Decompression And The White Knight Syndrome

So yesterday, my musician friend Poncho and I went to the Burning Man Afterburner Decompression party in San Francisco. I’ve never been to the main event in Black Rock, and yes yes, I know I should, but reports of how bloody hot it is have kept me at bay. We met up with his friend Steve, and the three of us wandered for most of the evening, playing looky-loo.

I went to this party last year, and it was a hoot. This year was a load of fun as well. The picture in this post was of a couple who were fantastic to watch. There were several stages set up, and they were all playing techno-rave music (there was one instance where we wandered by a structure, and I became convinced  that the music is what you’d hear during a heart attack, go figure). But the couple in the picture were far beyond the one-stepping one-to-two-flailing palms one usually encounters. These two had obviously been practicing, and I alternated between gooseflesh and tears just watching them.

Yeah, I was fairly blitzed at the time, but still…they were a work of art to watch.

Of all the mini-adventures we had, the one I am going to extrapolate on is…wild and interesting.

As the three of us were standing in a crowd, Steve decided to get some food, and Poncho and I stood just staring around, drinking in the sights. Standing a few feet away, was a gorgeous, tiny white gal, maybe in her mid-twenties, scantily clad as is the convention there (and hoo boy, how nice is that, for a bunch of dirty old men, to sit and drool and not get slapped for it, eh?). She smiled at Poncho, and he did an odd dance step that I commented on (I’m fairly sure he was unaware that he did so, and besides, there were piles upon piles of dancing bodies around, so who really cares, right?). She came over and started talking in his ear (the music is loud enough sometimes you can feel the bass in your chest cavity). She staggered somewhat, and I asked if she was okay. Seeing as they were having a conversation that really didn’t involve me (and I couldn’t really overhear anyways), I moved to a wooden patio nearby in the light, where Steve was wolfing his curried rice down, and stood, observing, occasionally glancing over at Poncho.

After several minutes, he cut through the crowd, bringing the gorgeous little spinner over to us, and introduced her as ‘Collette’. She immediately detached herself from my friend, and glommed onto me.

This is of course the sort of fantasy middle-aged men dream about – some beautiful young woman throws herself into your arms, and it should write itself. It was, after all, one of the reasons I went (and I brought some rubbers in the odd event  I should get lucky). Of course, experience dictates that anything too easy is a red flag. If it’s too good to be true, it usually is. Sadly, I was right.

It became readily apparent, that she was in no shape to look after herself. I couldn’t get her name out of her, she couldn’t tell us who she had come with, and she was literally all over the place – she was barely holding herself upright, alternating between arching her back and lilting left and right in my arms. She was laughing crazily at almost everything I said (and I’m a laugh riot as a rule, but she was in that sort of shape where EVERYTHING is funny). I kept hearing about how I was awesome.

I told my friend Poncho (who was watching this with a mixture of disappointment and bewilderment in his face), that I couldn’t leave this poor woman in this state. And yes, that was my first response. Not an erection, not a thought bubble that said “Bingo!”, but how to help this poor messed up stranger. I tried to lecture her on trusting strangers, but she became upset, and I had to hug her and tell her it was all right. I had the bright idea of asking her for her cell phone (logic dictated that the last person on her call queue was likely an accompanying friend). She brought out this tiny, tiny purse that was barely large enough to hold her cigarettes, and yes, no cell. I wasn’t about to pat her down or look through her purse. She then was able to tell me that she need to use a restroom. So I held onto her (more like she held onto me), and I escorted her to the bathroom in the bar (I actually had to warn her about the stairs, which she laughingly claimed she could scale, but obviously could not. I was announcing each stair.).

She got in the line, and I stood by, wrestling with my moral imperative: do I just leave? Do I wait for her? How far does my responsibility extend? Likelihood was she’d be fine, but my worry was that some drunken schmoe would take advantage of her incoherency and mental state – on the other hand, it was the Burning Man crowd, and from what little I’ve seen and gleaned, they take care of their own.

No worries. She came out, and immediately began talking to the women waiting in line, most of whom stated they couldn’t understand her. She ended up in the arms of a woman (I noted it wasn’t the gal in line dressed as a nurse – guess it really WAS a costume), and as she glommed onto her, I came over, touched the woman holding her, and asked her to make sure ‘Collette’ was in good hands. She gave me that look of “huh?” and told me, “I don’t know who she is.” “Neither do I,” I responded. “She glommed onto me earlier.” It was at this juncture that a huge round black fellow came up (obviously security – it was in the manner in which he held himself), and I took my leave from there. I saw the other ‘huggee’ some time later, and asked her if ‘Collette’ was all right. I was told that she was with the rangers, and all was well.

Regrets? No, only that I didn’t leave my business card with her. Wait – also that she had to be a state of incoherence to approach me in that manner (I prefer my women to be at least semi-coherent, but able to make something resembling a judgment call). It is somewhat sad that we have so many innate filters that we as humans have to get completely blitzed to express ourselves. Masks are not always a plus.

