Weekly Update: 12-15-15 Too Many Books

During my cleaning frenzy of Thanksgiving break, as I crammed books into my bulging shelves, I vowed that I would limit my book purchases. For every book I bought, I'd have to get rid of one book on my shelf. Such choices are agonizing, but I can make them. The goal was to read the books I have before buying new ones.
  
Sigh. So much for that.

* * *

My last weekly (er, monthly) update, I mentioned leading an informal Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) group. Most of them were friends from the Brea Library Writer's Group, and no one aside from me had really tried to write a novel in a month before. I hosted various meetings at Panera to write together and show support. It turned out a core group of five kept coming to the Sunday meetings: me, Rita, Carmen, Sean, and Jen, who'd just barely discovered the writer's group before November began.

Well, Nanowrimo came to an end, and we decided to celebrate by going on a Used Bookstore Run for our next Sunday meeting, which was December 5th. The plan was this: start at 10:00 AM, pack a sack lunch, hit three used bookstores around Orange County, and be home by about 6:00. A quick Google search yielded a surprising number of bookstores. Unfortunately, few were open on Sundays, so I had to narrow it down.

* * *

STOP #1: Bookoff

Website: http://www.bookoffusa.com/

Sunday Hours: 10:00-8:00

2955 Harbor Blvd

Costa Mesa, CA 92628

Bookoff is actually a chain of used bookstores in Japan, and, if you happen to be in the country, it's a great place for accumulating cheap secondhand comics, CDs, and DVDS. The US chain also has a good many manga comics and anime DVDs, in both English and Japanese. It also had shelves of random paraphernelia, everything from bags to Japanese tea sets. 

None of that made much of a difference to me, though, as I barely had time to skim the Japanese offerings. My friends and I were lucky enough to land in the middle of a great sale, with beautiful books as cheap as $1.00. Carmen found a huge dictionary with colored pictures for $5.00. For the most part, I planted myself in the Children's Book section, skimming for gifts for my niece and nephew and trying to hunt down obscure books from my youth.

An hour and a half passed in a breathless rush. I had to force myself out of there, but not before buying all of about 8 books. Only one of those were for me, but still. I'd already spent half my cash, and I had a feeling I was not going to get any more responsible.

* * *

STOP #2: Camelot Books

Website: http://www.camelot-books.com/

Sunday Hours: 12:00-4:00

18838 Brookhurst St

Fountain Valley, CA 92708

Camelot Books was only a few miles from Bookoff, the total drive time less than ten minutes. I'd never been here before and had no idea what to expect. The bookstore was hidden in the corner of a shopping center, near "The Reptile Zoo," whose colorful signs intriguingly promised "Prehistoric Pets" and "Jurassic Parties." Sean especially wanted to investigate, but books came first.

The storefront of Camelot Books might have been boring and nondescript, but when we stepped inside, we entered a magical world. Shelves of books on knights and magicians greeted us, and then we saw the display of rare books in beautiful bindings stacked artfully near cages. Immediately, we knew that this was the place for our group picture and the owner kindly obliged. Rita grabbed a book on Celtic mythology off that table and promptly declared it hers.

There was a little kids corner with a table and toys that for some weird reason, we ended up taking over. The classic section was huge, with an entire wall devoted to Shakespeare, and I was really tempted. But in the end, I splurged on an Encyclopedia of Mythology, which was about $16, along with several books for my nephew. So much for cash--I had to swipe my credit card for this one.

* * *

STOP #3: Bookman

Website: http://orange.ebookman.com/index.shtml

Sunday Hours: 12:00-5:00

840 N Tustin St

Orange, CA 92867

Out of all the bookstores we visited, this was the only one I could definitely say I'd stepped foot in before. It's pretty close to my friend Ashley's house, and every time we go shopping together, I all but beg to make a stop here. Row after row of shelves crammed top to bottom with books, discount carts, nostalgic children's books, and non-fiction books I'd never heard of.
  
