Organic Mutant

On Friday (while at Burning Man), I discovered that there was a wi-fi network available and as I had been commanded by my co-blogger to twitter if I could, I decided that it made sense to spend and hour or so at Center Camp (where the wi-fi signal lived) with my trusty laptop.

After a breakfast of bacon and eggs and the usual prep required before venturing away from camp, Nicole and I hopped on our bikes, rode down the dirt avenues through the dusty sunlight, partially clothed - but totally sunblocked, natch - to the bazaar-like entrails of Center Camp. A large, circular tent rose 30 or more feet into the air, surrounded by hundreds of parked (and locked) bicycles, and within it pulsed a writhing collection of yogis, singers, exhibitionists, naturalists, ravers, shamans, bloggers, families, jugglers, naked people, dreadlocks, tattoos, and - incongruously - a cafe.

The center of center camp was a circular space surrounded by pillows leaning against short walls, people lounging and stretched out upon them. Inside the circle was a random collection of individuals, couples, and tiny groups of people doing yoga. Beyond the circle stood the cafe, where gobs of folk stood in a slew of achingly long lines, looking for a fresh brew of java or whatever.

Also surrounding the inner circle were a stage and seating for an open mic; various collections of people debating karma, reading shakras, holding signs about the future, doing more yoga, perusing books, or posing in revealing duds. On the stage, a guitarist strummed and sang beautifully, as a few dozen people soaked it in, lounging on sofas and bean bags. We strolled around, trying to figure out where we fit in here.

We looked for but did not spot any particularly inviting seats. So we circled once or twice, until an open bench presented itself and we claimed it for ourselves. Nicole grabbed a couple copies of Piss Clear, and I pulled my MacBook out from it’s ziploc and got to twitterin‘. Well, for a little while until a young woman approached, gently asking if she might be able to use my mac for a few moments to check here email. Attempting to adopt the giving spirit of BRC, I kindly obliged.

Twenty or more minutes later, I got my cha-puter back. Meanwhile, I had been joined ‘pon the wooden bench by a kind, if desperate-seeming woman, who, I learned, was also at her first Burning Man. Having been told that she needed to bring something to share, she decided to bake a couple thousand cookies and bag them up, carry around several dozen at time (in her backpack) and then beg fellow Burners to take them, “Please help me, take them I still have 300 bags left and its already Friday oh thank you thank you thank you”. I wanted to tell her that she might want to tone down the desperation and lay off the guilt trip for those of us who kindly declined. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it, so I typed in silence. She loved to share, so I soon learned that yesterday she had shaved the nuts of over 75 men. Then, that people had been giving her so many drugs the she did the only thing she could think of and turned them in to the Help Desk. “What am I supposed to do with all of them?” she begged. “Swallow them,” I said.

Later, she told me that I hold a lot of stress in my shoulders (she said that she reads shakras). That I don’t have to be so macho; it is OK to cry (oddly, it is true: I almost never cry (except for movies!)). That my heart is not open because I have not healed from my last relationship. Hmm. Then she gave me a long long hug.

Meanwhile, an unending parade of people living the BM mantra of Radical Self Expression streamed about, dusted and tanned, old and young, flabby and fit, dorky and unbelievably cool, clothed and nude, happy and - no, only happy. At one point, the sound of a digery doo began to emanate from just behind the bench where I was seated. A young man had simply walked up and started playing amongst us, adding to the atmosphere and delighting all. After a minute or two, he took his instrument and moved on.

I spent a good amount of time writing in my journal, during which I was once asked if I had found reality. “No,” I replied. It was hot and I was sweaty. Nicole had wandered of shortly after we first sat down, so I was by myself (so to speak). I gathered my things and made my way through the madness, looking for my cousin. Ten minutes of meandering and I found her. We shared our wonderment at the eclectic collection of people, all unique and endearing (except for the really smelly ones). We decided to move on, drop the ‘puter back at camp and go look at art.