12:23 p.m. - 2003-09-25
BMan '03: Monday Part II.

MONDAY ~ Part II

I woke at 9:30am to unbearable heat, slapped on some sunscreen, and crawled out of my tent for a cold Sprite and a peanut butter sandwich.

Black Rock City looked just how I remembered it.

Despite the ever-changing spectacle and the eroding alkali dust, there are certain constants to temporary desert life, beyond intricately cracked, hollow ground and an enduring horizon.  Geodesic domes crawl ever upward of a Monday, dome tents dot the landscape like bon-bons on a plate, flags arise on every surface capable of holding a flag.  Ford trucks, RVs and Hondas anchor camp-edges with an omnipresence suggesting some odd branch of evolution; metal flora. Perrenial favourites.

The palette is sand tones and sand, blue tents and intense blue sky, olive green parachutes, chrome, and lavendar mountains. The color tyranny is broken by flickers of emergency orange, yellow, neon pink, and psychedelia.

Tem and Skot began laying out the pieces of the dome on that first morning, refusing help, so I pulled my new camp chair into the meagre shade of the Ford--inches from the horrid layer of insectia still coating the bumper like horror-stucco--and read Agatha Christie's The Moving Finger.

It is not nearly as salacious as the title suggests.

Our shade structure, made industriously from enormous pieces of grey PVC pipe that Tem scored for free, rose without incident. The ends were fastened with white rope, and the whole thing was covered with the requisite bottle-green parachute and garnished with a pale blue flag featuring a pipe-smoking 1950's Dad.  The only missing touch was a construction-site sign reading "One [1] day without incident." 

I dragged my chair inside the finished product, and failed busily at supplementing my single 4-hour sleep episode. I squinched my eyes shut for an optomistic 20 minutes at a go. But the open air was too stimulating--and I knew the tent interior was molten. Opening the flap was like peering at a sheet of half-baked cookies.

An inability to sleep anywhere but in a bed is my curse in life.  Well, one of numerous. 

And rather mild as curses go, but madly irritating.

The boys had no trouble napping, and I regarded them jealously between dips into Christie's Finger.  Too tired to go anywhere, too fitful to sleep.

By nightfall, I had found a second-wind from parts unknown.  I dressed in Army-lite, failed to roust the formerly industrious menfolk from their chairs, and set out for my first nighttime tour of the city.

Things were fairly quiet.

I walked vaguely East through residential streets, past enormous neon fish, the tiny, tropical "Heart of Darkness", and a miniature-golf course featuring windmills and pop-up punching bags shaped like penii.

I reached the open Esplinade and encountered the enormous, several-story Thunderdome, with its revolving marquee.  No one was fighting, but the encampment's hyperindustrial fire-vehicles lit up the night sky, shooting noisy, skin-baking 20-foot gobbets of flame, to the cheers of a small & early crowd.

I walked South down the horse-shoe layout to a pretty camp called Bollywood, a red, pink, orange and gold dance installment complete with stage and a white-lettered BOLLYWOOD sign.  Bolly was dedicated to celebrating India's formidable movie-making industry with movies, live performanes, and Indian-tinged house music played by a live DJ. Two minutes in, I recognized that Baz Luhrmann has adored Indian theatrical extravaganzas at some point in life, or I am gravely mistaken.

The dance floor was bordered by a row of ornate metal cages on pikes.  When the cages were spun, short film scenes could be viewed moving inside.  I spun some of the cages, but it was the extent of my participation. I felt too shy to dance in this unaccustomed place, having not yet shed my real-world hesitancy.  I stared at others instead, inquired of the blissy DJ's future schedule, then rounded the corner into Center Camp.

Center Camp resembled a human circus more than ever, with its enormous open big-top tent and bright flags--a budget Cirque du Soleil featuring addled performers and a chai counter. Small installments like Camp Artica (for ice) and the Black Rock City post office ringed the main event. I was beckoned over to the post office by smiling employees, but could not remember all of Alex's home address and had to stroll onward.

It was then that I noticed I'd seen the same tall safari-hatted man for a number of minutes. He was walking very slowly, just ahead. I slowed, and he followed suit; an absurdly slow pace for one with legs so long. I wondered paranoically if he wanted me to overtake him so he could follow me.