I told my friends we needed at least an hour for this one, and I was not wrong. We barely high-tailed it out of Camelot Books by 3:30 and got to Bookman just before 4:00. We stayed until after closing time, though the owners kindly did not kick us out. I thought I was doing well. I'd only picked up a copy of Persuasion for my cousin and all three of Shakespeare's King Henry VI for myself. But then I stumbled across The Great Encyclopedia of Faeries, filled with beautiful illustrations and stories, and, well, I couldn't resist.

We were all very tired by the time we arrived back, at 6:00, as promised. But my book splurge didn't end there...

* * * 

And Then, Volunteering 

Every Thursday, I volunteer at the Friends of the Brea Library Used Bookstore, which, consists of a walk-in closet full of books and about five carts of books and DVDs. We are not as big or as well-organized as the bookstores I wrote about, but we do sell books dirt cheap. Most used bookstores sell books at about half their cover price, with paperbacks going for $3-$4. Our paperbacks are $0.75 and our hardbacks are $2.00. On the bargain bin, they're half priced.

Obviously, this is a dangerous place for me to sit for 2 hours and on more than one occasion, I have yielded to temptation. But this last Thursday, they were having a fire sale on romance novels: 25 cents each or 5 for $1.00. I normally don't buy romance books, but I saw one I'd read earlier and given away, much to my great regret. And so I decided to buy it back.

Well, that just opened the floodgates, and soon, I'd picked out the 5 least corny-looking romance books I could find. But it didn't end there, because as soon as I closed the bookstore, the librarians wheeled out the free book cart. And you won't believe the books they were giving out free. Two thick, awesome Japanese-English dictionaries--I snatched those up--and a wonderful spread of classic books: Of Mice and Men, The Scarlett Pimpernel, Jane Eyre, books by Agatha Christie and Dashiell Hammett. I had a bookbag jammed with books and a stack in my arms up to my chin. You should have seen me trying to balance them all without spilling books on the driveway.

* * *

So now the fancy dining room table that we never use is jam-crowded with stacks and stacks of books that will not fit on the shelf. And I look at it and think, Becky, Becky, why do you do this to yourself? What am I supposed to do with all these precious books. I can't just get rid of them.

I guess I'll be doing some reading this Christmas break.

Weekly Update: 9-14-15 S'mores

Living in Southern California, you'd imagine that going to the beach was the easiest thing in the world. But perhaps because the beach is so close, I take it for granted. And so the summer passed, and I had yet to walk barefooted on the soft sands or feel the froth of the collapsing waves.

Then my friend Ashly invited me to a Meet-up Bonfire at Huntington Beach.

Photo by Chika

 What I wanted more than anything was S'mores. It had been ages since I'd properly roasted a marshmallow until it puffed and browned and then smooshed the sticky white puff between two squares of graham crackers and a stick of chocolate. I was in.

Ashley brought her light-up hula hoop.

Photo by Jeni

I'd never done a Meet-up before. With nearly a hundred and fifty people, it was quite a party, and I knew no one. But at least I had Ashley. She broke the ice by showing off her hooping ability. Everyone brought a pot luck dinner, and I scooped up udon salad, cheese and crackers, fried chicken, deviled eggs, chips and dip, and homemade apple cobbler with peanuts on top, which disappeared almost as soon as it was laid on the table.

Bonfires were lit. Some people put hot dogs on two-pronged skewers and roasted them over the flames until moisture dripped off the sausage like beads of sweat. Me, I was the first one to the S'mores table, fitting my marshmallows to a bamboo skewer.

After all these years. Satisfaction at last.

Ashley and I went down to the shore right as the setting sun turned the sky pink. She hooped at the waters edge, practically daring the waves to push her down. It looked like a ritual. I just stood there. Ashley and I had been best friends since the age of five. If we were still kids, we would say that she was using magic to open a portal into the ocean's realm. We'd enter through the hula hoop, and she'd become a dolphin and I'd become a mermaid and we'd save a seashell castle from destruction.

When it got dark, we socialized with other people.

I went home with sand coating my skin and my hair smelling like ash.

