Prologue--The
Burning Man Connection
As we sat at a cafe sipped tea
together, my dear friend Ashley recounted her experience with Burning Man, a
pop-up community in the Black Rock Desert of Northern Nevada. For one week at the end of August, this empty
stretch of powder-fine dust explodes into a city of 68,000 souls, who bring
their own food, water, shelter, costume, and art. Among the pieces is a huge wooden effigy, the
titular "burning man" that erupts into flame by the experience's
end.
What draws people to the desert is an
individual matter, but my friend Ashley sought and found spiritual
transformation. She felt safe to be
herself, to give and receive freely, to let go of negative emotions and achieve
catharsis. And as she told me about
climbing on statues, dangling from hammocks high off the ground, and riding
down narrow rickety "death slides," I found myself growing
intrigued. I wanted to enter this
magical place of survival and play.
"I wish I could have come with
you," I sighed. "It sounds
like such an interesting experience."
"Would you like to go to
Decompression with me?"
"Decompression?"
Decompression, Ashley explained, was
a one-day event associated with Burning Man, where some of the art was
displayed and local "Burners" had a chance to mingle. Burning Man mini, so to speak. Ashley wanted me to come, and I was
free. Why not experience this world my
friend loved, why not play together like kids?
And so the date was set. Saturday, October 5th we would go.
The
Setting--What Would the Metro-link Passengers Think?
A park in LA. Flat ground, mostly dirt, with some dried
crab grass clawing at the two tiny mounds we call hills. Five or six adolescent trees, barely out of
sapling-hood, stand on each hill; forests, to us. Glassy skyscrapers make up the borrowed
scenery; a smattering of palm trees and a mission-style church look on blankly
from outside the fence. Occasionally,
the Metrolink runs by. I imagine
passengers gazing out the window at the same scenery they see everyday. Suddenly they start. What's going on at this park? Why are there white tents and booths and
stages, people dressed in costume, the steady hum of bass? They barely have time to wonder before the
train shoots by and their experience of Decompression is done.
But not for me. I'm shuffling along, turning my head like an
owl, while my brain desperately gropes for an analogy. The first thing that one that pops into my
head is the circus--simultaneously watching it and being in it. Here are stages where scantily dressed performers
twirl fire batons; there are boxes of mirrors that distort your face to
fun-house effect. And yet, you can
easily pick up a hoop and create your own show or join in a tea party or paint
your body with art. I don't, but I
could.
On second thought, though, maybe
Decompression is like college. It has
the same pungent, illegal odor the hallways of my dorm had, as well as art
projects built of recycled bubble wrap and spontaneous light sabers duels. The play of young adults trying to recapture
the innocent games of childhood has the sense of impermanence to it. The fragile world is in jeopardy and will
all too soon disappear.
Costumes--The
Gypsy Wood Nymph and the Kitsune Goth
I would have felt strange if I didn't
dress up--like an outsider. Maybe I am
one and maybe they'll know it, but a costume works as camouflage, so I raid
Ashley's closet before we set off. My
go-to persona is what Ashley calls "the kitsune goddess," a reference
to the fox-spirits of Japanese lore who can shape shift into beautiful
women. I throw on a blue yukata, attach
a fox tail, and color my face.
Red and yellow kabuki-style make-up
swoop my eyes like a butterfly mask. I
can't decide what to do with my lips, so I paint them black. Ashley instantly likes it, saying I look
goth. I've never been goth before, but I
don't mind trying. I cinch a silver and
black belt around my waist, put on striped arm-warmers, and stick a tall comb
in my hair. I feel both regal and scary
alike, like an evil queen or Lady MacBeth.
Incidentally, I was always good at acting out demented roles in high
school drama class. Go figure.
Ashley was already dressed when she
picked me up. She has on poofy green
harem pants and a mesh top that bares her arms and midriff. Scarfs and purple yarn hair wind the top of
her head and tiny horns poke from her hair.
She looks like a gypsy wood nymph.
We are both fantastical characters.
