Burning Man Lost

Well hello there,

So I'm sitting back in my little house in Shrewsbury, sipping on some Welsh blackberry and apple brandy and watching a Doris Day documentary. I'm sleepless. I'm jetlagged. I'm trying to process the most remarkable week of my life. The week I lost my Burginity at the Rites of Passage Burning Man 2011.

If you've ever seen The Muppet Movie, or Labyrinth, or Fraggle Rock, or Dark Crystal and delighted in it's mayhem, then that is 90 mins of fantasy that becomes tangible and lasts for a week while at BM.

The first thing you cannot believe upon arrival is the vastness of the space. A city is created for just a week to be burnt or torn down at the end. The playa stretches out for 3 miles and your tiny brain cannot compute its immensity. There are derelict fraggles as far as the eye can see. Art work emerges twinkling and mighty from the dust. It is an apocalyptic future. A dystopian past. Another dimension. Life on Mars. The Fifth Element. There are 50,000 wild ones, all communing to love, to laugh, to lose their minds and find them again.

You have this magical originality, this alien landscape and then you have your tribe. A few of you have made a camp. I was with wonderful old friends from Hong Kong and new ones from Germany and the US. We were all cartoon characters in our own graphic novel.

We were based at a New York sound camp named Bubbles & Base. Tina Jane and myself, along with Doctor Richard were to open the bar on the first night. Dress in gold was our only instruction.

We had arrived at camp after a 15 hour RV mission bought to us by the heroic Marija. We hit the playa at 1am but didn't park til 6am due to slow traffic onto site. We slept for a few hours and adopted our first costume change. TJ was bedecked in body hugging harlequin suit, heels and Northern Thailand hilltribe headress. I wore a Jessica Simpson polka dot bubble dress and parasol. We were caricatures of ourselves. We set out into the dust. Every other camp offers free booze. So we slurped IPA in a tiny saloon, travelled by fairground whirligig for beer and sipped whatever else was available in our plastic champagne flutes. We primped. We posed. We tried to take it all in. We found Shamrock City, soon to be our Irish Bar home from home and went back to the RV for a temazepam-drenched 4 hour sleep before our 2am alarm to prepare to bar wench.

We drank some amaretto and coke, smeared our eyelids and lips with pritstick to hold the golden glitter and hit our bar. For the next 8 hours, we served champagne to the thirsty circus folk while Doctor Richard checked ID. As the sun came up for our first true BM sunrise, we knew we were somewhere incredibly special, and not of this earth.

A further nap, and another costume change, and out we walked again. This was the pattern of the week for we had camped beside the Evil Dubstep Sound Camp, pumping out chainsaws and dentist drills. Music for the deaf. Music for the gremlins. Certainly not music for me. TJ was more adept at sleeping through this but as I had spent the last year in sleepy Shropshire it was gradually dementing me. But there were open bars. And sights to be seen. So the week continued.

We donned saris and made pilgrimage to the temple of transition. A place of such beauty and meaning I cannot describe. The walls are plastered with photos and letters and clothing of loved ones. A shrine to all those you have lost or forsaken you. People kissed. People cried. People mourned. In the middle of the desert. In a structure due for burning in but one week.

The dubstep continued. The drinking continued. The bowls were passed around. The mushrooms began to be nibbled.

Time and space stuttered.

Our RV ran out of power so no oven, no microwave, no AC. It is 41 degrees. We only have noodles to eat.

And then nightfalls. The temperatures drop and you find yourself out in the middle of the desert without your friends. You've lost your way and possibly your mind, somewhere between a portaloo and an artcar. You walk the miles back, in the dark, using the Burning Man and Temple as your guiding stars. A curvaceous, illuminated structure near the Bubbles & Bass camp means you can find your way. Pilgrimage through the dust. Falling into your tent, you wrap yourself in furs and sleeping bags and know exhaustion will get you through the soundcamps all around.

The morning begins again and so does the desert. You cycle. You drink. You listen to spoken word poetry in central camps. You meet more humans.

Snowcones are nearby. If you flash your junk you jump the queue. Your top slides off and you are suddenly wandering the playa topless. And who cares? No one. Many are naked. Then to Camp Beaverton for Wayward Girls. The lesbian camp. 150 girls whooping to a lecture about female ejaculation. Women tell you you're beautiful. Stainless steel paraphernalia is shown. We leave before the demonstration moves on. TJ finds it dull. As we stroll the playa, another artcar picks us up, and we listen to sweet non-dubstep tunes in the afternoon sun. My parasol protects my modesty. Somewhat.

