This is the Burning Page

I have survived in part. That is my soul's consolation. I have emerged from the desert changed, somehow different, questionably better or worse. You can be the judge. I have evolved. I am my own forefather. I emerge, my sun baked body gray and caked with alkaline mud. Flesh burnt cracked bleeding, my lungs full of silt, sand, and dust ground from the bones of my soul. My essence ground down by the mortal and pestle of my imagination. The desert is as harsh and pitiless as it's winds, and its here that salt and electric current combine in a lethal dose of mind fucking proportions. The black Rock desert of Nevada is all that and more. Its proportions are greater than any other desert in the North American continent, its soul ancient, secretive, complex and eternal. So vast is the Black Rock Desert, its one of the few places on this planet where its possible to see, with the naked eye, the curvature of the earth. And I was given a brief glimpse into the great maw of time through it. The spirits are alive electric playful and extremely dangerous to the mortal soul. Time becomes the trickster, distance a child's toy, dimension a magician's trick, and light a portal into the unknowable. Look carefully and with caution into the crystal ball of Black Rock, or the light of truth will burn the eyes from their sockets and tickle the spirit out of the holy crown of your skull. The Man will burn in this place, of that there is no doubt. So we raise the forty foot wooden man, light him up with neon, pack him with fireworks, and with great ritual, and bravado we burn the fucker to the ground, in hopes that we might amuse and entertain the desert spirits into allowing us our folly and our mischief for another season. To think that we could fool or trick the desert spirits would be criminally naive on the karmic level, punishable by slow death of the mortal being. With the death of the man we may live another year. Time burns as it consumes all that passes before it. Life races ahead, a sing song and a dance ahead of destruction. We laugh we cry we live by the moment with the awful knowledge that time is in hot pursuit burning every action we have made leaving nothing but fossils of our previous self and blurred memories yellowing from their close proximity to the flame of time. And through it all the desert stalwartly endures, ancient backdrop of the eternal passion play. The Gods are not crazy, we are. The Gods smile and snicker as we do what we can to rub mud on the clay feet of there idols. We flop about dance, sing, shake down the universe, and surf on behemoth R.V.s in the dark star light lit playa. Oh crazy mama your tears are for us, and we will squirm and bang drums to you, for your unending generosity. The ground we dance on becomes wet and slippery. We slide and glide and dance rhythmically to the beat of our nature. The rain continues. The ground begets ooze. The clothes discarded, the mud orgy begins. The drums meet the steadily increasing rhythm, as time slows down, and the naked people dance horizontally, warped in each other, in the wild mire of ecstatic experience. Coyote father your cold eternal intellect turns crazy mamas tears to stone that pelt us in our dance of passion. We know that it is not a punishment, just a gentle reminder that the flesh is impermanent. That time is fleeting, that love is more than momentary, that all we posses, possesses us. Ancient One "DADA" bends holy light through tears of crazy mama and gives us double rainbow. Testament of higher order. Out of chaos comes clarity, From completion comes purpose.

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