* * *

Heat waves are awful when you have no air conditioning. Sitting in my house was like sitting in an oven. An oven set to 165 degrees, perhaps, but an oven nonetheless. Not being a wad of biscuit dough, I found that the heat did not inspire me to rise. I parked under the fan and tried not to move.

Surprisingly, I felt inspired to edit Three Floating Coffins. In a way, I was procrastinating the more odious task of researching my Fullerton credential. But if I had to procrastinate, it was a fine method. I re-wrote 2 chapters, line-edited 3 chapters, and typed in corrections for 2 chapters.

Editing is extremely time-consuming; you can easily spend an hour going over a single page. But while I was so focused on editing, I managed to "tune-out" the heat. Thus, by editing, I survived last week's heat wave.

I got some reprise from the heat when I got a subbing job on Thursday at Brea Olinda High School. It was awesome seeing the students again. And perhaps I'll get paid this month. Bonus.

Travelogue: Lightning in a Bottle, Part 8

What: An Art and Music Festival with a New Age Twist

Where: Bradley, CA

When: Friday, May 22nd to Monday, May 25th

With Whom: my friend Ashley and her boyfriend Matt

Part 8: Culture Shock

"Pick a door," Matt says. "And choose carefully."

He's showing me a round wheel made entirely of different doors. I walk around them, slowly, examining each one. I consider a door with faded teapot wallpaper and a blue door that reminds me of the Tardis. But in the end I chose a sage green door with cryptic numbers above the knob.

I enter.

On the inside of each door is a giant tarot card. Mine shows a faded tower and a visibly distraught girl. "Tower," reads the bottom type. "Break Down, Break Through."

A book explains my fortune further. "Detoxify yourself of what you think you know. Demolish your core belief systems before they inevitably crumble. Take a leap of faith. Rebuild yourself."

I feel annoyed.

Why should I tear down my soul because a stupid card tells me to?

Ashley speaks of these festivals as a kind of transcendent, cathartic experience, where barriers fall, where she can embrace humanity and be part of a larger community. Other people I talk or listen to echo this sentiment. I'm having fun, but am I having a spiritual awakening?

No.

Maybe I just don't get it.

While Ashley and Matt do yoga, I drift into the Temple of Consciousness, where author Chip Conley lectures on the importance of festivals in modern life.

"The more digital the world becomes, the more we need rituals," he says. "Festivals connect us to the 'other.' It forces us to understand people who are different from us. And this actually makes the world a safer place."

He continues. "The modern world is a desperate editor, and when it's in editing mode, it's not in creation mode. ...I wrote a guide about emotional survival for Burning Man. A kind of island fever sets in. There's not enough distraction. Things bubble up and it's scary."

When his speech ends, he fields the audience for questions.

A young couple stands up and asks him about how to build new festivals and especially how to recruit the unconverted. He answers, but the word "converted" snares my brain and now all I can think about is my first year in college, when I became a Christian.

I felt that shiny, newly-minted convert feeling. And that's what I'm seeing now. College-age students burning with idealism and deep connection to the spiritual world. But I don't feel that now. Because I've already broken down several times, had my personality beat upon the rocks, questioned who I was and what I believed in. It's exhausting. It's exhilarating. It's hard to maintain this kind of passion and still get up in time for work.

Here, in Lightning in a Bottle, I doubt there's an agenda to convert people to any specific beliefs. But the ideology still permeates the culture. Organic foods, veganism, drugs, eastern beliefs, yoga, sex, partial nudity, liberalism, open-mindness, acceptance, hugs, art, generosity, community. It's all there. And if that's you, maybe you can find yourself.

But I don't think that's me. I'm moderate. I can respect and even enjoy that kind of culture. But I just don't think it's me.

The talk creates a tension in me that I carry back to the tent. When I speak to Ashley and Matt about it, I realize that they don't necessarily fit entirely in, either. They're older, they don't want to party all the time, they don't do drugs, they're in a committed relationship, and even though Ashley is vegan, Matt is not. They've had moments when they felt that ecstatic elation and they've had moments when they felt nothing.

I feel better after hearing this. I guess part of me felt this vague pressure to convert, to give in to this community, to turn over my very healthy ego and find transcendence. But once I realize that I need not be ecstatic, I'm able to relax, let go of expectation, and finally enjoy myself.

