Exercise 7

So. I went to Burning Man.
I – who am never shy to admit that I hate camping – went out into the desert to eat, drink, breath, sleep in and absorb-thru-every-pore-and-follicle, that supersoft Playa dust.

It's probably impossible to describe the experience. You really do have to just go there yourself. And no doubt, your experience will be subtly or grossly different from mine.
So instead I will tell you what Burning Man isn't.

A couple of weeks after the event I attended a Renaissance Faire - yet another USian curiosity. At one of the lively stage shows the washer women were flinging wet laundry. Like you do, if you're a medieval washerwoman trying to rouse your audience.
Trouble was, one guy just wouldn't enter into the spirit. It was a hot day; a little sprinkle of water should have been welcomed. But no, he leapt from one seat to another, terrified of getting wet. He was also eating a chocolate ice cream.

After the show, while the happy audience were chuckling off to the next event, I saw him poking at a couple of little chocolate ice cream spillages on the front of his t-shirt as he grumbled to his girlfriend:
"I should make them pay for a new shirt."

Which sums up everything that's wrong with America today, and why Burning Man needs to exist.

No one talks or thinks like that in Black Rock City.
For starters it's too hot for ice cream, so you'd never have this exact problem.
But if you did you'd just laugh about it because, well, shit happens. Get over it. It's no-one's fault.
And then someone would ride past on a customised bike and hand you a new t-shirt, hug you and ride away.
In BRC everyone takes responsibility for themselves, and thus they take responsibility for everyone else too.
There's enough of everything to go around.
There's more than enough of everything in fact.
And there's no 'us', or 'them'.
We're all just us.

Summer Time

Not enuf rants on my blog - so it's time:

When did 'Daylight Saving Time' become 'Daylight Savings TIme'?
The present participle 'saving' is used as an adjective, not a noun.
You wouldn't say 'labor savings device', or 'Money Savings Ideas'!

[BTW - am loving the first long sunny evening of DST so far.]

ZEN and the art of SMS

An SMS from the bad man who dumped me and made me cry. Many months after the paperwork and separation are finally over and done and I think i've removed all traces of him.

"Do you want to have a drink sometime?"

Oh god.

Stop and think.
Whatever you do, don't write anything stupid, something that he could twist to suit his own version of reality.
And try to remain diginfied.

Possible responses?

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha."
Too rude. Could also imply that i'm insane.

"Why?"
Then he'll reply and before I know it i'll be stuck in a whole stupid conversation that can't end well.

"No"
Too short. Might look like a typo.

"Fuck Off!"
Too emotional. Like he can stir any kind of feeling in me.

"Fuck Off, Loser!"
Ditto. Also unnecessarily rude. And adolescent.

"Bugger off you bastard, how dare you."
Posh adolescent.

"Not yet"
"I'm not ready for casual socialising."
"Thanks, but i don't think that's a good idea."
Leaves too much to the imagination.
Like: I'm still hurting, therefore I still love you...
The horror.

Ignore it completely.
Too ambiguous.

Try polite but dismissive - the worst response a man can get, i'm told:

"I'm sorry 'x' but I'm just not interested"
Too snooty

"I'm sorry 'x', Maybe next year"
Don't want to keep him dangling.

"Sure, See you tomorrow at the pub at 8"
Then fail to show up, turn my phone off, and leave him waiting forever.
[insert evil chuckle]

What would the Dalai Lama do?
Not intentionally stand someone up, for starters.

"Thank you that sounds lovely, but no thanks"
A lie. Wouldn't be lovely at all.

"Thank you, but no :-)"
Perfect!
It's polite, dismissive with a whiff of zen grace and gratitude.
And there's no reply to a message like that.
I decide it's pretty much as good as it can get and hit send.

8 weeks later:
"Hi...." (I get a HI this time.)
"Hi, I was wondering if you would like to have a drink sometime."
He even signed it with his initial. How sweet.
I read it several times - the way you keep looking at the empty parking space before you can really believe your car's been stolen.

Possible responses.
"WTF. Are you kidding me with this?"
"Did you GET my last reply?"
"You think anything has changed in just 8 weeks?"
"Why oh why?"
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha"

But he's asked twice now; maybe there's some important business he needs to discuss - a problem with some paperwork?
Reluctantly I reply.

"A social drink? Or do you have something on your mind?"

"No Agenda. I'd like to see you."

Ri-i-i-ght.
SO many ways to respond...
"You can see me any time. That's why i gave you my photo."
"I rather think you gave up that privilege when you decided to fuck me over for someone else."
"Why? You having second thoughts?"......

As if!

I hit DELETE.

If this is where we get to, for all my agonizing over what to reply last time, then why bother. Silence speaks volumes.

And he figures it out.

"I guess you still don't what to see me. I know I deserve this. If ever you change your mind, just let me know. I'll stop pestering you."

Oh, can you hear the tiny violin?

As if HE'S the victim and i'm the bad guy in all this.
Bugger. If i Ignore this message then I'm the callous one.
But i'm a good person.
I'm a kind person.

What would the Dalai Lama do?
Who knows. He'll never be in this situation.
And i'm pretty sure he doesn't have a mobile phone.
Lucky bastard.

Exercise 6

I write my best material on the bike. Or in the pool.

Sentences like poetry flow from me as i think and pedal streets, or splash up and down the lanes. The repetitive rhythm of the physical act turning the mind's creative engine. It sounds good in my head and i picture myself writing it all down as soon as I'm home.

But the words fall away into the gutters i ride past; left behind in the puddles pool-side. When i come home the necessities take priority - those too-dull-to describe things - and there's not time, energy or impetus left to write by the end of the night. I sit at a desk at work all day. I can't do it again when i get home.

It's as if when I do the inactive sitting, my creative brain goes inactive too. It's active when my body is. As is the inspiration and motivation.

Perhaps I need to build in a dictaphone into the handlebars somehow.