Blue Moon

*Spoilers*

Last night it happened. Breaking Bad - the only TV show I watch - ended. The finale, a play on words titled Felina, was perhaps one of the greatest series finales in television history. Throughout the entire episode I trembled with nervous anticipation, waiting for some sudden misstep, some calamitous ruin to befall the series' nearly perfect run. But Gilligan, who crafted the story with a Heisenberg level precision, wouldn't allow that to happen; he'd invested too much blood (Fe), meth (Li) and tears (Na) to let it fall now. Everything was meticulously well thought-out, right from the opening scene - Walt sitting in a stolen snow covered car, praying for safe travel back home, Marty Robbin's song El Paso foreshadowing his fate: 

I saddled up and away I did go,
Riding alone in the dark.
Maybe tomorrow
A bullet may find me.
Tonight nothing's worse than this
Pain in my heart

The ending was so expertly done it was actually two endings in one. There is the ending Gilligan gave to his audience, us addicts: the fix. An ending where against all odds Walt ties up every remaining loose end, outmaneuvers all opposition, reasserts control and ends things on his terms. Delivering lethal doses of retribution, revenge, a small redemption, some semblance of justice. Vengeance. This is the first ending. Viewed this way the ending feels good. But what about the moral implications? "The whole thing felt kind of shady, morality-wise, y'know?" Cue the second ending, one that exists as an open-ended question. Should we feel good about this? Despite the horrific things he'd done, the monster we'd watched him become, in the end did he get to have the last laugh: achieving victory in death? Is that a message thematically congruous with series? Doubtful.

I've poured over dozens of reviews today, half of the critics hailing Heisenberg and the other half hanging him. What I haven't seen a single person say though, is that IF we view Heisenberg's death as a victory, and it makes us feel uncomfortable to think he died at peace, then the episode was a success. The fact that we as an audience might feel he got off too easy illustrates just how far he'd fallen. Thematically it reaffirms the notion that evil exists and sometimes the bad guys don't get what they deserve. This point was already made painfully clear with Hank's murder; the good sheriff lost. For Heisenberg to be dealt a harsher death would be a fairy-tale ending. Breaking Bad is no fairy-tale, it's a tragedy almost Shakespearean in scope. The tragedy of it all, is that he kind of does get away with it.

What of the idea that we were watching Walt outwit Heisenberg the entire episode, eventually sacrificing himself to destroy his criminal alter-ego? In those last moments, the glimmer we see in Bryan Cranston's eye isn't Heinsenberg's, it's Walt's. His satisfaction from knowing that Heisenberg can't hurt anyone anymore. 


The religious allusion throughout the finale was strong too. Beginning early in the episode when Walter makes the phone call from a gas-station pay-phone, the tall metal light behind him standing stoic and ominous like a giant crucifix. And before that, he sat entombed inside a darkened car like a cave, evoking that famous dead martyr. For the first third of the episode he exists in the background out of focus, a stalking specter shrouded in shadows - like a ghost. In the Schwartz's home he appears framed in flames, a symbol of the Holy Spirit. The overtly religious scene with Jesse, the obvious moral symbol of the show, bathed in gold light while woodworking; again, like that famous dead martyr. The rooster atop the cabinet near the ceiling during Walt's confession to Skyler, a symbol of intelligence and perseverance in Christianity and Judaism alike. The nativity-like quality of Walt's visit to baby Holly. The three lights like halos over the pool-table behind Walt in Jack's hideout before the gun goes off. When Walt sacrifices himself to save Jesse, he's dealt a mortal wound on his right side near to his ribcage; like that famous...Felina is saturated in this kind of imagery, right down to the final scene as the camera pans up, tracking his soul's ascension to heaven. 

As much as Walt invokes imagery of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Heisenberg represents the Morningstar. Like Lucifer in Milton's Paradise Lost, he is a villain you want to love. He possesses a relatable kind of evil, good intentioned, sensible and seemingly justified in his actions - like that famous garden snake. The whole thing plays out as though Tarantino, Milton and Sergio Leone sat down and created a modern retelling. It's beautiful and brilliant and so so bad. 


As I've said, I loved Felina. In a sepia colored reverie, Gilligan laid that shit down like a master craftsman, leaving us yearning to covetously cradle his beautifully carved wooden masterpiece. But if just for the fuck of it, I had to I take issue with something, it would be the last song played as the camera pulled upward. Tonally it just didn't fit with the episode's feel, though it was lyrically sound. Something more like Cowboy Junkies' Blue Moon Revisited would've been a nicer fit emotionally, but I'm nitpicking now.

Squiff & Scutter

Yesterday I woke up at 6:00am thinking I'd get a jump on the workday. It was an exercise in futility; the work wasn't ready for me. I stayed up anticipating an email that would tell me when I should expect to begin, but the email never came. Instead, at 8:00 I received notice that things would be delayed until 2:00 at the earliest, but not to worry - because there were other tasks to tend to in the meantime.

Luckily things feel into place as promised, and by the time 2:00 rolled around I'd made a significant dent in the pre-work. I was wrapping up just after 5:00, when a friend texted me inviting me to a super-hero themed party. I told her I needed to shower first, to wash off the film of filth that had sat itself atop my skin - a side-effect of working on a sunny Saturday. By the time I had showered and checked my phone, they'd left the party and relocated to a pub called The Napper Tandy. I cast my costume aside; it seemed I was to remain a mild-mannered Bruce Wayne. I got in a cab and picked up James who told me a tale of triumph that'd transpired earlier in hurling for Clare.

When we arrived at the pub we greeted our costumed comrades and celebrated. I ate a burger and far too many fries. Fries slathered in cheese and curry, others dressed with garlic and parmesan. I drank Stella; she was perfectly effervescent, gold and delicious. Andrew and I talked of great literary figures like Joyce, Wilde and Twain. To his surprise, and mine, I'd never read Hunter S. Thompson. I blame Nixon. Andrew told me about the time he had been awarded a prize by Seamus Heaney, considered by some to be one of the most significant poets of our time. We noted that Heaney, Joyce and Wilde were all Irish. Being half myself, I think I have a shot. I'll have a nobel prize in no time.

Somehow we were all outside, all seven of us piling into a cab.  On the ride Andrew and I mused on The Wanker's Dilemma - is he the wanker or the wankee? The clearest illustration of the 'interdependence of opposites' that I know. We exited at Public Works to attend a block-party. When we arrived at the ticket-booth they told us entry was $30. I tried to peer behind the booth to see whether it was worth it - $30 seeming exorbitant to me - but the booth cleverly concealed the party from view. I knew we were being robbed, but I was unsure whether it was at gunpoint. The woman looked to be clutching something hidden beneath the table, seemingly pointing at me, but I couldn't tell for sure. I remembered a self-defense course I had taken suggested communication and compliance, to avoid resisting. Timidly I said, "I have my wallet in my pocket, may I reach for it?" She nodded. I removed my wallet and tossed it onto the table, slowly putting both my hands up to indicate I was unarmed.