And no, I didn’t get lucky last night. Which is okay, I’m at a stage in life where it’d be nice but not necessary. I do however feel pretty good about selflessly helping a stranger in obvious need (yeah, so my altruism isn’t 100%, so sue me). Do I need a medal? Hell no. I recall a time many decades ago, when I worked graveyard in a convenience store, and found a wallet. There was money in it. I didn’t take the money, and turned it over to the Dublin police. When I told the store manager (a pretty little born-again Christian named Sue) about it, she assured me that God would reward me. My response then is the same response now:

“You don’t do the right thing for a reward. You do it because it’s the right thing to do.”

When I told my ma that story, she laughed uproariously, and said “You sound just like your father when you say that.”

I guess it’s all in how you’re raised.

Thanks for the listen.

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PRAYERWORLD

Let's go off the beaten path here, yet again.

Another afternoon nap became a very interesting, surreal experience. Run to the PC, type it up FAST!

And this is too short to sell anywhere. I was going to do a post on a Biblical figure, but hey, everyone's doing that, let's be a little more original.

So, without further ado, I give you:

PRAYERWORLD

On Galaath, the unthinkable, the un-understandable had happened.

Galaath the world, Galaath the people, Galaath the language, Galaath, the name of every being on Galaath, all these words distinguishable from one another by the quadrillion harmonic convergences played on the trill of the tongue or in the mind.

And each Galaath, since time out of mind, had in its larvae stage, knelt, and whispered a prayer every night of its sentience, for a million million nights, and from those whispers, building a crystalline world in miniature, until the world itself was encircled by smaller ones, infinite regression from which there seemed to be no starting point, that point itself lost in the shadows of history.

Until Galaath (minor trill on the g, major on the a, harmonic lilt on the l, aaa sweeping down-up note, the th a long ululation) knelt on its knee-bones, intertwined its two webbed fingers and touched double-jointed thumbs and began whispering its prayer from its tiny beak, avian eyes unblinking, and formed the darker crystal.
It was light at first. The wisps of words curled into the air, forming it as so many had formed before. The textures formed multi-faceted surfaces, a jeweled woven tapestry knitted in the air, a sparkler unfolding outwards.
All was well, until the crystal began...flickerings inside itself. Dark swirling motes started to blink in and out of existence as Galaaths jeweled prayer grew. These splotches began to grow in frequency, marring the delicate conformity of all those that had gone before.
This was noticed, first by Galaath, and then by all other Galaaths, and it became quiet discordance, a cognitive dissonance in the hive mind/not-hive mind of Galaath.
Such an event had never stirred the collective/non-collective before. Prior to this, all had proceeded in accordance with tradition, in accordance with memory, in accordance with accordance.
Now the anomaly, the unthinkable, the un-understandable had occurred. Something had to be done, and soon: Galaath the world feared the pollution of prayer jewels: not one Galaath could conceive of Galaath surrounded by marred prayer.
And the supplicate Galaath heard its friends, Galaath all, come to it: and knew of the impending doom to be visited on this warped abomination that had sprang from its lips. It spoke to them, and they spoke back. It pleaded to have this one spared;all the while knowing its pleas fell on deaf minds. And so, after the pleas were dismissed, and it was told to stand away from the bobbing dark gem (for by now it was more than sporadic black wisps, it was now almost entirely obsidian), it watched as many Galaaths began ululating a tone that crept higher, and higher, focused in a conical spiral only a Galaath could see, rising in a painful crescendo that only a Galaath could hear (and every one on that planet clamped golden palms to earholes, all except the weaver), until the dark jewel began to tremble, and shake internally.
And its creator, in that one moment before destruction, before the buckling of whisper-stuff collapsed into itself, a black hole in miniature self engorging, Galaath then saw billions of tiny faces, grotesque little things, two eyes, weird beaks (?), bizarre holes beneath that held many white marbles, all these faces distinct and yet uniform in some wild symmetry, all crying all pleading NNNNOOOOO!!! It saw each and every one of them: knew that it had gone farther than any other Galaath before it, and this would not be done again, somehow.
And felt the pain smoke through three of its five hearts, as it felt the loss: all this, as the dark gem buckled in on itself, fractured, buckled further, angles folding inward that were painful to watch for any who had eyes. And...gone: wisps of dark tendrils floated upwards, and dissipated.
We are sorry, Galaath, they told it. It was not meant to be.
Understand, said Galaath. But its friends had not seen. Had not seen the many, many tiny, weird faces twisted in pain and fear. Nor could it show them. Somehow, in some way, that was blocked to all but it.
And somehow, all Galaath knew without knowing, and Galaath itself, that it would never reach pupae stage.
For tradition made no allowances for discordance. All must be harmonized.
No anomalies allowed.
And so, the first and last heretic, the first and last atheist, on Galaath the Prayerworld, knelt one last final time, as the ululation began again.