* * *
THE END

Travelogue: Lightning in a Bottle, Part 7

What: An Art and Music Festival with a New Age Twist

Where: Bradley, CA

When: Friday, May 22nd to Monday, May 25th

With Whom: my friend Ashley and her boyfriend Matt

Part 7: Sightseeing

I want to see Lucent Dossier, a kind of circus act playing on the Lightning Stage. Matt assures me its pointless to try and watch it from afar, so half an hour before the show begins, I wade through the dance floor, until I'm about 20 feet from the stage and can no longer move. The beat of the bass falls onto my chest like a round metal weight, so heavy I find it hard to breathe.

If I stand on my tiptoes and crane my neck, I can see the dancers, the hoop-weaving acrobats, the fire-spinners. But I don't enjoy it. Tall people block my view and I must move constantly to peer through the gap between their heads. The girl next to me keeps swaying, knocking into me with her hip. People smoke. People talk--why come so close to the stage if you're not going to watch? I'm irritated. Not even a half hour in, I'm pushing against the crowd, trying to get out.

I'm not an extravert. I never will be.

And for a while I fret about this, because the lights, the music, the dancing--all the main attractions--cater to extraverts.

Then Matt shows me the Silent Disco. As we enter the tent, the DJ hands us headphones, which broadcast three different types of music. I put the headphones on and the beat enters my brain. So I close my eyes and dance. And because there's ample space, I don't have to worry about bumping into others or being bumped. I can pretend I'm the only one here and dance freely.  And when I'm tired, I take off my headphones and the noise ends.

It turns out, introvert activities are plentiful if you take the time to seek them out.

The next morning, as I traipse Artsy Hill, I catch, out of the corner of my eye, a hoop dangling in midair, much like the one from Lucent Dossier. A few people are playing on it, and a woman in a mirrored jumpsuit sings on a stage. She is Kim Manning, aka Space Queen, and I think her voice sounds amazing, but no one seems to be paying her much attention. Still, she smiles and addresses the few few people in the vicinity. I find this positive attitude inspiring, so I lounge in one of the dusty sofas and listen. It's like having my own private concert.

Then, right as I'm about to leave, I see Kim jump onto the hoop and start doing acrobatics tricks. I think, Wow, this woman's amazing. Why did I need to go to Lucent Dossier at all?  

Later that night, we wander to the Village, where people chant around a fire and a shirtless man passionately strums the sitar. We drink delicious tea with strangers. We take turns pushing each other on a swing that mewls like a kitten when it creaks, and when I tilt my head all the way down, upside-down stars fly past me.

We are surrounded by the quiet and gloriously alone.

* * *
To Be Continued...

Travelogue: Lightning in a Bottle, Part 6

What: An Art and Music Festival with a New Age Twist

Where: Bradley, CA

When: Friday, May 22nd to Monday, May 25th

With Whom: my friend Ashley and her boyfriend Matt

Part 6: Food and Drink

                   

Aside from the various muffins (which I consider a good breakfast food), most of what we have brought are snacks: pita chips and hummus, popcorn, crackers and vegan "cheese," and a bit of fruit. Ashley and Matt might enjoy grazing, but I prefer more substantial meals.

Fortunately, food trucks peddled their comestibles over each of the festival hills. The trucks serve every dietary need, from vegan to raw to gluten free and, most definitely organic. But they have carnivore-friendly dishes as well. I eat fried rice with marinated chicken ($15) on Friday night, then I sample a vegan burger and mint lemonade ($12 total) on Saturday, and on Sunday I try pizza with tomatoes, mushrooms, and pineapple ($12).

The prices are not unreasonable, but they do add up, so I learned to buy one meal for the afternoon and then supplement it with snacks.

I also drink water. Water pumps abound, and I carried my water bottle on a dog leash and fill up when I get low. That works for the mornings, but by the afternoon, I crave something ice cold and calorie-laden. I find myself returning to the tent, propping up the cooler, and reaching for one of the many drinks Ashley brought: Yerba matte tea, coconut water, and ginger ale.

