Mon, 8 Oct 2007 19:42:22 -0700
The monkeys were at Decompression yesterday. By which, of course, I
mean the oversize zoetrope of a succession of chimps suspended from a
circular, spinning tree, powered by solar panels and supplementarily
charged by hippies covered in playa dust pedaling on the surrounding
bicycles, while a contingent beat drums underneath: a strobe flashed a
constant pulse, and as the monkeys spun up, they reached a frame rate
such that the illusion in front of gawkers' eyes went from jerky
stills to smoothly-swinging apes, loping from branch to vine and back.
Amazing.
Scott, texting from nearby (so weird to be at a Burning-Man-like
event, but with a pager, a cellphone, and things I didn't want to get
dirty!), alerted me to their presence; and so I got to see them once
more. I watched the contraption spin up, saw the illusion snap into
focus (a collective gasp, and subsequent cheer, goes up from the
onlookers all within a split second of each other, every time, as the
proper speed is achieved), and zipped my leather jacket higher against
what had morphed into a chillier night than any I'd seen on the playa.
Finally, the spell broke, the parade of Busby-Berkeley primates
shuddered back to a stop, and the crowd started to disperse. I looked
around for a familiar face, and, finding none, went back to my
solitary ramblings.
The monkeys were especially nice to see at the three-block-long party
in the eastern side of Potrero Hill ("Dogpatch," I hear it's called),
because the rest of the event was so Esplanade-y: clubs; the lanes
filled with art cars; bars; people out in their Sunday best to strut;
action action action. A place I mostly biked through on the way to
others. The monkeys, on the other hand, had been a destination for
me: I'd led Hanuman (fitting, in nomenclature; whose difficult
asana I jarringly divined the etymology of in yoga Saturday
morning) through the dark of the cooling desert one evening to their
cyclical siren call, and we'd stood, watching them, nothing to wish
for. Later in the week, I'd taken small groups out there, piloting
blindly on our bikes through the subsuming black, heading vaguely up
and right until we saw something faint, greenish, and flashing. And
even by myself, I'd ended up there at some hour of the cold morning,
shivering in a Wisconsin-spring sort of way ("50F is warm!")
against the pre-dawn chill; just watching the beasts spinning,
spinning, alone.
These California boys! They mistake Wordsworth for Pink Floyd; they
can't be bothered to vote; they're into polyamory. And people on the
east coast called me a hippie -- ha! That's only because
they've never met a real one. Californian at heart I may be, but
perhaps I'm Midwestern at head, or too much of a Swattie. More
bicoastal than I thought. Or just more uptight.
I can't believe, in some ways, I'm still thinking about this. A quick
up; a quick down -- even as deep as the short-lived spike was, you'd
think (or I would) I'd've moved on by now. But god knows there's
enough to keep this topic in my consciousness: Olivia's recent
engagement; potential others; Emily at a spate of east-coast weddings;
two for me this coming November; even Maya just had a baby! Something
in the water, and either I'm not drinking it, or these California
dudes need to brush up on their English romantic poets. In the
meantime, an unscheduled, peopleless (and, I might add, minorly
hormonal) week has left me at loose ends. Whence this ennui? Where
are my friends? Whither I? (See how psychotic that sounds?!)
I've already packed my calendar this week full of activities and
assignations. Hopefully, via human contact, I will answer at least
the middle of the above three questions. And hopefully, through a
little chocolate and perspective, Hanumanasana, while remaining
damn near impossible, will lose its semantic overlays.
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