Once we passed the booth we saw the block-party was inaptly named. 'Quarter-of-a-block-party' would've been more accurate. There was a DJ playing a milk toast brand of uninspiring house that not even he wanted to dance to. We half-assedly pretended to dance, maintaing mediocrity for as long as we could bear it. The trick for executing a seamless squiff was passed to me while we drank cider and continued to feign dancing. The squiff - a beautifully onomatopoeic expression - is not unlike a silencer on an assassin's pistol. When done correctly, a soft hissing should be heard, similar to a slowly deflating bicycle-tire. It's the only way ninjas know how to flatulate. To do so, firmly pull one butt-cheek completely aside, and fire. Use it wisely friends. Next I was bestowed a true gift. An Irish word I had never before heard used. Scutter. Also onomatopoeic, it describes the kind of dastardly defecation produced by a night of drinking and eating poorly. The kind of sound a dysfunctional locomotive might make: marked by huffing, puffing, and sputtering. I relayed a story about a time I had gone out with a girl back in New York, both of us having drank heavily and eaten Mexican before she invited me back to her place. As things became more horizontal, with a hiss the captain came over my internal-loudspeaker and informed me my stomach was about to hit a deep pocket of turbulence. As gracefully as I could, I excused myself to the bathroom - which to my exquisite dismay was in the same room, behind a thin wooden door. Without knowing it then, I had prayed for a squiff, but delivered a scutter. The sounds crashed and beat upon the door while the smell crawled under and out into the room, tattling on me. Somehow I wasn't disqualified. Maybe she was a fecalpheliac.

Soon we left the block-party and tried to gain admittance to Brick and Mortar across the street, to visit a friend who was bar-tending. The bouncer at the door refused to waive the cover charge and Bryce, unaware of our arrival, was helpless to help us. We relocated to Zeitgeist where Andrew regaled me with stories from his younger days. He told me about some pranks that had been played on him by an expert prankster. One of which involved a submission into a poetry contest wherein his friend had entered a poem under his name. Andrew had been out sick for a couple of days, and when he returned to class people seemed to whisper and point at him saying "that's him, that's the guy" as he walked through the halls. Not knowing what was going on, he headed to the cafeteria where he saw an enormous banner (which eclipsed all of the other entries) with his name and the poem 'he' had written: I am beauty, let me live.

At some point we had arrived at Danny Coyle's, but our stay there was brief. We walked to The Page, where we closed the bar. But not before we talked about the most successful male of our species: Genghis Khan. We contemplated the number of partners he must've had over the course of his reign. What a day in the life would've looked like. At some point the phrase "Concubine; concubine; concubine: I'm Genghis Khan" had farted from someone's mouth. I want that t-shirt.

Or maybe one that has "KHAAAAAAAAAANN" written above Genghis' face.

Breakfast of Champions

(Taken by moi)

Ok. Yesterday's post may have been a bit too heavy-handed with the homoeroticism. I was pandering to a particular audience; a mistake I will not make again.

Perhaps a story about my recently critical reader? Let's give him a name: Spink. A portmanteau hailing from his Asian phenotype and Hispanic ethnicity. Again, that adolescent ingenuity. 

Spinky had been born a natural victim. Anyone could see it just by looking at his Alfred E Newman-esque face. I knew it in fifth grade when he pronounced Ross Perot as Ross Parrot. He invited an unrelenting kind of ridicule. But he was a sweetheart; astute; a good listener; a dependable friend. On this particular day, he and I had spent our time in the classroom examining the potential ways we could throw a party at his parents' house while they were away. We had it all figured out.

With my fake ID I'd take care of acquiring the necessary supplies, and he would host. We'd send the communique through a select network of friends to keep the party tractable and ensure the presence of pretty girls. A party without women is like soda without bubbles, and nobody likes flat soda. Or flat women. 

The party went off swimmingly. In his sister's bedroom I wooed a girl who would become my longest lasting partner. A mutual friend met his future fiancée that night too. The depravity crescendoed when a girl (that future fiancée) collapsed onto the floor laughing as she told me I had pubes for hair. Good times were had by all, until the morning came. 

Everyone hurried out of the house leaving Spinky and I to clean up the last of the evidence. He told me he needed to eat something first and asked if I wanted breakfast. When I answered yes I had no idea it would be one of the most decadent meals of my life. He had a true culinary gift, Chef Spinky. While he cooked I swept up stray pieces of potato-chips and popcorn and cleaned up areas of the kitchen that had been made sticky by spilled beer. Before I knew it he was calling me to the breakfast-table to join him for a feast. I sat down and saw what he had prepared: a half-full, stale 40 of Budweiser, peanuts, three burnt strips of bacon and a hot-dog placed inside a stale bun he'd mangled and ripped apart. A crusted bottle of ketchup beside an expired bottle of mustard stood watch over the meal like Royal Guards. I was speechless. Proud with himself, he proclaimed it "the breakfast of champions," as he smiled and raised his hand for a high-five. I stared at him and asked "who's gay" while he sat there with his hand in the air. He muttered something about ungrateful fucks and removed an exquisitely grandiose silver fork and knife from the poorly torn piece of paper-towel beside his plate. He tucked the paper towel into his shirt and looked at me as if to say I should do the same. Still shocked, I began hysterically laughing. He thought he was good. I told him this was the worst thing I had ever seen and that he should be ashamed of himself. "You're right," he said as he quickly stood up from his chair, "I forgot the O.J!" He returned from the fridge with the juice and poured himself a glass. 

I had a game I liked to play with Spinky when he was eating. I'd try my best to make him laugh at the exact moment he was swallowing - a game that would prove almost fatal nearly a decade later - and this breakfast was no exception. What I had said to make him laugh I've forgotten, but what happened next I'll never forget. He snarled and slammed his silver knife down abruptly, chipping his plate, and his hands rose toward his throat as orange juice burst from his nostrils like twin volcanoes. Eyes wide and rapidly blinking, he began violently coughing and belching before jumping to his feet sending the chair crashing to the floor behind him. I followed him as he ran to the sink, not to help him, but to continue making him laugh. He waved me away as he gagged and hiccuped between suppressed laughter, but it was too late for him. I had delivered his coupe de grâce. Hunched over the sink heaving, he emitted a sound kind of like a long burpy scream, culminating in a wet outpouring of vomit. He cursed me and told me I'd ruined breakfast. 

I told him it was him who'd ruined breakfast, as soon as he'd cooked that meal. 

Mothman's Over the Top Delivery

Its come to my attention that my writing has become tiresome. The banalities of my day-to-day aren't fit for the internet. So instead, I'll tell a tale from my youth. 

