“What is this Burning Man?” asks my mother, via the technological monstrosity known as Facebook. “Is it like Curves?”
My mother being my “friend” on Facebook—and commenting on absolutely everything that I post or comment on myself—is another story.
“Burning Man is not Curves,” I reply in print. This is actually all I know of Burning Man, that it is NOT Curves. I will try to explain this to her tomorrow, on her birthday, when she will likely be in a cheerful-enough frame of mind to agree to care for my beasts if I should decide to go to Burning Man 2010—which might as well be 20 women in a circle on elliptical machines, for all I understand of it.
*****
Facebook is a necessary evil for misery-laden divorcees, I have decided.
Sophie asked me just yesterday why all the adults she knows seem to be on Facebook: “obsessed,” I believe, was the word she chose. I told her it’s because grownups are pitiful creatures. I told her Facebook happens to grownups because once they get out of college, they lose their friend-making superpowers, and eventually, their friends. Without Facebook and its illusion of reconnection and new connections, grownups’ sad, pathetic little hearts would rot like dead goldfish floating too long at the top of the aquarium before proper flush-burial.
“Ooooo-KAY,” said Sophie, before flouncing off to read, or, you know, make real friends or schedule real playdates or something like that.
I need more playdates.
*****
As I was pondering this (along with my mother’s last rapid-fire machine-gun burst of comments: “LOVE THAT!” “GREAT PIC! WONDER WHERE JENN GETS IT FROM?” “<3 <3 <3″), I noticed that an old friend of mine from Grinnell had posted a batch of Burning Man photos. Many of them featured topless, A-cup, 20something hotties wearing superstar sunglasses and bandanna loincloths and working heavy construction equipment, hotties with names like Ariadne Aurora Novastar and Eclipse Eurofresh.
As I stared at their naked boobies in the hot, dusty desert, two realizations hit me:
1) Them thar are some badass CURVES
2) My boobies were SO AWESOMELY EUROFRESH when I was in my 20s, that even Ariadne Aurora and Eclipse would have fallen to their hot, bony knees in wonderment and worshipped me as the artsy love goddess that I was, had I only known it at the time
3) I wanted to BE Ariadne Aurora Novastar and Eclipse Eurofresh. Like, NOW. IMMEDIATELY. In some way. Even if I would now have to tie my boobies behind my neck like a halter top so I could work the construction equipment safely
*****
I feel bad that I have not had this response to BlogHer. In fact, I can’t even bear to look at pictures of BlogHer, and I like to think it’s not just because I’m discriminating against their boobies-must-be-covered policy.
I don’t feel like I belong anywhere anymore. And BlogHer, although I seem to have the credentials—after all, I run the ads, and I, you know, BLOG, and I’m a HER—feels like a place where I would feel even more lonely than I already do. Even more of a freak.
Truly, right now, I feel about as lonely as I’ve ever felt. And as freakish as I’ve ever felt. The prospect of attending BlogHer and watching the hives form around the most popular bloggers makes me want to set myself on fire. With a stiff drink in the non-lighting hand.
So why not watch something else get set on fire? Something BIG?
*****
I did a little homework. Burning Man, populated annually by thousands upon thousands of freaks who come together to create a freakishly wonderful and terrifying and unfathomable (to the Burning Man virgins, like moi) consensual art experience—well, that started to sound kind of reassuring. Calming, even. Insane, possibly, but I am no stranger to insanity.
So I wrote to my Grinnell friend on a whim, asking him to tell me more about Burning Man, and if you have to be a topless 20something with an awesome, yet petite, rack and a name like Ariadne Aurora Novastar. Au contraire, he told me. Clothing is optional, but the option lies with me.
And then he asked if I wanted to be part of his Burning Man camp this year. August 2010. He told me to read up on it at The Burning Man Project site. Said it would answer some of my questions.
It did, and it didn’t. But I remain mightily intrigued:
FIRST-TIMER’S GUIDE
Once a year, tens of thousands of people gather in Nevada’s Black Rock Desert (also known as “the playa”) to create Black Rock City, a temporary metropolis dedicated to community, art, self-expression, and self-reliance. They depart one week later, having left no trace whatsoever.
Even considering going to Burning Man for the first time can be daunting. And while it’s true that Burning Man is not for the faint of heart, with some research, preparation, and planning, an experience — and opportunity — beyond your wildest dreams awaits you. In Black Rock City, you’re guaranteed not to be the weirdest kid in the classroom. And you’ll become a part of the growing community of Burners who are active year-round, around the world … ensuring that the fire of Burning Man culture never goes out.
My friend P. said that they greet you at the gates of Black Rock City with the words, “Welcome home.” I nearly teared up at that. “Welcome home.” Dang it. Because ain’t that just what I’m looking for. Ain’t it just.
Home.
*****
I am a Burning Man virgin, as they say. I sure as heck ain’t the original variety. I am going to check in with P. later this week, to make sure his invitation to join his camp was the real deal.
I forget sometimes that I was a Studio Art major at Grinnell, and a Theatre minor. I would like to forget that I have a Master’s in Acting and Playwriting, since I still owe $60,000 unpayable dollars in student loans for that detour. I forget that I used to wake up every day and consider myself an artist. Nothing fancy, but an artist. Somebody who used to make stuff, good stuff, regularly.
Art used to feel like home.
I’d like to find home again. I wonder if a week of art installations and dust and heat and all-night drum circles and gift-giving and free love (maybe I’ll just observe that particular facet) and waiting in line for Porta-Potties (if only I could just observe) would shake up my soul, burn the remaining bombed-out walls of my spirit to the ground.
Welcome home.
*****
Have you gone? Would you go? Are there camps solely for those with busted hearts and sagging breasts and dreams gone completely missing? Oh, baby. Speak to me, Burners. O, verily, speak.
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