But I can't drink too much of the last one. We're saving the soda for mixers.

Now I hardly drink and neither does Ashley, but she has gone out and bought these cute little sample bottles of liquor: horchata rum, fireball whiskey, honey whiskey, southern comfort, pear-flavored vodka, raspberry vodka, and something called Hpnotiq, an unnaturally blue drink that mixes exotic fruits, vodka, and cognac.

So, as the sun begins to cool, Ashley takes on the persona of Meow Mix, our own personal bartender, who pours in a splash of this with a splash of that and makes magic. My favorites combos are the horchata rum and root beer, which foams and tastes like melted ice cream, and the Hpnotiq and ginger ale, which works against all reason.

We go wild and drink with abandon. Which, for us, means, we down the equivalent of maybe one and a half shots of alcohol, heavily diluted. We become giggly and just on the verge of pleasantly dizzy. With Happy Hour over, we are ready to take on the night.

* * *
To Be Continued...

Travelogue: Lightning in a Bottle, Part 5

What: An Art and Music Festival with a New Age Twist

Where: Bradley, CA

When: Friday, May 22nd to Monday, May 25th

With Whom: my friend Ashley and her boyfriend Matt

Part 5: Dress and Hygiene

In true festival form, a large proportion of people (mostly women) wander around in little more than bathing suits and boots. I don't feel comfortable in this kind of dress. I'm not young and attractive. I'm a teacher, and there's always the possibility of running into students, as I've just learned.

Besides, I've no idea how people saunter in the blazing sunlight without getting fried to a crisp.

The first day, I wear a black sleeveless camisole shirt, black stretch pants, and a floozy ballerina skirt. Even though conservative by Lightning in a Bottle standards, I feel exposed, and my shoulders turn a lobster red. I don't feel like myself. I feel like I'm trying to blend in and projecting  a false impression of myself.

The next day, I wear my favorite dark blue yukata with white cranes.

I love my summery Japanese kimono. I feel pretty and modest and unique. The robe protects me from the sun and the dirt; it's cool enough for the afternoon and warm enough for night. And when I wrap the robe around me, I feel clean.

Cleanliness is important as there are limited opportunities to wash up. Two identical tents on either side of the camps, each called the Oasis, offer showers for a minimum $8 charge, but one Oasis is co-ed and both have long winding lines to get in. I make due with a fist full of baby wipes, a spray bottle, and a stick of deodorant.

Over time, I develop a morning cleansing ritual.

First I purify with the baby wipes. I carefully remove last night's make up from my face and then rub my hands clean of dirt, before moving down to my arms and the rest of my body. I put on my camisole and stretch pants and deodorant. Then I brush and braid my hair and pin it to my scalp. I don't know why, but brushing my hair makes me feel civilized.

As I apply make-up to my eyes and start rubbing my body down with sunscreen, I consider how to best protect myself from the elements, namely the sun. Will I use a parasol? A head scarf? I don't want my shoulders to burn. And what about dust? I tuck in a clean handkerchief into my drawstring bag, alongside my fan.

I never think about these things when I go to work, because I sit all day in a cushy classroom. But the sunburnt stripes on my back remind me to respect nature and to take the time to consider my environment.

At night, I put on my ugly-but-incredibly-warm brown windbreaker and add a single green glowing band to my wrist. Light is necessary to anyone planning to use the porta potties at night. Ashley and Matt both have headlamps they wear around their necks, and Ashley has a belt with a patch of pink lights on her hip that makes it easy to see the ground. Matt shrugs on a jacket with a glowing blue diamond and a homemade hood with a mosaic of tiny mirrors. These catch the lasers and occasionally send off spurts of prisms.

I'm fascinated with the way the mirrors break up my reflection. No matter how much I stare into it, I cannot see my face, not a whit of it.

* * *
To Be Continued...