Back in high-school, when we had just begun driving (our parents' cars) we drove just for the sake of driving. Near and far, at all hours of the day or night. So long as someone could get a car. Often times we stole them. We played the radio loud and sometimes we drove fast. The newfound freedom of it all encouraged adolescent ingenuity. Competitions were held for who could jump out of a moving vehicle and still hit the ground running, or who could drive the longest without touching the steering wheel. You know, the responsible safe stuff. We were cowboys pushing the limits of our newly inherited metallic horses. 

On this particular morning I was enjoying the comfort of my home, without a desire to go anywhere or do anything. My phone started to ring and I answered it. A friend, let's call him Mothman - in an entirely separate story he'd eaten at least a dozen moths just so he could boast the title of Ultimate Master - wished me to join him on a cruise. I told him that I wasn't going anywhere. "C'mon man, I'm already outside your house. It's nice out, let's go for a drive. You know you want toooo," he said. "Dude, next time, call before you come. I'm not going anywhere," I replied and hung up the phone. I was in no mood for his antics, which were often over the top. He called me back immediately. I didn't answer. He called back again. Again, I didn't answer. Another call. Finally, realizing he wouldn't relent until the sun had fallen, I picked up and yelled "What the fuck man?! I told you, I'm not coming out. You always do this shit. Call Nick or Tony." "Bro, I'm here. I want to hang. Don't be a pricky dick. We'll go wherever you want," he said. "What don't you understand? I don't want to go anywhere. I'm chillin,"  I said. "Ok, what do I have to do? I'll do anything," he pleaded. Shrewdly, he played right to my teenage-boy's penchant for humiliating my friends. I glanced over at my brother, and a sinister smile spread across my face. I motioned at him, pointing at the phone and waving him over to listen. "Ok, you'll do anything? You sure Mothman? Anything," I asked. "Yea, let's see what you got," he said, accepting the challenge. "Climb out of your sunroof naked, without hanging up," I said. The without hanging up part was just a meaningless addition to the terms. My brother cackled and darted toward the window to watch Mothman make a fool of himself. "Hahaha, you bastid. Ok, fine. But if you don't come out after this, I'm going to come up there and beat your ass," he threatened. He asked for my word, the only thing a boy has to bargain with, and I swore. Boyhood was often an investigation into the limitations of propriety. This would prove a hilarious experiment.

From the second floor window my brother and I watched his Volkswagon Jetta bustle and shake like a bush full of birds while he disrobed. Because it was a nice day, the streets were peppered with people, and we were giddy with anticipation for their reaction. Soon, like a newborn baby exiting the womb, his head emerged from the sunroof. With the phone to his ear, he hesitated momentarily as he watched people passing. I saw him speaking into the phone, but I had thrown it aside in disbelief as he began climbing out of the vehicle. I picked it back up and heard him say he didn't believe he was doing this and that if he got arrested it was my ass. I laughed and wished him luck, attacking his resolve with the word pussy. In defiance, with his head cocked sideways to keep the phone stuck to his ear, he pressed his arms into the roof and lifted himself out. 

Rolling onto the roof like a dead body, the phone slid from his neck and fell onto the floor breaking into multiple pieces as the battery and its cover scattered across the asphalt. The sound attracted the attention of any onlookers who hadn't already spotted him. As the phone fell he reached for it, shifting his weight awkwardly, which caused him to slide a bit too far down the rear windshield, his skin squeaking against the glass as he went. A little girl screamed and her mother gasped as she took the Lord's name in vain. The commotion was matched only by mine and my brother's laughter. We wiped tears out of our eyes as we watched him scramble for the pieces of the phone. He futilely began to yank the car-door, which he had absent-mindedly locked from the inside. A crowd of shocked people watched, only a few of them laughing. He leapt onto the top of the car and clumsily fell through the sunroof. He had the grace of some fearful prey fleeing a large cat. The car shuddered with shame as he hurriedly got dressed. People began walking towards the car and he sped off down the block. Still gripped by uproarious laughter, my brother and I almost didn't hear the phone ringing. I picked up and heard him panting. Exasperatedly he said "Get the fuck outside now! I'm circling back around the block." 

I paused for dramatic effect and said "Mothman, I'm not coming out. You didn't stay on the phone the whole time! Ahhhahaha ahhh ahhahaha hahaha haaaa haaa haaa ahhhhhh!!" He said, "BRO! WHEN I WENT BACK THROUGH THE SUNROOF I FUCKED UP MY DICK!"

Cereal Killer

Today at the gym I stepped on the scale. Lady Justice removed the blindfold from my eyes and revealed to me the weight of my actions. Or, inaction. For the last month I've maintained sustained inaction. I haven't exercised, or even considered the health consequences for any of my decisions; I pled the 5th. I stood silent on the scale, trying to avoid confessing the heinous crimes of omission I'd committed against my body. In the last 30 days I've consumed so much millionaire's and billionaire's bacon that I've become a tried and true trillionaire. I've gorged myself on McDonalds, cupcakes, muffins, pastries, chocolate, red wine, beer, burgers, ice-cream, candy, decadent desserts in indulgent proportions, pizza and Kit-Kats. Gimme a break. The Three Musketeers told me they can't save me now; not even ol' Baby Ruth. The scale doesn't lie: 7lbs. Oh, I forgot the Swedish Fish, but I only ate those in my pescatarian phase. All things considered, that isn't too shabby. So what if my abs look like a loaf of bread instead of the back of a muffin-tin? Who cares if I have two chins? The more to love you with my dear. 

As the judge, and writer of this tale (stenographer really), I've already sentenced myself. A month of solitary. Just me and salad. No tossing.

After the gym I went to work and received a cryptic text from my mother concerning my sister. There was a shooter presumed to be on campus at my sister's school. She said my sister was in lockdown trapped in a classroom until the gunman could be apprehended, but my mom couldn't get in touch with her because her phone died. I spent the next hour scouring the internet for news updates while praying my sister was safe. I wondered why people find schools a viable target for violence. Why not the DMV or the Post Office? Downtown in gridlock during rush-hour maybe? The line for the bathrooms at a music festival? But not a school. Why a place where people go to improve themselves, to learn things, to help people? That would be like bombing a yoga studio or a physical rehabilitation center for injured children. Then I thought about the perpetrator's state of mind. Perhaps motivated by a pained powerlessness or deep feelings of inadequacy. Fear and hopelessness. Inefficacy. Alienation. A gun then, provides fantasy and a cure. To assert absolute power and control over the lives of those around you. To make them feel as scared and helpless as you do. A misguided attempt at liberation and even communion resulting in death or incarceration, or both. Or maybe the killer wants so badly to be that he kills not to harm another, but to fulfill his self-image as something irreversibly abhorred, abominable. I'm sure the psychological profiles have been mapped out. It's tragic to think love can be so irretrievably lost to allow for such monstrosity.

Soon my sister texted me letting me know she was ok, that I didn't have to worry.  

