Playa Haikus: Plaikus

Seven days of life
in playa earth and white-outs.
You are dusted pure.
* *
Shirt once a bright pink
lost against green tent, gold car,
my white muted hair.
* *
Days later these clothes
still cough powder; hate to think
what my lungs look like.

I Saw A Squirrel: "At A Walmart In Texas"

Anonymity

Why is it that so often we find
our true selves in the places
that are meant to disappear?
- Written on the floor of the temple

In the Temple

We climb the twisting stair
which creaks and groans
beneath our leathered feet, each
voice calling silently after us
as we meet these strings of music that
hang so delicately above;
and we watch the sky fade
here above the earth,
and we hear the desert roar
and toss its wild mane, breathing
hard across the backs of giants
who sleep around us as the sun
rises higher.

We are ghosts
who wander in twos, or threes,
or alone,
through sweeping white dust,
appearing and reappearing at the whim
of the winds that swirl
and howl through twinkling strings
of music that hang above,
each silver sliver that shines
in the muted sunlight.

And as we pass each to each
we never see another soul,
hearing only the white sounds, the faint
moans and songs of those beside us,
closing our eyes and breathing deeply
these clouds through our nostrils
that we might feel the air,
turning and returning through the ash and smoke,
and get to know this spirit better.

And it does not rain, here among these
ghosts and wanderers, yet I feel
the faintest drops against my cheek,
and I can stare at the afternoon sun
hanging moon-like behind the veil;
it does not rain, for every hand
is held outstretched
to taste the white rays that wash
and flow around our every curve.

And I hear nothing, and I cannot see
the sky above, nor the shrouded shapes
that once stood all around,
nor feel the pulsing beat of this city
which once sounded and resounded
through the day, and the one before;
I hear nothing,
and oh, how loudly it speaks
to me.

He Returns From the Desert

I try not to make this blog about writing journal entries. I don't like writing journal entries. I realize their potential for self-reflection and reliving ones past experiences, but I have such a hard time actually putting my words down in any sort of permanent form because I fear they will not do justice to the experience itself.

I spent this last week in August living in the dry, arid, lifeless desert at the Burning Man festival, and it was amazing. I had the great fortune of being allowed to arrive early to help build our camp, and as a result I got to see the community grow from the ground up. To watch a city of 50,000 people rise up out of the dust and fill in the dotted outline stitched into the waiting desert was fascinating. To feel simultaneously out of place and at peace with the people and the world around you was exhausting. To live in a place with such an excited, pulsing heartbeat of music and movement, knowing all the time that in seven days it will all disperse and trickle back into the veins of real life is exhilarating. It was an experience I will never forget, but also one that I could never -- not in a million years -- capture with my words.

I will try, of course. I will write about going on a hunt through the midday sun for a slice of apple pie and instead finding a large tent with the words, "Hard Cider: Quench Your Dust" written on its side. An oasis, it would seem, greeting us with rare luck and fortune. We wandered around the side and in moments found ourselves chatting amicably with Tommy, an Irishman from Galway who now owns a pub in Santa Barbara. This was his ninth trip to Burning Man, and each time he brings more kegs of cider to welcome lost souls out of the day's heat. I found myself back in that tent quite a few times throughout the week, both for another pint (or three) of cider to wash down the playa dust, as well as for the company of the people I met there.

I will write about Roo's and my self-imposed quest to seek out and play on every trampoline on the playa. On the first day of wandering, after a snack of bacon and waffles which were well worth the wait, we passed a trampoline that looked far too inviting to pass up. After bouncing and flipping for about half an hour -- an already exhausting activity made even more tiring by the dry, pounding heat; it's a good thing I was wearing my kilt for ventilation -- we decreed that we would have to find and bounce on them all. Six days and seven trampolines later, and after seriously pulling a muscle along the left side of my back, I don't think we were anywhere close to our goal, but it was a valiant effort to be sure. They did make for some epic photos against the deep blue desert sky.