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TIME, IDENTITY, GENDER, IS MEANINGLESS WHEN LOVE IS YOUR ANCHOR

Last September, I took a short afternoon nap (this happens a lot: middle age sucks, sometimes), and I had this dream. I woke up, and immediately typed it up. What does it mean? Only that I have a pretty active imagination, for an old guy. It’s too short to publish, just a fragment. Lemmee know what you all think.

     TIME, IDENTITY, GENDER, IS MEANINGLESS WHEN LOVE IS YOUR ANCHOR

     It is a dark, dreary apartment when first I meet Tommy. Tall, tow-headed, wearing that ridiculous leather duster, always carrying his umbrella. Tommy is asking Sensei about some move. Sensei calls me to demonstrate. We stand in the center of that apartment, which seems bigger than it is not, and I am Brenda now, tiny, red-headed, white-clad. I offer my tiny, pale wrist to his large hand, and, as he takes it, I see his eyes close, and I feel him feel me, tasting my pulse. I begin the move, but no more: somehow, he is one with me and I with him, and we are all together, like the Walrus, I hear my pulse in his touch, and I am motionless. “Sorry, Sensei”, I tell my frowning teacher, and Tommy releases my wrist, eyes still closed. I offer my other tiny, pale wrist, and he takes it, eyes still closed. The pulse is no longer heard, but the move, and the memory of the move is still gone.
     Windows shatter inwards, but I cannot see the breakers. Sensei is to his feet, five-foot-five of smooth, elderly Asian, Tommy is whirling in a rustle of leather, umbrella out, but I am rendered helpless by something, and so, I shift…
     I am now a Japanese rent boy in the 25th century, sitting in a retro-rickshaw, and two white men on either side of me are harming me, though it hurts not, and they probe into me with the scaly arms from right and left, impossibly moving my vitals about without killing me, strange gazes from their white-bred faces, and Tommy is reaching in with his umbrella from the roof of the rickshaw, impaling one with that umbrella of his through the head, which oddly sinks in and through, and Tommy’s face is distended as he bellows an unintelligible war-cry, and the other one flails about the cab with fishy appendages without any smell but that of panic. I shift again…
     And I am the hostess, at a suburban house, my name is Brenda again, tiny pale red-head, but I am not that other Brenda, somehow I am different, marginalized, whether it is by the time or the place or the center of that place, and I am paying courtly tribute to my guests in that way only a hostess may. Am I a wife, or a queen, or some CEO? I do not know, but my moves are smooth, as they once were in that place before, where I was another Brenda, but my moves are no longer martial, but societal, and I am a gazelle in miniature here, on neutral ground, still unclear as to the whys and wheres and hows and whens, but flowing smoothly, smoothly. Until I come up to that tall wall of rawhide, and Tommy turns, his psychotropic umbrella in his fist, not a weapon, only his prop, and I look up to his freckled face, and he looks down at mine, and we smile in recognition and warmth. The periphery of my vision tells me my nemeses are here:  I can read their stilted movements, their blank gazes snapping to me whenever the flow of guests permits visual identification, and I panic, though I know I am safe. Tommy cries “Wait!”, but too late. I shift again….     
     I am a teenage hustler in Missouri, and I am backed into an alley because I propositioned the wrong truck driver, and he and his buddy are “Gonna teach me a lesson, ya little faggot” in their words, and I am too small and too slow in this body, wishing I had some memory of far away to help me defend myself. The truck drivers are again those reptilian-eyed men, staring straight at me, with lidless eyes of maroon crescents, and they bear down on me, smiling ferally. Tommy is at them suddenly, umbrella flailing, duster snapping about as he twists and turns and batters at them. I recognize him, and cry his name, but this is error, his attention diverted, one of the drivers has him down, I see the leather corners go up in the air, and the other joins in, and I shriek his name once more, and I shift….
     A rainy day in a small town, and I pull the lacy curtain aside, and see Tommy on his skateboard in the heavy rain, water shedding from that coat he always wears, but he turns around deftly on his wooden plank with wheels, and goes back into the storefront he has recently emerged from, and comes back out with umbrella in hand, and the weird rainbow unfurls to protect him from the falling wetness, and I sigh, and smile, but he doesn’t see me, but skates on, his freckled face looking from side to side, as if seeking something, as if seeking me but not knowing it’s me. I am Belinda now, but so far my enemies have not shown: perhaps we are safe here? Time will tell. I cannot recall if we have ever been safe before, or if ever, or if we had time together longer than a single shift. This puzzles me. But I sigh, and hope, and dream of being in his arms soon, whether as a man, or a woman, or in this century, the next, or the prior.
     Time, identity, gender, is meaningless when love is your anchor.

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