Speaking of worry, Monday I woke up in the throes of a harrowing intoxication. I had gone to sleep relatively sober just after eleven, but I woke at 7 with terror's hand around my throat. My vision was incomplete and blurry, movements slow and strained; equilibrium nil. Everywhere I tried focusing my eyes hurled me into spiraling corkscrews of vertigo. Anxiety, like a barbed-wire-wig, sat atop my skull clawing at the back of my head and neck. I stumbled from my bed to the bathroom like an anesthetized toddler. Trembling from some unknown fear and foreboding, I struggled to brush my teeth, repeatedly having to stop to breathe. I wondered if it were possible I was lucidly sleep-walking. I crawled back into bed and decided working was not an option. It took me 15 minutes to write a sentence on my iPhone explaining I wouldn't be in. I wondered if I was having a psychotic break. I closed my eyes to escape the thought and woke up at 3pm drenched in a depression that stuck to me like wet clothes. Had I pissed the bed? "You're in trouble," I thought. No, urine trouble. Fortunately, for me, there was no pee-pee in my pantaloons or my sheets. 

I sulked and skulked around my apartment in a daze, wondering if maybe I'd had a seizure. I considered going to the doctor but figured he'd dismiss me given the wine I'd drank and the herbs I'd smoked the night before. Why are doctors always so quick to blame altered states on substances that alter your state? I think my state is still California.

Instead I laid in bed and ate nearly 3 boxes of cereal, serially. Seriously.  

Falling Down

My friends are all homeless. I have tattoos and an arched spine. My skin is cracked and hard. I never go anywhere. I'm always supporting people. No one thanks me, no one cares. People just walk all over me. I'm half buried already, but I'll outlast them all. 

If one more person pisses on my leg I'm going to collapse. 

Hope is the Thing With Feathers

Is there nothing more mournful than a ball of feathers, 
All dirtied and darkened, 
Pressed into the asphalt like gum.

That which once soared, 

Reduced to a thing dead. 

Unable to become unstuck. 

Winds no longer kiss the tips of its wings,

Its breast, banished and flattened,

Forever a stranger to the smiling sun.

Worn by the pavement, as a tattoo.

A symbol of possibility, of immutable hope. 

Muted, impossible. 

A dead dream. A fossil. 

Come Dance With Me

How do I begin to describe last night's show. It was incredible. Easily one of the best live performances I've ever seen. I expected it to be good, but not that good. Before the show myself and James had a few drinks at Pier 23. Before he arrived, I drank alone leaning against the back of an occupied bench. I looked over the attendees and saw an eclectic assemblage of people. Many of them the wealthy and well-off type, which confused me given we were to see a band of musical dancing gypsies dressed in rags. Unprovoked, a big breasted bartender poured me a shot of whisky to drink with her, and rather than explain to her that my crippling acid-reflux prevents me from doing shots, I accepted the gift. I spent the next 60 seconds cringing and resisting the urge to regurgitate.

Walking to the show I ate 3/4 of a double-dose square of medicinal chocolate. While we danced to the tail end of Midlake, a Burner from last year stumbled upon us, making a cameo. We chatted and laughed at the odds. Once she left James and I became engrossed in a talk about the power of gift giving. The satisfaction received when something is given, and how it is in everyone's collective interest to give without an expectation of something in return. Because when something is truly given, there is something gotten. For everyone involved. I then offered orgasms to the women surrounding us. I think someone left to call the cops and James and I hid ourselves deeper into the crowd. "I hope they play Man on Fire," I said, "whatever else they play is a bonus." James, with unwavering certainty said "Of course. They're going to open with it. C'mon, what other song would they open with if not that." I hoped he was right. He said he was hoping to hear Jangling, and I suggested they might play it after Man on Fire. Our words were eclipsed by the cheer of the crowd, and the band began to appear on stage.

Edward Sharpe, looking like he'd come straight from Black Rock, greeted the crowd and began repeatedly humming a note, as if tuning us to his key. As we fell in with his vibration, so did the band and they were ignited; Man on Fire. The throng became a dancing swaying sea of singing euphoria and everyone's voices sounded to create a single unified roar, now tuned with the band so that we were all one sound. I danced through the depths of a kind of abandon I rarely achieve. For the duration of the song nothing was felt save unadulterated bliss and the dissolution of the self to participate in concert with something larger; all our bodies burning, becoming one big sun. He got the whole damn crowd to come dance with him. 

To our surprise and merriment, Jangling played next. The eerie accuracy of our prediction infused the air with a magic supernatural quality. That and the edibles. And the beer...and shots. With Jangling, the band worked us like marionettes, making us jump and dance maddeningly for the duration of another song. I cannot recall the last time I'd seen an opening so well executed. They dressed the songs in difference enough to keep things new yet familiar. They told stories and let fans sing songs. He walked into the crowd and sang happy birthday to someone. Their performance was the embodiment of gift giving, through music. Almost every song played was one requested, including a few covers. He asked one of his percussionists to sing a song, and the percussionist took the stage. He sang one of the most soulful songs I'd ever heard a human being sing. When I closed my eyes he was transformed into the ghost of a sultry African-American soul-singer straight from heaven's gate. When I opened my eyes I literally could not believe that voice came from the mouth of a man. There were moments I couldn't help but utter phrases like "oh my fucking god," "holy fucking shit," "are you fucking kidding me," "fuck," "pfffft, wow," "damn it." 

They played until the very end, until the venue killed the lights toward the finale of This Life. It was a powerful show and they held no punches. I felt I was kidnapped and taken away from the world for a short while and brought to a place where there was only sunshine flowers and sandy beaches. The entire experience felt religious. An angelic possession. 

It was the kind of performance that makes you want to quit your job and spend a year following them from show to show. Just to feel that energy again. Just to be a note in one of their chords.

But I don't wanna pray to my maker
I just wanna be what I see
Not just who I am, but the pink in golden land
And that wide wild sky over me
Help me to the sun, hey I'm looking everywhere
See I'm looking to become not the prayer, but the prayer.

- I Don't Want to Pray

Our Bodies Burning

I'll have no time to write tonight; another show; Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. I'd previously written a review of their most recent album, and I can't wait to see how they handle themselves live.

I've heard good things.

-----

I’m a man on fire
Walking through your street
With one guitar
And two dancing feet
Only one desire
That’s left in me
I want the whole damn world
To come dance with me

(Oh, come dance with me)

I’m a hunter at bay
Come set you free
Over heartache and shame
I wanna see our bodies burning like the old big sun
I wanna know what we’ve been learning and learning from

Everybody want safety (safety love)
Everybody want comfort (comfort love)
Everybody want certain (certain love)
Everybody but me

I’m a man on fire
Walking down your street
With one guitar
And two dancing feet
Only one desire
That’s left in me
I want the whole damn world
To come and dance with me

Yay, yay, come dance with me
Over heartache and rage
Come set us free
Over panic and strange
I wanna see our bodies burning like the old big sun
I wanna know what we’ve been learning and learning from

Everybody want romance (romance love)
Everybody want safety (safety love)
Everybody want comfort (comfort love)
Everybody but me

I’m a man on fire (he’s a man on fire)
Walking down your street (walking down your street)
With one guitar (With one guitar)
And two dancing feet (two dancing feet)
Only one desire (one desire)
That’s still in me (that’s left in me)
I want the whole damn world (I want the whole damn world)
To come and dance with me (come and dance with me yeah)

Mazzy StOrb

Artist - Psychedelic

Why doesn't anyone ever talk about moonsets? Early this morning I left my house with the sun still sleeping. Looking left toward some vague and tawny brightness, dipping down toward the western horizon, I saw a giant golden orb of the palest marble. It was the moon, softly setting, and it was beautiful. There is a tender sorrow in the moon, a hopefulness matched only by its loneliness. If it had a voice it would be Hope Sandoval's. 