We move towards the best dayclub of the playa, Distrikt and are picked up on our way by a phenomenal transgender lady we name Patsy for her abfab similarities. She steps out of her Sponge Bob Square Pants car to assure us she's no Patsy, she's a much bigger girl. She makes my own look like gnat bites. We spend some time at the club then I decide I've had too much of everything. I don't want to see anymore porn, anymore nudity, anymore mayhem. I want out the movie. I want a bed. I want clean clothes. I want freshness. I want to have not eaten that hash brownie. We return. I pass out at the back of the RV and stay there for around 10 hours.

TJ brings back various friends for me to meet. All quite innocently, but in my mangled brain I imagine wrong scenarios and pretend to slumber on. The dubstep rages on, symbolising the evil techno green bad trips I had once or twice in my teens. I sleep.

The next day is better. It is the day of the burn. There are only 2 more nights. The Man Burn. The Temple Burn. I can do this!

We get up for champagne at our club and are told that a movie star has a vagina art installation just around the corner. So off we set. We climb the cock and balls. We slide down the tube. We enter the vagina. We hit the G Spot. We get misted. We emerge to the morning sun. We meet Rosario Dawson. All is well.

We have a mellow day. Lots of cycling. Lots of exploring. The oddness is feeling less odd. We drink lots of water. We prepare for the Burn. Having spent all week losing people, due to the natural and not so natural highs, our tribe plan to meet at the temple at 8 to walk over to the Man. I embrace the mayhem and the pharmaceuticals and off we trot. We have Eunice, the Unicorn as our guide. She is held aloft as we enter the most tribal happening. Every light is on. Every stereo is playing. Pyrocars spurt their flames into the air. Acid & E & mushrooms & pot & absinthe fill the air. Here is what occurs from afar: http://vimeo.com/28801666 Within is a magical, wild, untameable beast. A delirium. A celebration like no other. As he burns, the tribes woop and hug and sing and stare and the dancing begins. We are lost out on the playa for hours. Skipping and jumping. Where the Wild Things Are. The Lord of the Flies. The Island of Lost Boys. The Amazons.

As things calm, TJ and I slip away. We are not so high. We retreat to the RV to take pause and drink a glass of merlot. TJ ponders just relaxing, for the first time in the week I may add, but I reject that and off we trot once more. To have it out with the Evil Dubstep club! And we go. And we dance. Like we've never danced before. We gyrate to the dentists drill. We surf to the chainsaw. We clear the floor. We own the floor. We take back the night!

And so... to the Oirish Bar... The place of all things good.

We meet a giant Irish muppet, who shows us his show RV. He got it cheap off some fella and drove it over. It's bedecked in red velvets and an utter pit. It is wonderful.

We return to the bar where a cheeky chap offers me granola on the dancefloor. The music is wonderful.

A sparkly Wolverine Elvis type comes to talk. He hands me a bracelet. With my a silver nametag on it. It is almost my name. A L L I S O N is says. Pft. That is the American spelling. I only have 1 L. And off I flounce. I am followed by a wingman to say the spelling is bad but the math is good. TBC.....

From Welshpool to Shrewsbury

‘’So how can you tell me you’re lonely and say for you that the sun don’t shine?’

This old Roger Whittaker song has my circling my brain of late. Teasing at the corners as fire licks paper. I have found this particularly perverse as I seem to have entered the God realm of late. Other terms for this would be heaven or perhaps Narnia. My life seems infused with magic. I am the Hall & Oates Busby Berkely extraganza of 500 days of Summer. I have the Midas touch. Squirrels appear at my window and bound along by me as I walk to work. Stags cross my path and deer twitch their ears as I approach, so close I can make out their unique freckles. I work in a castle with a familiar named Alan. He is a peacock. He is the first conversation I have before I breach the castle walls in the morning. He pretends I don’t exist. I dig that about him. Then there are gardeners who offer to bring me sweetpeas, volunteers who bake cakes and a whole raft of other castle folk who seem delighted to have made my acquaintance. I am so heart-openingly grateful for this period of my life, I get a bit misty as I walk to and from work. It’s just all such a dream. The dream is even more highly defined by the fact I spent the previous three months toiling like I’ve never toiled before as a waitress in a hotel. In my last role, I racked up 55 hour weeks and started at 8am to finish at 2am. I had to clean out dirty pots of ketchup and mayonnaise from messy diners. I polished things. I mopped things. I dealt with misogynistic pygmy managers. I was told to stand up straighter and be more formal with guests. I kept smiling and seem to now be offered my reward. Yet still, Whittaker’s folk song calls back to me, reminding me of a time my little soprano voice rose to harmonise with fellow angels at the first year of my catholic high school existence…