I will write about watching the spinners on the Shiva Vista stage and being blown away by both the performers and the stage itself. The large, square playing space sat out in the open playa, a good hike from center camp, but it was always plainly visible. The stage was flanked at each corner by a massive column of black steel, a fire cannon capable of blasting a pillar of flame twenty feet into the sky. Around the audience space stood a ring of ten or so additional fire rigs which threw flame both straight up, as well as inwards towards the stage. As I watched the burners dance, the cannons pumped their excited tongues of fire into the night, popping and swirling and tossing irregular shadows across the hard desert floor. At full blast, I could feel the orange flames wash over me, a bubble of heat in the cool yet boiling night.

And I will write about these things and more, and I will continue to write for days to come, and it will never come close to capturing the experience as a whole. How can I describe the intense dryness, the dust seeping into my skin and mingling with my sweat, staining every hair on my body a chalky gray? I can't, not in that way that will make you touch your fingertips together to take comfort in the oils on your skin.

I will write about these things, and I will feel like I did out there in the desert: for every thing that I see -- for every sculpture that I touch; for every person that I encounter; for every song that I hear; for every star that I see blinking at me from the night sky -- there will exist a hundred other things that I will never see, will never find, will never even hear about second- or third-hand from others. And that will be okay. Because that is part of the experience, too.

Update: Haircut!

And oh, yeah. I got a haircut. No, like a serious haircut:

Road Trip - Highlights

It's been a while since I've posted anything here, so as a place-filler I'll post some highlights of the road trip thus far:

So far, we've spotted licence plates from over half of the states in the union, (including Hawaii!), and we're only in eastern Texas.

Stopped in Nashville, TN to see the Parthenon. Or, at least, a very accurate recreation of the Parthenon. What it's doing in the middle of Tennessee I'll never know, but at least it has towns nearby called Sparta and Carthage to keep it company.

Stopped in Memphis, TN for some amazing dry-rub pork ribs at a little back-alley place called The Rendezvous. Seriously delicious ribs. I felt like I had wandered into the Food Network's show about finding the best food around America.

Following that, we walked down Beale Street and saw live music, a backflip competition, and a crazy guy on a motor scooter. Favorite sight: a sign at the top of the street reading: "First chance for a drink! Next opportunity: 20 feet."

Coming up: The Texarkana post office, which straddles the state line between Texas and Arkansas. I'll be in two states at once! ...And I can send snail mail at the same time!

Caterpillar 1

Cookies

I heard a great metaphor today:

Sex is like making cookies. Sure, cookies are great; but it's also fun to mix the ingredients and eat the cookie dough without ever putting it in the oven.

...As long as you take the proper precautions against salmonella.

Late Nights

Dust, that thick perfume of
pine and fiberboard which clogs
my pores, fills my nostrils and
mixes into a paste with my sweat,
now circulates the room at roughly
one hundred thousand parts per million.

Four A.M. is no time for power tools.

Noa Grace David Goes For A Joyride

My friend Biebs was showing me pictures of her niece, Noa. I couldn't pass up this prime Photoshop opportunity.

(See the original image here).

P.S. This was a quick chop, but I think it's looking pretty good. Let me know if there are any details you notice that I can hammer out to make it look better.

::EDIT::
I colored out the orange light on the dashboard. Thanks for the catch, Ricky.

I Saw A Squirrel: "Thermodynamics"

I Saw A Squirrel: "Mind Over Matter"

Low Rumbling, Plastic Ivy and Eggo Waffles

They grumble and stomp their feet
demanding word -- a few lines
posted on a painted nail,
parchment flapping in the venting breeze;
a rope dangles from a beam,
looped above a lantern, an old woman,
an elephant and a coffin --
any sign of life.

Will this do?

The hours flash past,
each day melts into the next
with only enough time in between
to unwrap the black from my back
and fall unceremoniously onto cotton sheets
before the sparrows call me out again.

I am lost.
Is it Tuesday already?

The valley fills with purple clouds
and electricity bends like a rainbow
over the horizon,
tapping its toe on either side of the ridge.
Paper lanterns hang precariously in the periphery,
but they do not move. Not one inch.

The heat slips off into the shadows;
even it is getting more sleep than I.

