I can smell the playa dust
If you've ever smelled playa dust, you know how I feel. Well, perhaps "smell" is the wrong word. Have you sanded the paint off a house? Your nose is definitely involved, but its not exactly an olfactory thing. Anyway, I'm getting that fullness of the sinuses that can only mean its time to return to Burningman.
I have a dream every so often: I've got about 15 minutes until my ride to Burningman leaves, and I haven't started packing. This is an evolution of that older dream where I'm about to take the final exam for a class that I stopped attending after the first week. Sometimes its a curse to have your dreams come true: I have four days to get my things together, and staring at the empty space I've cleared to stage my gear isn't exactly spurring me into action.
This is my third year on the playa. By all rights I should have this process down. And indeed, I'm counting on my prior experience in surviving Burningman to bear me through what portends to be a rushed, haphazard packing. I have what you might call a low standard of living out there. I eat out of cans and lug around my own body-weight in caked playa dust. I sleep in a tent that either retains or releases heat, whichever is least comfortable at the moment. But in the past I've only had to keep myself alive. This year I'm bringing provisions for myself and for my girlfriend Vicki, a Burningman virgin. And so, because I love her, and perhaps out of a certain degree of embarrassment, I'm taking great pains to make our camp comfortable and luxurious. I really think I'll appreciate luxury more when I can share it with someone.
I have four days. And that empty space where I'm staging my Burningman supplies isn't filling up on its own. Panic is rising in my stomach like a dust-storm.
No, that's not true. I went to Pep-Boys today and bought a 10'x20' car-port. As playa accomodations go, its suitable for a family of six. If I somehow managed to forget all my other belongings at home, I know that I would at least have a warm, insulated enclosure in which to play jai-alai.
I won't starve, and I won't freeze, and neither will Vicki. But the prospect of making this a miserable experience due to inattention to detail on my part is chilling nonetheless.
But I'm pushing that attitude firmly out of my mind as I conclude this post. In a few short days I'm going home. I'm going to be surrounded by the friends I love, sharing Burningman with the woman I love, and helping build the city I love.
And I'm going to get covered in playa dust.
The man burns in 16 days