I arrived a little early at Welshpool station tonight. It is not so much a station as a platform surrounded by Welsh hills. It is very pretty so the time tends to pass quicker than at an average wait spot. I take a seat in the sheltered area in the centre of the platform as have no jacket and am wearing a summer dress. It feels a little cool as the evening sets in so I draw my red cardigan around me. Three characters begin the night’s performance. They are discussing freedom and travel.

‘I’ve done all of it, Aberystwyth, Scotland, Essex’ says the lady.

‘How old do you think she is?’ asks the baby faced boy pointing at his young friend. ‘She’s just 15, don’t look it though.’ She has a doll’s face and could be younger still. Her painted cupid lips and long asymmetric hair sprout from a child’s neck and floral corset.

‘Be careful’ says the lady. ‘My mate got carried out by three guys, nothing you could do.’

‘A bloke should never hit a girl,’ says the doll.

‘I was out, back hander by my fella. Out for six and a half minutes. Been raped, abducted, beaten daily by my ex-husband, he sold me. I’m only twenty eight. I’ve seen everything, I’ve done everything I ever wanted to do,’ says the lady, with the black gums.

‘Just enjoy life when you’re young innit, you’re only young once’ says the baby.

‘I need a Ritalin to calm me down. I’ve just taken speed’ says the doll.

‘Poor man’s coke. Hahaha,’ says the baby.

The lady interjects, ‘I’ve never been a speedfreak. Never one for the uppers’

‘Well I do like my ketamine’ buzzes the doll.

‘I can get anything, when it comes to crystal meth, anything, but it don’t do nothing for me,’ tells the lady.’

‘I can get an ounce for 160,’ says baby.

‘I can get it for 90. Here’s my number. 07896 721, hold on, that’s my old number. I’ve got nine phones. This is my number. Call me in an hour. I’ll have charged my phone by then. Lucy Grybow.’

The baby stops her here. ‘How do you spell it? I have learning difficulties, dyspraxia, my bother has mild autism. He has Aspergers. He gets Ritalin all the time.’

At this point, Mr Fascinated lumbers slowly over. ‘So what’s all this about drugs then? You reckon they should be legalized? What would you do if I gave you a thousand pounds? How much do you charge for prostituting? You chose this life of begging didn’t you? I have my job. I earn my money but I get screwed, the house, the council tax, the gas, the electricity, the water. You’re free!’

Baby pipes up, ‘Yeah, it’s a lifestyle choice innit. I wanna be free. I wanna travel the world.’

Mr Fascinated turns his attentions away from the lady. ‘You’d need money for that.’

‘No, I wouldn’t, I’d be like those people from a thousand years ago, living off nature.’

Mr Fascinated loses interest, ‘It’s so depressing how late this train is.’

He picks up interest once more and lays into the lady.

‘What do you make a day? If you average that twenty to forty, that’s thirty quid. What do you need to live on? Twenty? Well, if you saved ten pounds a day, in thirty days, one month, you’ve have three hundred pounds, in three months, nine hundred, so why don’t you do that? You choose it. It’s your decision. So begging on the streets, homeless, can’t be that bad.’

Becky, the lady, doesn’t stop to think about this. ‘Fair play. You’re right. It’s not that bad. I don’t have the discipline to save my money like that.’

All the while Roger Whittaker’s Streets of London plays on loop, reminding me of how extraordinarily lucky I am not to visit that realm any more, as I did as a doll faced 15 year old, snorting speed at Wilmslow train station with a McDonalds straw.