Travelogue: Lightning in a Bottle, Part 4

What: An Art and Music Festival with a New Age Twist

Where: Bradley, CA

When: Friday, May 22nd to Monday, May 25th

With Whom: my friend Ashley and her boyfriend Matt

Part 4: Making Friends

Before we came, Ashley suggested bringing gifts. I decided to bake muffins. Vegan banana muffins with cranberries. Vegan banana muffins without cranberries. Lemon cranberry muffins made with yogurt and eggs and hence not vegan.

Four dozen muffins are surprisingly heavy to haul up the hill. When I examine them afterwards, I discover that many are smooshed.

But I've brought the muffins here so I might as well give them away. Bright and early Saturday morning (by which I mean 9:00 AM), I arrange the least squished muffins in a basket and walk down the road with Ashley.

"Good morning," I say. "Would you like a muffin? They're free."

"You look like someone who could use a free muffin," Ashley says.

People are receptive to free food. We receive hugs and smiles and are called "muffin angels." I feel good about breaking the ice and getting to know some of our new neighbors.

Later in the day, people remember me.

We don't bribe our neighbors, Jeff and Annie, with muffins, but Jeff helps us with our flag and we offer Annie a ginger ale when she complains of a sore stomach. We spend Saturday afternoon chatting with them. Sunday afternoon, we hit a tent that offers free tea and meet a couple of bright-eyed young girls with necklaces of aura-enhancing nuts. One girl wears daisy cat ears.

That same day, a couple of girls with eyes painted above their forehead approach me while I'm sitting at our tent.

"Were you a substitute at Brea?" they ask me.

I answer yes.

"You subbed for us," they said. "We were students at Brea High. We graduated last year."

I give a sheepish smile, suddenly feeling profoundly old and out of place.

* * *
To Be Continued...

Travelogue: Lightning in a Bottle, Part 3

What: An Art and Music Festival with a New Age Twist

Where: Bradley, CA

When: Friday, May 22nd to Monday, May 25th

With Whom: my friend Ashley and her boyfriend Matt

Part 3: Exploring

I can't stop staring.

My brain tries to make sense of the mesh of people on the road: the bathing suits, the body paint, the flowing skirts, the head scarves, the college sweat shirts, the tie-dye, the tight leather bondage gear, the full furry animal suits, the tight sparkly pants. It's too much. My brain won't digest it.

It handles the landmarks better. The bathhouse, the tower of light, the gate with the white medallion, and we're inside the the festival. I memorize the route.

In the daylight, its a circus. Big top tents and people in costumes. A ferris wheel and a giant skee ball ramp. Rows of vendors selling leather belts and earrings made of bicycle gears. A dome with a silent art auction.

At night, it becomes a carnival. Lights everywhere. Lasers bouncing from the main stage, glowing flow toys, people in neon-lit fur. It's easier to stare at night, and as I gaze from costume to costume, I wonder why they chose to dress this way, what they're trying to express.

We lurk at the edge of the stage, and I want to dance, but I can't get into a groove. People keep bumping into me or moving around me, taking me out of the moment. It's becoming too much. My sensory brain is overwhelmed. So I drift off to the lakebed, where water has sunk into the earth, making the land verdant, green and beautiful in the sunlight.

At night it seems like an endless chasm. I stare over the edge of the earth. Why have I come here? What have I expected to find? Will I find my own niche? Or will this alien landscape swallow me up?

 
* * *
To Be Continued...

Travelogue: Lightning in a Bottle, Part 2

What: An Art and Music Festival with a New Age Twist

Where: Bradley, CA

When: Friday, May 22nd to Monday, May 25th

With Whom: my friend Ashley and her boyfriend Matt

Part 2: Making Camp

I'm not sure why we end up hauling all our stuff from the car, because there is a tram. But for whatever reason, Matt ends up tying the tent to the cooler and slowly carting it up the dirt pathways, while Ashley and I throw bags over our arms and wrists. We begin our half mile march to camp.

What surprises me--and initially puts me off--is how close the tents are. No neatly partitioned lots; instead, canvas and cars crowd for space like a portable city block. My shoulders ache, and I would dearly love to throw off the bags and settle down, but the idea of finding a spot amid the chaos, of asking strangers if we can camp near them, causes me to freeze. In the end, I send Ashley to scout ahead.

