I dropped off some Burning Man gear to be dry-cleaned today. This is the last chance for me to tend to such matters because, if I go, I'll be leaving midweek. My spine, calcium fortified and well rested, is stronger than it was two weeks ago, which is good news. Still though, whenever I try to answer the question of my attendance at Burning Man, trepidation spills down my spine as though it were a swirly-slide.
So, when I dropped off my big bag of clothes at the cleaner down the block, the short Asian woman who at first showered me with effusive smiles and warm salutations, suddenly looked at me with deep distrust as I removed countless dust-covered bandanas, animal onesies, torn up pants, sweat-stained sheets and other oddities from my bag. I felt like a magician, pulling feral animals out of a sack, earning her reproach and sawing her sensibilities in half. For Burningman?! Umm, yea, I said nervously, scratching some sand from my head. Wait right here, she yelled as she pushed aside some hanging garments and marched toward the back. The clothes, in their saran-wrap sheaths, swayed like curtains as I stood there waiting for her return. I felt like I was about to meet the great and powerful Oz - or, Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkle Emmannuel Ambroise Diggs, to those who are informed.
I heard a low, faint ruffling, and what I think was cursing in her native tongue. Then, silence. Minutes passed and still nothing. Hello, I called out, anyone there? Then, with the sound of short, stomping feet, and a high-pitched plastic swish, she reappeared, pulled forward like a dog on a leash by an enormous leather-bound book. She dropped it down with a loud thud and almost fell forward over the counter. The air stank of must. Burningman must sign here, she screamed, pounding on the book. Its cover looked old, like it had been bound at least two decades ago. The leather was worn and weathered like a baseball mitt taken from a time capsule. Its surface was elaborately embossed, depicting a strange scene congaing cherubs with long dicks playing badminton, or tennis. She opened the book and began leafing through the pages angrily while muttering something to herself that I couldn't understand. I was able to catch glimpses of the pages as she turned them; most of the signatures seemed to be in green ink and they all looked kind of the same. How strange, I thought, until she arrived on the half-blank page that was our destination.
What is your name, she asked. I looked down at her hand holding the pen against the empty page and my eyes drifted across the eerie sameness of all the signatures above it. Shuttlecock, it said, on every line. Your name, she demanded again. Give a fake name, a voice inside my head whispered. Uh, I, um, Ambroise Diggs, I said as I watched her write down the word Shuttlecock. OK, eleven pieces; you come back Monday. Okay, thanks, I said turning around, anxious to get out of her small storefront. When I turned to leave, one of her saran-wrap body bags came down over my head, either as an attempt to capture or suffocate me. Though I screamed a little, I easily ripped through the thin plastic and turned around to confront my assailant. It was the little Asian woman. You must use protection, she screamed, as she tried to pull another full body condom over me. I kicked her in the ovaries and gave her a Stone Cold Stunner and then a Tombstone Piledriver for good measure. Her head bounced off the floor and she farted in my face on the way down. I stuffed my clothes back in the bag and said, I'll take my business elsewhere, good day!
Later, I chatted with Q briefly, after he'd eaten his meal and mine. He wanted to take me out but I kind of stood him up, last night too; so he ate for the both of us. Either that or he was trying to tell me he's pregnant, who knows. It's just that he expects me to put out if he pays, even though he knows I'm not gay. He'll start sending me pictures of penises, or of men playing ping pong in short shorts, or Marlon Brando and James Dean just before their lips are about to touch. He's sick, Q.
I told him that I wanted to take my camera to Burning Man this year, since I won't be able to participate as I normally would. Bringing the camera will keep me honest, less willing to take risks; more interested in capturing than being captured. He took issue with this, berating me, urging me not to go at all if I am to bring the camera. He fails to understand that to participate as I normally would may put me in a position to cause irreparable harm to my spine. A dose of ecstasy will do wonders for mitigating back pain, while you're on it. Who knows what silly moves I might make, what perilous pelvic thrusts. I'll give a whole new meaning to the term break dancing! No, I think it would benefit me more this year to participate less, or participate in a very different capacity. This doesn't preclude me from being present, or from forming new memories with friends.
He argues that giving is better than taking, and that photographing the burn is to take of the experience more than it is to give - which is somewhat antithetical to the entire point of the thing. And I agree with him, to an extent. But just being there, sharing a difficult moment with a friend at the temple, being a guide to another who has never been, being a sober sentinel there to keep a watchful eye, pouring a drink and getting caught up with friends I haven't seen since last year, meeting new ones, sharing a sunrise, attending a wedding, sharing another burn - these things are all forms of giving.
What he willfully ignores is that for something to be given, there must be someone to take. To steal, one must always take, but taking is not always stealing; one cannot steal that which is willingly given.
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