I return home to see a package from a dear friend in Hong Kong. ‘Bless you’ says the card. The very words that Becky had said when I passed her a tiny sum of money. The picture on the postcard in the package is of Amitabha, the Buddha of Infinite Light. It reads that devotion to this Buddha strengthens compassion and orients the mind to rebirth in his paradisal realm. In the stunning art, this Buddha holds an alms bowl with an unfolding lotus flower.

Bless you all, whichever realm you are in right now. Tis all an illusion anyhow, right?

xxxxx

Snowdrops

It's a meaningful night tonight.

The Metal Rabbit bounds over in China.

Candlemas in Cristendom.

Imbolc for those who care for pagan ways or embrace Celtic notions.

It is particularly honoured for the Gaelic Celtic Goddess Brigit.

She was fond of poets.

So I share two with you tonight.

One from a long time ago and one from last week.

Ye Olde Proverb - which sounds most elvish if you try and read aloud:

Thig an nathair as an toll

Là donn Brìde,

Ged robh trì troighean dhen t-sneachd

Air leac an làir.

"The serpent will come from the hole
On the brown Day of Bride,
Though there should be three feet of snow
On the flat surface of the ground."

Apparently this was the first idea of Groundhog Day? It sounds nicer in Gaelic.

And this one was for my cousin, who left us at the beginning of the year:

The Nature of Reality

i saw a programme last night

on the nature of reality.

Scientists fired particles

in a dark machine.

The particles became a wave.

They say this means

there are parallel universes.

When the machine was watched

The particles went back to normal.

A singular reality.

You can't be watched anymore.

You're a wave.

You're dancing in sunlight.

You're laughing with your family.

You're teaching your children.

You're complaining about state pensions.

According to science.

So, I'm lighting a candle for people I love tonight and dreaming of snowdrops, the so-called Bells of Candlemas and small buds of hope, as we have passed the heart of winter and spring is surely on its way.

xxx

Greek antiquity ft Beyonce

‘Then he thrust his spear into the soil… ‘

My current crush is on Richard Miles who presents the Ancient History documentary on BBC Two. He rides horses and uses words like quixotic. Apparently he teaches Classics in Australia… the modern day Indiana Jones, although he does have a propensity to popping his pink rugger shirt, the fact he wields a copy of Homer would forgive any sin he could care to commit.

Considering that the English language is my greatest turn on, working in a bookshop is beginning to fuel fantasies rather nicely. I can extrapolate wildly from choice of book to type of man. Just last week I managed to get my flirt on with a customer with marvelously full lips as we discussed astrology, all terribly tongue in cheek but making minimum wage retail more than worth it.

Not only is my job affording me flirtations with cute men who can read but a whole new social life! Waterstones is filled with the most eccentric peoples I have met in some time. There is a Kali devotee with druid beard who is sourcing me some mead, a self-confessed fruit-machine addict, a gay Mohawk stage hand and a young girl who thinks gammon is a fish, because it’s like a sting ray, innit… a gamma ray? With this merry bunch of men, I get to go to pubs warmed by log fire and drink wine, while my new friends have their peculiar concoctions of stout, cider or port and lemonade.

From there it would appear that the C21 club, a 5 minute walk from my house, holds a gay night on a Monday. Shawbury is the RAF base nearby. This Monday the gay bar and RAF came together in a beautiful celebration of 24 year old boy men all fashioning moustaches for Movember. I romanced with a Lieutenant Jim and talked books with Lieutenant Bob. Lieutenant Josh bought the Jaeger Bombs. All most charming. I would have spent more time with young Jim, but his friend took me to one side and told me how he was a top bloke and I had to be good to him as he’d been messed around before. All hail the school disco. The Mohawk and I proceeded to the podium to insist that if you liked it then you should have put a ring on it.

Amongst all this working and merriment, I managed to complete my 50,000 words? I am rather surprised by this, especially as I had to write the last 20,000 in 3 days, heavily punctuated by hangovers. Pride won out over procrastination and all this socialising has been putting me in a jolly good mood so was all very encouraging.

I plan to keep the 50,000 a month job up, just to keep me busy, and make sure I have a vast wealth of information to write me a book. It amuses me to write it so should amuse others to read. Not entirely sure what the style will be quite yet so playing with a few. Travelogue? Erotica? Comedy? Chicklit? Coming of age story? There’s certainly a lot of high camp but one cannot fight the moonlight.