At The Orb concert last night, myself, Q, and a friend of his spoke briefly about the Mazzy Star album So Tonight That I Might See. I excitedly disclosed that it was one of my favorite albums of all time, before either of them had indicated whether they loathed or loved it. I praised her ethereal reverb soaked vocals and smoky nostalgia; a voice both detached yet strongly emotive. The crisp stuttering of cymbals, the subtle tambourine, the rattling of something shaken, are all pure percussive perfection. It's just minimal enough to convey mood without seeming attention seeking. I mean, a portion of the album is just her voice accompanied by arpeggios and gently humming strings. Her dreamy elegant sound blends shoegaze, psychedelia and blues to create a richly atmospheric album capable of filling a room with a thick haze. There's something reminiscent of fire in those songs. Her voice, bewitching, slowly sways, rising and falling, laying itself over you, consuming your ears as coldly as a flame. 

Whoops. This was supposed to be about The Orb. 

Having only recently been exposed to them, I hadn't yet formed an opinion on their music. After seeing the show I can say with certainty that they're a masterful duo. At first, when Uncle Fester and an emaciated Bryan Cranston appeared on stage, I was doubtful, but soon they took the flattened discs on their turntables and spun them into lush, three dimensional soundscapes: orbs. I was immediately transported back to Burning Man and regretted not bringing any psychedelics, though the show was enjoyable without them. I was mesmerized not only by their sound, but by the awesome psychedelic visuals they had paired with their music. I feel I've used the word psychedelic too many times this post. What's a synonym for psychedelic that isn't psychedelic?  

MastORBation

I'm en route to see The Orb. Q scored a spare ticket, and I filled the space. As I will later tonight, when his anus becomes 12x more vacuous at the clock's striking of midnight.

Today was a significant day at work. The coming days will reveal how successful, or unsuccessful we were.

The second day back in the gym, there isn't an inch of me that isn't completely racked with pain - guilt and torn muscle fibers stinging - all sinewy and scabbed.

My body is like one giant broken hymen.

An Exercise in Debility

I considered dedicating Day 0 to this post, desiring to drag the Burning Man story out with a Lucas-esque fervor, but that part of the tale will have to remain with The Profuser and I. Has anything significant happened since I've returned? My beard is gone: a casualty of war. Its absence makes my face look small and deformed - chinless. I look shameful, like a soldier stripped of an earned medal. Today was my first day back in the gym after a nearly 3-week hiatus. Talk about exercises in humility. I felt like a ghost of my former self; easily fatigued and quickly weakened, like Superman trapped in a room full of kryptonite. By the end of the workout I was lying on the floor, dripping with sweat and panting like a hot dog. The only difference between a hot dog and a hot-dog is a hyphen. My body is still aching, more each minute I'm awake. It is fascinating how quickly the body will turn to a gelatinous bag of crippled fat during brief periods of disuse. I've been told it will just as quickly bounce back, but I'm doubtful.

Ok, I've got nothing.

My mind is still wine-stained from the weekend. 

Day 2/1

Day 2


The first two days begin to become too intertwined to separate into discrete events, but I'll try. Tuesday may have been the day Kim found me at camp. Earlier, I was riding around with The Profuser and he had mentioned how difficult it was to find anyone out there on the playa. We prowled the DPW Ghetto to try and find his associate, The Cobra Commander, but to no avail. Prof pontificated that we'd never be able to find anyone - his friends or mine. He turned out to be wrong on both counts, not yet aware of the magic hidden in the desert dust. 

Back at camp I was spinning poi in the sun, and as I glanced up I saw Kim standing there smiling. Excitedly, I dropped the poi and rushed her, elated. I hadn't seen her in what felt like years. We briefly caught up and she introduced me to her partner Simon. He and I spoke at length about fear and trust, vulnerability and love. The sun, low in the sky toward the west, glowed pink behind a thin curtain of dust, as though silhouetted behind a steamy shower door. There was a quote Simon had relayed, one which I enjoyed, but it escapes me now, frustratingly. 

I gave them a tube of glow-sticks for safety and sent them on their way, encouraging them to chase the sunset around until it came up behind them. I'd see her soon at Chelsea's wedding.

Come to think of it, I'd seen her at some point before the wedding, maybe Wednesday...during the day? I can't recall when it was exactly, but Prof and Yu had wandered over to 8:30 to try and find Kim's sister Chelsea, who we luckily saw in between camps. We said hello to her husband Nolan, and then she led us to Kim. There we met Hadley, an awesomely cool and artistic Aussie who regaled us with short stories he'd written and art he'd made. We laughed and ate the most delicious vegan pancakes I'll likely ever eat. Kim kept feeding me, telling me I was too thin. I wondered whether I was to be a human sacrifice later in the day. She had me sit in a big iron cauldron black and bulbous, full of grey-water, while they placed small logs around the base to get an idea of what they were working with.

I don't remember what happened that night. Perhaps the Profuser and I rode out to deep playa where we looked in awe upon the city in all its electromagnetic glory. We stumbled upon a movie theater, ostentatiously furnished, with a feigned brick facade, elaborately crafted victorian chairs and carpets adorning the entry. Thrusting through the darkness we came upon a sculpted cock decorated with still smaller cocks. Amused, I exclaimed "Wow, a giant dick with dicks all over it!" Laughter sounded from within, so we quickly dismounted and crawled through the shaft to greet the invisible occupants of the testes. A couple and their gay friend, lounging in the warm and furry scrotum, greeted us...warmly. All of us, made soft by ecstasy's soothing song, conversed and laughed like swimming sperm inside a pair of big old balls. Another group, hearing our revelry, shot at us menacingly with magic laser wands. Luckily the gay guy was armed with some alien technology and he fired shots into the air, ejaculating light and sound. We heard one of them call out "I've been hit. Got me right in the eye." We all laughed and emigrated out via the vas defrens, searching for some other place to occupy. 

Strangely, I wanted eggs. 