I stopped and pretended to be consumed with searching for something in my mini-backpack. He then idled so extremely hard that I almost laughed.

"This is BURN1NG MAN," I wanted to yell. "Say hello, you idiot! Friendships here are built on little more."

But--perhaps something is wrong with him, I thought. There's shy...and then there's weird. The BAD-weird, the...I-ate-my-hamster-'cause-it-got-uppity weird.

I was suddenly annoyed with the game and ducked between two structures then, emerging some distance away at a wall of impossibly bright, flashing pastel lights, mesmerizing and perfect for any rave. I whipped out a single silk square flag for a few minutes, watching the lights through shine through the pale, undulated dreamy-coloured fabric...again stopping short of actual dancing.

I didn't know where the shyness came from, and it surprised and saddened me. I go dancing a lot, at home.

Later, I thought.

I schussed onward through the sand to a set of 3 human-powered merry-go-rounds, on which a small crowd was spinning recklessly fast.

One of the riders was a woman in a blue fur jacket, goggles, string bikini top and a leather bikini strap-on harness with no strap-on. I thought this was very clever. Less vulgar than With, but still terribly wicked.

I was creatively envious.

I wanted a ride on the merry-go-round, but it was spinning so fast that I feared for my life and decided to wait for a briefly slower opportunity--perhaps if someone fell off, thus distracting those so possessed with spinning the thing at completely mad speeds.

However, a man suddenly said "This concludes the test! Everybody off!" and the riders went flying; giggling and whatnot. I decided not to regret the fact that I had missed the beta-testing of a carnival ride, and walked on.

I next found the Temple of Atonement, which is good to have located early on, as one's likelihood of needing or deserving a spanking increases exponentially as the week passes. I don't actually like pain, but one never knows what might surface during the week, from scavenger hunts to alternate personalities.

And then...the Lumenarians.

A white laminated placard revealed the Lumenarians to be a 23,000-year old race descended from dolphins, dedicated to bringing light and wisdom to the world. Apparently dolphin-people like a nice geodesic dome like anyone else--white-covered, with a rectangular shade structure offshoot, hung with white and peach draperies. And Lumenarian priestesses like to entertain in small groups, while a bouncer guards the door.

Hopefuls meditated outside until deemed Interesting. A whiteboard listed the times for various rituals, but was not very forthcoming. I was madly curious, but also a little afraid. I might discover the Meaning of Life in there, or be drugged, rolled and left babbling and violated in a Recovery Pup-Tent.

Which reminds me, it was then that my safari-hatted shadow agent appeared again. I took my leave immediately, straight across the open playa this time. I was motivated far less by fear or grumpiness than I was by the promise of distant cinematic hilarity--it was time for an event that the What-When-Where guide listed as Hysterical Historical--a celluloid compilation of educational films about sex, grooming, manners and social diseases. A midnight showing! I couldn't wait. I quickly strode a mile back to camp, then hopped on my bicycle and rode out to the Outer Limits of camp at 10 o' Clock and Vision.

One can see forever there--desert stretches away from you into an unmeasurable darkness of distant hills and coyotes. A darkness one's gaze gets lost in, a peaceful, unfathomable hypnotic void. And there's nothing in the way of the stars there. Even less than there is anywhere else in camp. The mountains are lower and farther away than at the opposite side of the city.

It is a Brilliant place for a cinema. If your eyes wander from the screen for even a moment, they're looking suddenly at the stars.

Perhaps, if I am ever rich, I shall buy a home in the middle of nowhere and show movies outdoors (and be eaten by cougars one day, probably while watching Showgirls). But before any grave accidents, it will be heaven.

Historical Hysterical, alas, was not to be. A white panel truck parked there at 10 o 'clock & Vision appeared to have arrived there only 30 minutes before, and suspiciously clean and undusty film mavens were unloading distressingly simple things like cables, rope and rebar. There was--as yet--no movie screen.

"I suppose this is the cinema?" I said.

"Yes indeed," said a be-spectacled blonde gent. "We just got here...we're a little late. We ought to be set up in, oh...three hours."

Cripes.

Foiled by Burning Man Standard Time!

...Staying awake for 3 more hours would be impossible after the previous night's mingy nap, so I biked back to my sandy lair and called it a night, feeling at least re-acquainted with my home planet.

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