weather conditions.

At the heart of it I learned to love myself because I was employed to love a child.

That is the essence of my Burning Man nanny story.

And that is a service I can do for others.

Go out there, doesn’t have to be Black Rock City, it can just be out in your community, where ever you are finding your niche, and explore yourself, find out what makes you tick and how you love and allow yourself to be that person.

Mary Fucking Poppins.

Or

Fire spinner.

I don’t know, I can’t tell your story.

Only mine.

And mine is going to start with compiling those photographs in one spot and seeing what I come up with.

See, that’s all it took.

Start writing and the answers come.

And I am not so tired any more.

Funny that.

Poppins

MF Poppins

 

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