Oooh Richard is scuba diving now. Mother has just commented that he’s a rather rounded young man… Yes indeed. I can only assume he would be joining me on the podium if I were to bump into him at C21… We could discuss beautiful youths together.

Catullus LXXXV

Odi et amo.
quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?
nescio,
sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

I hate and I love.
How can I do that, you might ask me perhaps?
I do not know.
But that's what I feel and this is torture.

OK. Shall commit to the last few moments of Dr Richard now... and dream of exploring antiquities together.

Sweet dreams

xxx

Fishfingers and benevolent universes

Hello folks

It's just gone 8 o'clock on a rainy Wednesday evening in Shrewsbury and I've now written 29,438 words into a Microsoft word document entitled A Novel by A.L.Dyer.

The more I write, the crazier the dreams become. It may be something to do with sleeping in a narrow single bed that I affectionately dub, the fishfinger. My dreams are often epic adventures which involve me on exciting missions to achieve lofty goals. There is often double crossing, love and loss, hiding under something and finally having the visuals dramatically wrenched from me as I wake up. I then lie there thinking, yes, that's a story alright, that could be a film, that's amazing and by the time I plod to my laptop I can't see it anymore. I just hear the echoes of the protagonist whispering 'help' as the new consciousness of my waking life kicks in. Thank goodness for my journals, having those memory bites right now are invaluable.

Life continues in its cozy way here. The only drama is in my head, which is where it tends to reside any way, but I haven't met any men to fantasise about or women who may become nemeses, hence my word count increases. A small turn of fortune occured in Waterstones for my writing career. Luke, the Senior Bookseller for Fiction approached me on Wednesday when I was doing my 4 to 8 shift, stacking shelves, stacking shelves, and said, 'You're interested in writing aren't you?' I smiled and averted my eyes saying 'yes, well trying to'. I am endeavouring to be less bombastic while in the Shire, the shop is too small for hyperbole at any rate. He continues with 'Well there has been some water damage of a small selection of books so you can take them home if you like, they're in the box over there.' Over I wander, to discover that the only section of books that had been damaged were the 'How to write a novel' section. Turns out there are about ten of these books, ranging from how to write for children, to how to stroke readers' thighs with your words of erotic novella. I have gladly asked to take them all home with me at the earliest of conveniences.

Yes Universe, you may well be minus 3 of late, but you are most benevolent.

Hoping you are all experiencing wee gifts of late,

Alison

xxx

Prose practice

Homebase. How to describe such a place? Homebase was a slum. A hot slum. A dirty late night, early morning slum. It was always very dark. There were giant day beds lain out where you could get jiggy. The toilets which were usually flooded were for furtive explorations. Anything went. There were poles to writhe around. Axxxxx and Jxxxx were already royalty. Each weekend someone’s credit card would be left behind. Usually Axxxxs’ as he was the most capable when high. The rest of us would just roll around on the beds in messy crocodiles of limbs. Gurning. Kissing. Dancing. Talking. Squeezing hands when you’d tried the E pill. Falling over when you’d eaten the K pill. Writhing in the toilets with the right coke. The dance floor was so small that it didn’t matter if you couldn’t stand up, the hoardes of sweating bodies kept you upstanding. And then it was but a 5 minute walk up the steps, beside the escalator to return to Escapades. Home. From Homebase.

Sowing a book tree.

18,424 words!

It's hard to start up the engine but once it begins it does make a lovely sound. Trawling through old diaries is such a treat. Brings back the madness of my first few months in Hong Kong. This juxtapositions in a marvellous way to the sweetness of living in windy Shrewsbury with my mum. Remembering how mayhemic everything was with how calm everything is now.

Today, I journeyed down to Shrewsbury Abbey and lit at candle at 11am for the lost soliders of the first world war, and all previous and future wars. Seeing the riots in London last night reminiscent of this. Mobs. Rage. Hatred. Fury. How it appears in different forms under different names.

Yesterday, was my first day at Waterstones. My dream job. Surrounded in books. Talking about writers. This fits in rather well with the Buddhist concept of sowing seeds. As I sell books, so I help sell my own, yet unformed book. Whatever you wish to have in your life, sow the seeds for it. Thank you Waterstones.

Thank you book tree.

x