She finds us a great spot next to a giant white tent with a pirate flag--a great location marker--that is close (but not too close) to a row of blue the Porta Potties and a water pump. The land is hard, but not too rocky and only mildly sloped. It's easy to lay on and not hurt our backs.

We pitch our green, two-room tent (a thin barrier separates the "rooms") and decorate the outside with solar-powered Christmas lights and a string of prayer flags and an actual flag that's really a tie-dyed scarf duct-taped to some extra tent poles. (It slopes slightly). We put our cooler under a long strip of tent flap to keep it shady and cool.

Inside, we string fairy lights around the ceiling--white for Ashley and Matt's side, blue for my side. (These are the same blue lights I wore to Shpongle.) Ashley tells me they cost about $5, but when we flick on the battery pack, they shine like constellation, wafting soft, mood lightning that is surprisingly easy to see by. 

I've been sore and tired and uncomfortable coming to the camp, wondering if I've gotten too old and lazy to enjoying camping. But once I spread myself out on the sleeping bag, I suddenly feel happy and settled. I've claimed my territory. Amid the sea of strangers, I've found my own private home.

* * *
To Be Continued...

Travelogue: Lightning in a Bottle, Part 1

What: An Art and Music Festival with a New Age Twist

Where: Bradley, CA

When: Friday, May 22nd to Monday, May 25th

With Whom: my friend Ashley and her boyfriend Matt

Part 1: The Landscape

A bit north of San Luis Obispo, Bradley, CA sits like a hermit on its porch.

Dusty hills are brushed with yellow grass and a few trees--I want to say olive--and what seems to be wild mustard: bushels of thin, tall stems topped with careening yellow flower heads. At midday, the temperatures grow pretty damn hot and windy, and the dust (or playa sand, as my friends called it) digs deep into our noses. At night it gets cold--not unbearably cold, but cold enough to want a good jacket and sock-covered toes.

I can't imagine that predators roam the land, or wooden signs would have warned us against leaving wrappers still rank with chocolate and sweet soda-stained bottles in open trash bags just outside the tent. At one point, Matt offers a piece of neon orange cracker to a little gray ground squirrel; but it rejects his offer and eats a grasshopper instead.

On the outskirts lay the parking lots, and further in, the camps. Dirt roads with names like Croatia and Monkey Business criss-cross the camp, plowing up and down the rocky ravines. Once inside the central festival area, long plywood bridges aid the roads across the hills.

(The first time I cross a bridge, I worry it will break. So many people cross, we could be a parade. But the bridge endures, and we walk one lane coming to and another going fro, giving high-fives to each other as we pass.)

In my mind, I divide the festival into three areas, each one anchored by a long hill.

To the west, Party Hill splays out like a toad about to leap. The jewel of this hill is the Lightning Stage, characterized by white laundry sheets that flutter like seagulls in the daylight and reflect beams of neon lights at night. It's envious brother, Thunder Stage, competes to see which can strum the bass harder. Between the two lies the Pagoda Bar--a punched-out top hat of red and yellow stripes--and four steampunk teapot towers. One tea pot is rigged with a lantern that shoots darts of color, while the others house a permeant occupancy of snoozing guests.

Hippie Hill slouches in the middle. It boasts the Om Yoga Stage, the Temple of Consciousness,  and the Village. When I wander, I find plaster white faces on gnarled, moss-covered stumps turned inward toward a shrine. The chief plaster face has a vertebrae of bones and hovers over a twisted tree laden with offerings of crystals, melted candles, and a dead bat on a piece of shell. Elsewhere, one little Buddha sits on a labyrinth of rocks and another is nailed to a tree, a broken folding fan as wings. In the shade of a small tent, people lay on the ground to experience the healing vibrations of a giant gong.

Artsy Hill nudges Hippie Hill to the east. Canvases line the lone, green lawn, and artists stand in the shade with their palettes and brushes. Further down, beats pour off the Woogie Stage, dancers swaying under giant blue Morning Glories. A colossal Russian nesting doll watches in mournful silence.

* * *
To Be Continued...