Decompression holds a cornucopia of
different characters. I see steampunk
outfits, hoop skirts, huge mohawks made of feathers, orange astronaut
jumpsuits, white jumpsuits with disco mirrors plastered like polka dots, red
cheerleader outfits... too many to describe.
My "evil" confidence slips as I revert back to being a shy
girl. We walk side by side into the
crowd.
Art--Fire Angel and Painting the Trailer from the Inside Out
 |
What first appeared to be a
balsa-wood Taj Mahal has a very steam punk look when I approach it. People sit and hang out in bulbous pockets of
wood. Nearby, a metal statue of a woman
has flames trailing around her arms like the outlines of wings. Later, real fire spurts from the base and the
statue spins and spins in whirling dervish, as though trying to escape. The flames shroud the angel but cannot quite
consume her.
A gallery of florescent black-light
paintings become 3-D when we put on the special glasses. A box of red-lit smoke spits out perfect
smoke rings, making me think of The Hobbit. A fish tank maze of blue-green bubble wrap
leads to tiny sea shell shrine.
But what I like best is a small
trailer where a cheerful woman in an orange sari invites us to paint our own
pictures in whatever spot we can find.
This is no easy task, as aliens, mermaids, and bubbles compete for space
on the walls and ceiling. Ashley locates
a dolphin she painted last year. This
year she does tribal patterns on the edge of a shelf, while I play with the
colors of an ocean sunset.
Dust--"Worse
Than Burning Man"
I feel it first after the pedal car
track. We've been pumping the bicycle
gears of our buggies through the dirt and wood chip terrain, trying to bump
each other but mostly failing. As I come
out of the car, I'm out of breath and gasping--though this I attribute to my
being out of shape. Then I notice my
mouth feels dry and cracked. The black
lipstick flakes off my mouth. I croak to
Ashley that I need water.
It's dusty here. By the food trucks where I buy my water,
there's no vegetation and people kick up the dirt. My sinus explode. I pop Sudefeds and cough drops in a desperate
attempt to clear my head. I suspect the
Santa Ana winds are blowing, contaminating the air with allergens. Ashley at first laughs at my complaints. This is nothing compared to the "white
out" dust storms that hit Burning Man.
The evening wears on and the dust
clogs up my chest. It's hard for me to
breathe. Now Ashley's aware of the dust,
too. Its almost invisible, except in the
flash of my camera. Ashley admits that
this year Burning Man was low on dust storms.
The rain had come down before and made the dirt stick. Decompression, surprisingly, is more dusty
this year.
Lights--What Do Plastic Bottles Have to Do With a Beloved Childhood Game?
The more the sun sets, the less
self-conscious I feel. The scenery
transforms. The skyscrapers light
up. Dangling crystal objects glow, stages
shine neon, Christmas lights twinkle atop stranger's hats. Excitement bubbles in my veins. I've done enough observing. Now, I want to play.
I drag Ashley to a giant Lite Brite,
one of those childhood toys I used to play with. A Lite Brite is basically a board with pegs
you stick in to create a mosiac which lights up when you plug it in. From a distance, I can't figure out how they
made it. But on closer inspection, I see
the "pegs" are actually water bottles drizzled in a coat of neon
paints. The frame is wood, but most of
the board is Styrofoam, with holes cut out for the peg. We arrange them for a while. I try to make a diamond. Ashley makes a heart.
People--Heart
to Heart
Men from a booth offer hugs from in
exchange for compliments. One is
"stuck-up" by a robber holding a banana, who proceeds to chase him
round and round the stand. Kids in
scouting uniforms play a somber game of chess with pieces made of Barbie dolls
and action figures. A dancer twirls her
long sleeves to a man playing a lute. A
girl in a wheelchair talks about color chakras and offers us a crystal infused
with positive energy.
So many different people, so many
personalities. Still, what I liked best
was sitting with my friend Ashley under one of those poor almost-grown trees,
eating gelato and talking heart to heart, as old friends should.
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