C'est la vie, they say,
and they are absolutely right.
Who am I to raise my voice? My cries
echo into a nest of ants
scurrying here and there with their wares;
I speculate on the odds of one
hitting his head on a chandelier.
The space is getting smaller.

Did we change the world in under an hour?
The champagne still buzzes around my head,
a pesky fly I cannot wave away.
Or maybe it's the sugar. Who can tell?

I never got my sandwich.
It's a comment on something, I'm sure.

Still,
he waits patiently for her to call.
After all, chocolate kisses are the best.

In the meantime,
the twenty-five cent alarm clock beckons.
Here's hoping it still works.

---

Post script:

Alas. It does not.
It spins quietly, but emits only static.
I suppose one gets what one pays for.

Fire Escape

I Saw A Squirrel: "Public Transportation"

Encounter

I saw you suddenly dancing
across the night,
wearing wings of light and silver,
drifting lazily on the wind
without direction, except...

I caught your eyes,
pricks of brightness darting behind
their smooth, black cases,
glinting gunmetal armor
hiding every thought except...

I felt your arms
snake like silk around me
your fingers tangled like ivy into my hair,
your hot, orange breath
tracing mazes
into the corners of my neck
but saying nothing, except...

I knew your touch,
the red shivers from your fingertips,
the feathered whisper of your lips
gliding over my textured skin
every hair rising to greet
those seductive echoes,
screaming out to stop, except...

I saw myself under the surface with you,
pitching and turning on the waves
of fire and passion
and every breath in the room, and every
flick of the clock drew us
closer to the waking hour.

And the birds sang,

and the light pierced through
your ghostly image.

Welcome back,
you said.

And you were gone.

Things I Learned At Work Today

1. Despite my predictions, it is, in fact, possible to work a 14-hour day, stay up late drinking, get 4 hours sleep, and then wake up at 8am to repeat the process.

2. It is harder to focus stage lights when you are dangling upside-down from an I-beam harnessed into the high steel than you would think.

3. Meta-Algebra:
a. 2x4 + 2x4 + 2x4 + 2x4 = Platform framing.
b. Holding 2x4 in place + Nail gun = Helpful and efficient.
c. Nail gun + My thumb = Lots of blood + Light-headedness.
d. My thumb + Hospital staff + Tetanus shot = Crabby nurse.
e. Tetanus shot + No stitches + No bone contact + Workman's Comp = VERY, VERY LUCKY.

4. People are cynical and sarcastic when they think you injured yourself. People are much nicer when they learn that someone else did it to you.


------- EDIT: -------

5. When people who have just met you accidentally shoot you through the thumb with a nail gun and watch you bleed all over the shop floor, they will make you wonderful trophies, (even if they don't yet know your last name).

Keith Olbermann Special Comment

Wow.

More links. Watch this. Now. (11 minutes combined).

* Keith Olbermann - part 1
* Keith Olbermann - part 2

"And sir, if you have any hopes that next January 20th will not be celebrated as a day of soul-wrenching, heart-felt thanksgiving because your faithless stewardship of this presidency will have finally come to a merciful end, this last piece of advice--"

PSF

A brief note:

For those that didn't know, I will be leaving in just under 6 hours to begin my summer internship at the Pennsylvania Shakespeare Festival at DeSales University.

For the next twelve (12) weeks, I will undertake all the duties of the "swing intern," which, as I understand, means I will be the production manager's bitch for the summer. Which is fine by me -- I haven't had an honest day's work in a long time, and this will be a great way for me to get my foot in the door and make some connections within the theater world. Hooray.

This also means I will be living at DeSales U until Aug. 6. In a dorm room. Possibly with a roommate. If I have one, my challenge for myself will be to see how much like Freshman year at VC I can make this experience. Mainly, I will try to get the roommate to move out after six weeks. If I find him doing lines of coke off my desk, I'll know I'm almost there.

Don't worry. I'll have my computer and phone, so I won't be entirely dead to the world. But I will be living on theater time -- very much like my life at VC, except I won't have the periodic nap-times throughout the day that were my classes.

Anyway. It starts.