------------

Day 1

Ozymandias

Shouting woke me during the early morning dawn, after 3.5 hours of sleep. Latecomers (or early, depending how you look at it) announced their arrival and assailed our ears asking for assistance. Jay bellowed and marched militantly from tent to tent like Gestapo. I hid under the air-mattress inside my tent like Anne Frank, in tears, praying he wouldn't find me. Soon, finding I was unable to sleep due to the coming heat, I exited the tent and revealed myself to the new regime. They turned out to be fairly self sufficient and required none of my help. 

I had breakfast, and took a shower with baby-wipes. I applied sunscreen and cracked open a beer. The day had begun.

Incremental repairs were made to the bar and the dancehall. I wired blue and white lights onto the spokes of my front and rear tires, and I zip-tied a basket to the back of my bike. Storage and lights, check. The playa beckoned me but there was work to be done at camp. Cold beers kept us cool. The breeze painted smiles across sweaty faces. 

Once night fell, armed with rock-candy and some poisoned porcini, the Profuser and I vanished into the dark twilight. We marveled at explosions and fireworks, and saw a giant multicolored LED dandelion. Or maybe it was a toilet scrubber. Then I was saved by the reanimated remains of a colossal sea serpent, its ivory bones danced and jangled around me like wind-chimes while I lie prone beneath its razorsharp teeth. Then we stumbled upon one of several zoetropes. With this piece of art The Profuser was sold. I saw it in his eyes. He got it. Standing there, amid strobes and far away flames, fireworks sizzling the air overhead, the night's potential swelled like a rising wave. 

We rode it toward the next zoetrope which wasn't animating. The desert heathens couldn't organize an organic beat, and instead each of them banged on drums to their own discordant rhythm. I saw that I needed to take action; the piece beckoned me to remedy the situation. I entered the circle as the Chief, and commanded the Indians with my persuasive percussion. The primal jungle beat I began banging besieged the disorder, drumming up a semblance of unity. Soon the piece started spinning and lights started pulsing. I stared up and watched a swinging ape devour a snake, and continued to stare, hypnotized, the art devouring me. Walking back to old Prof, I saw he was still entranced by the crazed carousel. "Come on," I said, "it's time for some carousing."

We rode ourselves ragged looking at all the art that night, and we needed rest. We stumbled across some aptly named asylum: Deep Heaven. We sprawled out on comfy couches and pillows, dim blue christmas lights glowing all around us. The sound of a girl laughing kept the smiles from leaving our faces. We watched people drive by on kaleidoscopic and colorful hover-boards. Art-cars full of fog machines and lasers danced past us, bouncing in time with their passengers.

My eyes gently began to close. On ecstasy in Deep Heaven.

Day 3

At this point, Wednesday isn't a day that exists. Rather, it lurks and creeps in the dark alleyways of my memory like a thief. I think that was the day The Profuser and I went to the medic to ascertain the amplitude of his ankle. Was that also the night of Kim's sister's wedding? I cannot remember the day. If it was, the wedding was grand.

It happened outside The Temple, on the northeast side, as the sun was slipping away over the mountains. There was a Burning Man Brass Band, and much dancing. Love perfumed the air, made it warm with tenderness. Vows were exchanged, as were rings. Kim and I disappeared into The Temple after the ceremony; my memory is too wrinkled then. I remember we held hands and each placed our free fingers against the stone; electricity, dissolution, euphoria, bodilessness, buoyancy.

Later, I found myself dancing on a golden dragon named Abraxas. Soft melodies danced like fire-flies on breezy violins. As I stepped down, a beautiful girl told me she had been waiting for me. I didn't know what to say. Beauty's power to stun is rivaled only by fear's.

The Profuser and I made our way back to our camp. That night a friend told me some unexpected news, though it was a predictable story. I wandered out onto the playa alone. I sat on a couch and counted the stars. Sounds and visions passed over me; some real some imagined. A stranger sat beside me. Young and exuberant, though humbled by his youth, he asked how my night was going. We talked candidly and opined without restraint. He reminded me of me when I was younger and I enjoyed the time we spent speaking. Soon though, the hallucinations - aural and visual - rendered me autistic, and I explained I could no longer understand the words coming out of my mouth. He smiled and dismissed himself. I sat for a while longer, marveling at the really unreal reality of this unrealistic place, and enjoyed the lights.

I walked back to the camp and headed straight for my tent. When I closed my eyes to sleep, geometric patterns and fractals danced behind my eyelids. My mind was asleep but my body was still awake. I felt like a jellyfish, see through and brainless, floating gelatinously through space. I dreamed/hallucinated lurid landscapes. My sleep would last a few minutes before I would wake, but each dream was heavy and wet with detail. My mind like a sponge, being repeatedly soaked and squeezed. At some point I had to walk to the potties, completely unable to tell if I was walking, dreaming, or sleep-walking. Fortunately, I actually got up and left the tent, but it didn't help my sleep at all. I closed my eyes but it just felt like I blinked.

I spent the night hallucinating that I was sleeping.

Day 4

This is where things begin to get fuzzy. The days bleed together becoming a tangled knot in my memory. Thursday may have been a day I spent mostly alone. I think I slept in a hammock somewhere after visiting a friend who had been bar-tending at Pink Mammoth. He had another friend visiting him, a co-worker of his, who wasn't in the highest of spirits. He was disenchanted and downtrodden on his second burn. He said things like "I'm starting to think all burners are assholes," or "look at that girl over there, she's like some high-maintenance playa-chick." I began to tire of his sweeping generalizations and baseless judgements. He carried on by complaining about how every girl was with a guy, overlooking the fact that he might be one of those guys if he'd stop complaining and ditch the negative disposition. His gravity began to grate and pull on me, so I left.

I rode around in the midday sun, sleep-deprived but wanting to dance. It was when I passed a tall teepee full of exquisite Persian rugs and shaded silky hammocks that my desire to dance wilted and died. I laid down. Slumbered. I woke and somehow felt more tired than I had before I slept. Stumbling out of the teepee, I swayed and staggered as the sun stabbed at my eyes. I struggled to unlock my bike and eventually wrestled it free of the drunken bikes that had fallen over on top of it. I rode toward the radio station, through a stampede of hundreds of human rabbits, to get a schedule of the live musical events for the next few days. A boy, probably 13, was working at the station. He helped me get the information and I was back on my way. I mused about the fact that the adults here are drug addled and useless, but the children are manning the radio station and handing out pamphlets.

Back at the camp, nearing sundown, I spun poi as the sun was setting and spoke to a few passing spinners who severely outclassed me. I haven't practiced nearly as much as I would like to. I think once night fell, I rode out to watch some structures burn, but only caught them as they smoldered. I tried to reconvene with the crew out at the bliss statue but I had gotten there too early. I rode out to deep playa to explore while I waited. I got caught in a giant spiderweb and gazed up at the stars. Fireworks exploded overhead and there was laughter and excitement in the air. I relaxed in the web, stuck to its stillness. Soon I left and was ensnared by a dance party on my way back to the statue. I skirted the outskirts and peddled back toward the spot, but it appeared either the party had dispersed or I was mistaken as to where my friends were.

After riding around a bit more I set course for camp. I think Prof was there with Sherwin and Vincent. I think we smoked a blunt. What happened after is foggy and indistinct.

The sleep I had teased earlier in the day came back, making aggressive advances. I took her to my tent and laid her down.

Day 5

*From yesterday

Friday, then and now. Today is the unlucky one, the 13th. I fear for what lies in wait for me tonight. What depraved dangers will covetously catch at my soul. It is a friend's birthday, and a dance party and a reunion. It will not end dry. As I type, I have my phone in one hand and a rosary in the other. Preemptory prayers; I'm pleading to St. Monica, reciting St. Francis. 

Back to Burning Man. Friday was the night I needed a prayer most. Funny, how cyclical things often are. 

I woke and dined on the finest of foods. Those fit for champions; fruit cups, coconut water, multi-vitamins, flaxseed Aussie-bites and organic peanut butter. I may have also eaten some potato-chips, because I remember wiping salty flaky crumbs from my beard. It could have been dandruff, or the dusty crust one picks up in the desert from practicing sustained neglect and embracing homeless hygiene. Either way, the meal was decadent and satisfying. I saw The Profuser eyeing me enviously as he munched on some stale pistachios that had fallen on the ground. He washed them down with a nice 80 degree bottle of Propel. I, on the other hand, had left the my coconut-water in the shade, and was treated to a tasty 70 degree dose of potassium fortified hydration. At Burning Man, it's all about the electro-lights. 

Prof was still out of commission Friday. I went with him to the medic earlier in the week, where they assessed his ankle-itis. Apparently, he had danced his ankle into oblivion, crushing it under the weight of his frenzied jiving and jumping at Pink Mammoth. So while he mended his wounds, I set out with Tonya to cruise the playa and drink some frozen drinks at Distrikt. 

When we arrived, we danced our way to the shade and safety of the bar, ready for a salubrious potion said to soften anything sharp. As Tonya produced her ID, with dread I realized I had left camp without mine. Luckily, I was traveling with a seasoned professional. Teaching me a trick she had learned in junior-high, she applied moisture to her freshly stamped skin and pressed it carefully against my wrist, deceptively duplicating the mark. To celebrate, we stormed the bar and demanded they provide us with an abundance of icy beverages, or else. We were going to breeze our frains. 

With heads like ice-boxes, we mounted our metal steeds and peddled toward Kim's camp. Kim alerted us of a free pizza giveaway nearby and we bolted for the baked bread, but arrived too late. Disheartened, we set out to find friends at Disco Knights. From there, with reinforcements, we marched to Celtic Chaos and danced in the courtyard of a castle, protected from the powerful gusts of dust that gushed past whiting out the sky. Each of us clutched a cup full of punch and steadily sipped it like an IV drip. Our medicine. 

On our return home, we swung by the French Quarter searching for scraps, but couldn't scrounge even a Canadian Nickel. We arrived back at the camp and I dined on what could have been chili, but what was probably a protein bar. I showered and slipped into my pink rabbit onesy. With a beer in hand, I hopped on top of the winnebago just in time to catch the sunset. I slow danced with the sun, rocking it in my arms and laying it inside a tectonic cradle. In appreciation of my dance, neighbors on a nearby RV invited me over to drink some home-brewed absinthe. It tasted like a deliciously devilish licorice. I thanked them for their generosity and gracefully departed. 

Walking back to the camp, all the creatures were stirring. We decided to meet at Robot Heart and dance to our hearts' content. I let everyone know I'd be seeing Random Rab at 5am, and invited anyone who was interested to join me, knowing no one would show up given how late his set was. We rode out and half of us arrived at Robot Heart. I literally danced my fucking tail off. We swam and floated around the art car like a school of fish as it traversed the darkness. Like a butterfly I fluttered away to discharge an actor in search of an exit. I left the bathrooms and headed back to the party. In my absence more of our crew had arrived and we danced. Instinct told me it was near 2am and I broke off to see Beats Antique at the place Random Rab would eventually play. I arrived an hour late and had missed their set. So I did the only thing I could: ex tea sea and much rooms. 

Enjoying my solitude, suddenly, a shit crashed my party. It rushed the gates and stood aggressively pounding on my back door. Quickly I hopped to my bike to gather a roll of toilet-paper and scrambled to the potty. The line was long and my entrails were so bloated and heavy that I thought they hung between my knees. After what felt like centuries, I made it inside the vile stall and realized I was wearing an animal onesy. How was I going to get this off without touching the walls, which were smeared and sprayed with piss and shit. Shit!

My anus, spasming and seizing, insisted on urgency. I hurriedly unbuttoned the suit, squirming and wriggling, playing a frightful game of operation; my nose already reddening. The drugs weren't playing well with the stench, inadequate light and the sensation of impending doom. Frantic, hopping around the port-a-potty like a frightened rabbit on meth, I got the upper half of the costume below my waist while clutching the rest safely against me. I bent over and blasted a cannonball of feces from my ass capable of sinking a ship. It sounded like curdled milk spilling from a milk-carton in fast-motion. 

Over the next few hours, in the throes of hippy-flipping, this occurred several more times. I was the Easter Bunny at Burning Man, hiding wet chocolate eggs inside darkened port-a-potties. Each time the bathroom becoming more and more gruesome; my supply of toilet paper ever dwindling. On one occasion, I watched an attractive Asian girl open one of the blue doors, shine a light inside and promptly about-face, returning to the line beside me. Thinking the booth to be simply out of toilet paper I approached and opened the door. What I saw can't even be adequately relayed here. But I'll try. It was truly horrific. A port-a-potty in need of an exorcism. The byproduct of 24 hours of sloppy drug-induced human excrementation, allowed to fester and pile up out of the container like a brown Pyramid at Giza. There was literally blood sprayed onto the floors and walls, mushy mounds of shit like steeples sat on either side of the bowl. An irrefragable human sacrifice had been made inside, that much was clear. I too about-faced and walked back beside her, horror all about my face. "Can we commiserate about that," she asked. "I don't know what I just saw...how...I...it..." was the only reply I could muster. We hugged deeply out of fear and disgust. She smelled good and her skin was soft. The sound of a door opening separated us and she said farewell then walked in. A second later she had exited and I asked "another nightmare?" "No toilet paper," she said. "Here," and I handed her my roll. She smiled and told me I was cute, tore a piece for herself and kissed me. Another door opened and like that we were gone. 

I arrived at the dance-camp and Random Rab soon began his set. Out of the crowd, Seamus emerged with open arms, and we embraced. Shocked, and tripping, I felt my face didn't adequately convey my happiness at his arrival. Seconds later, before I was finished processing his presence, Krista appeared. I was overwhelmed by the gesture and lauded them. The excitement stirred something in my stomach and I went from a 0 to shit-your-pants in seconds. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I tried to stay and chat, thinking "mind over matter." I realized the mind is almost always over matter, but what matters is that you don't have a smattering of matter in your bunny onesy that changes you from pink to brown. I told them I had to run to the bathroom, and left my canteen with them as collateral. As an offer of good faith that I'd return. 

I took off sprinting. After my previous trips to the shit-rooms, I'd had enough sense to leave the roll of TP in my pocket, to eliminate the time it took me to retrieve it from my bike. My bowels were quaking at a 9 on the Richter scale. From the way things were looking, I was about to create a new Chicxulub crater right there in Nevada as I stood in line. Thankfully, the playa was spared and the toilet took the brunt of that burden. "When will this end," I asked myself aloud in the stall. Either someone outside or in the adjacent stall replied, "when the fat lady sings."

When I returned to my friends we danced to melodious beats accompanied by live vocals and stringed instrumentation as the sun came up behind us, warming our backs. After the show we rode out to Robot Heart for Lee's sunrise set. I was hesitant to go given the nearest bathrooms would be a bike-ride away, but I wanted to show solidarity. Especially in the face of my very un-solid stools. Soon though, the crude began bubbling, and like Jed Clampett I inherited its fallout. I told Seamus and Krista I had to go, and I made my way back to my bike. As I walked, a beautiful girl spotted me and leapt to her feet. She ran toward me and jumped into my arms. Surely she must think I am someone else I thought. "Who are you," she asked as she wrapped her arms around me. "Oh my god you're so soft and cute and cuddly," she added. The unfathomable cruelty of the universe at this moment was fully directed at me and only me. Of all of the possible moments for a gorgeous girl to quite literally fall into my arms, this has to be the one? With my asshole puckering, my rectum recoiling, shit slithering through it like a liquid snake tsunami, she found me. "I want to hang out with you, you seem fun; what's your name," she asked. I gently released her and as I walked toward my bike softly said, "I'm the white rabbit and I'm late...I'm late." "Aww! You're funny! Oh my god where are you going, you can't leave," she said sadly. Tearfully, from the physical and emotional pain, I peddled off.

I wanted to cry.

I was flattened by the irony of being cock-blocked by my anus.

Day 6

Saturday, for me, was the longest day in the desert. Largely because of the assault on my anus late Friday night into Saturday morning, but I'll get to that tomorrow. 

I saw the sun rise over the horizon, cherry-red above the pale mountains. It looked like a freshly dipped candied apple, slowly dripping thick light. Two friends and I rode across the desert to a party celebrating the sunrise at Robot Heart. As we rode, we passed dozens of onlookers, marveling at the splendor of daybreak. They sat enraptured, splayed out on the ground beside their dusty bikes with smiles plastered on their faces. Joy shined out from their eyes as brilliantly as the star they gazed upon. 

We danced and were surprised by friends who had appeared from last year's burn, dancing beside us as though none of us had ever left. Forsaken by my stomach, I left the dance party to return home, nearer to my sanctuary of blue corrugated port-a-potties. 

I stood in the street outside our camp resting against a street-sign, wearing a half undone pink rabbit onesy tied at my waist. Standing there, eating a protein-bar as though it were a chocolate covered carrot, I greeted my early morning cohorts as they wearily peddled by. "What's up Doc? Need a beer?" The women, beautiful and softened by exhaustion, would smile and stop, telling me it was too late for a drink. "Nonsense, it's early; the day's just begun." Soon my two friends arrived back from the dance party, and we discovered none of us were ready for sleep. We had a few drinks and remembered the night. I realized it was Saturday: "tonight The Man burns."

Though we resisted mightily, soon, sleep took us. I woke in the blistering midday heat, a thin film of sweat and filth blanketing my skin. I felt like I had tossed and turned on top of a bed of used condoms. I spent most of the day at the camp, trying to conserve my energy for the burning of The Man. I spoke to an Australian girl named Kaitlin for the majority of the day. It was her first burn and she was anesthetized with ardor and danced with anticipation for the burn. We talked of love and its vicissitudes. The beauty and pain of the human experience. The occasional loss of loneliness. I showered and soon the night was upon us.

Our entire camp of crepuscular creatures walked out to The Man, some of us inevitably getting separated on the pilgrimage. Fire-spinners danced and flung flames into the curious night air. Applause and then silence. A hissing followed by a few ribbons of smoke. White sparks shot from The Man and fireworks began to plume. Like sirens they screeched and cried as they ascended, like sparkling birds of effusive light. The indistinct darkness was alight with clamor and chaos. Flames engulfed the saucer's base and the inferno culminated in an explosion that gave off a bright flash, dark smoke and a wave of heat. The flames rolled over one another orgiastically, seeming to spawn more flames.

We retreated to our mini art car - our mobile sound-system that had been dragged out onto the playa somewhere between 3:30 and the charred remnants of The Man.

Myself and two K's, beside a fire-breathing octopus, watched a church burn to the ground.

The remainder of our time was spent dancing in swirling sandstorms, the beats breathing life into the dead of night. We danced until our legs refused to move, drained of all their might. 

I dragged my body like an iron coffin back to camp and sighed to crawl inside before the morning sun met my eyes.

Day 7

Sunday was a day spent slowly.

I woke, after having been out late the night before, dancing to an incessant rhythm. James approached me just after waking and informed me we would be breaking the camp down today, to avoid a hurried and stressful decamping on Monday morning. I rallied the troops and we begun dismantling our base. Many hands made light work, and we were mostly done with the heavy lifting within a few hours. The loose ends took a bit longer, and I spent almost all of the day getting things in order. 

Half of our camp departed and partied at Pink Mammoth for a portion of the day. A friend was DJing there, spinning slow melodies and blissful beats for the weary and wounded. Everyone was back before sundown and we intended to head out to the playa to watch The Temple burn. The best laid plans. Half of our crew were late to the event, some were on foot, others on bikes. We were splintered and scattered. Myself, The Profuser and Yu were together for the conflagration.

The Temple burned. Emergent cyclones churning, kicking up dust and charred debris in the flame's wake. It is rare to see something so meaningful set ablaze, slowly consumed by flames, reduced to glowing embers and smoke. Wet mournful eyes reflected the flames like mirrors; mine shone like glass. The burning of The Temple signifies a new beginning, letting go of the past, the end of the burn. 

Letting go requires a recognition, a brief regression. You have to allow yourself to feel what it is you're trying to let go of. You have to reflect on it, let it pass through you one last time, swirling around inside and outside you like inhaled smoke. 

Turning it over in your hand, inspecting it for the last time, you let it fall into the fire, to be burned; carried away into oblivion, where everything eventually...

There's something both sad and beautiful about The Temple burn. It is a moment that is both the end and the beginning; remembrance and forgetting; moving forward while standing still. There should be a word to communicate something that is equal parts beauty and sadness. I find myself recognizing these qualities in things that are powerfully affective; a beautiful song, a well written line. 

...love.