I'm back from a strange place.
An Oasis of life in an otherwise dead land.
I don't exactly know how to convey to all of you what it's like to be there, in the desert.
It's trite, at this point, to call it dream-like. It's something people say, and it's taken at face value. I mean it in more than a superficial way. Imagine with me for a moment, okay?
You find yourself on a street at night. It's is just too dark to see clearly. Waves of haze float by, partially obscuring your view and the landscape. On one side of you are huge structures covered in light, and full of life. On your other side is the vast, wide open. An empty dark space broken only by a skyline of sorts: a strip of colored lights quite far away. You are surrounded by people who glow from every part of their bodies; others with wings and claws are passing beside you. These figures navigate the night and the dust with astounding comfort and confidence. They belong in this place. They are creatures meant to be seen only partially.
As you marvel at the crowd, you hear music steadily increasing in volume. You turn to look behind you and see a massive beast drawing near. It's a dragon fly, and it is emitting music. It's 30 feet tall at least. It has a 40 foot wingspan. It flies slowly, slowly towards you. Parts of it phosphoresce with an other-worldly light. Its wings begin to unfold in an elegant sweeping motion. As the wings reach their horizontal state you see that two dozen people at least are riding the thing, dancing on its back. It's close now. You can finally make out the driver of the thing. His co-pilot seems to be the DJ.
The dragonfly passes very close by, and its occupants are beckoning you to join them. The riders of the great beast themselves appear para-human. They glow and throb and cheer. Some are spinning poi, another dances with a flashing hula-hoop. You have somewhere to be. Despite not being exactly sure where it is, or when you have to be there, you can't join them. You have a goal: ill-defined, but compelling.
You marvel at the thing's passing, watching it drift into the night. Just then packman floats by, mouth opening and closing, followed closely by three ghosts. Coming from packman is a man's voice screaming "WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA".
The PACK team rides away.
In the distance, you see a forest of fire. The "trees" reach up to the sky, tipped by small flames. In a magnificently choreographed sequence, the trees release crests of flame. In the center of these "trees" are human figures, four of them, each dancing with fire, displaying an absolutely unreal elegance.
Beyond this you see a huge white dome. It's massive, even at the better part of a mile away. It is intermittently illuminated from within by flashes of bright light reminiscent of white magnesium fireworks. The flashes display the lattice which makes the dome stand. More impressive, however, are the directed lights. They light triangular segments of the dome are illuminated in brilliant color extending up from the base. The pattern of light zooms around the circumference of the dome, giving the distinct illusion that the thing is spinning.
Approaching the dome, the crowd grows dense and the music becomes unbearably loud. Giving a spare pair of ear plugs to a stranger holding his ears closed, you are adorned with glowing lights by him and his friends. Now inside the light show you notice that the writhing dancing mass of youth is directing their attention to the center of the floor. Three women begin climbing long silk scarves which reach the ground. As they climb, the structure to which their silk is attached to begins to rise up into the air. They are at the ceiling, easily 50 feet off the ground. Again and again they throw themselves from their scarves, letting the fragile pieces of fabric catch them from freefall. The onlookers cheer wildly. It's impossible not to join them.
Walking away, three hours later, the crowd has only grown. The energy here is irresistibly contagious.
But it's more than the landscape and environment which is dream-like. The people seem like figments as well. Interaction is whimsical and fleeting. Impermanence seems to be the order of the day on all things, friendship included. You may touch somebody for a moment. Speak to them for a moment. Have a thirty minute conversation about Consciousness. Then it's off to another dream. The interactions seem as if they might very well have never happened the moment they are over. If you don't do something to remember, they'll slip away just as easily as any daydream.
As we left, we were all handed little love notes. It was Puck's closing speech from Midsummer night's.
"Think but this and all is mended"
Nothing to mend, my humans. My aim next year is to be the dream, and not only a dreamer.
An Oasis of life in an otherwise dead land.
I don't exactly know how to convey to all of you what it's like to be there, in the desert.
It's trite, at this point, to call it dream-like. It's something people say, and it's taken at face value. I mean it in more than a superficial way. Imagine with me for a moment, okay?
You find yourself on a street at night. It's is just too dark to see clearly. Waves of haze float by, partially obscuring your view and the landscape. On one side of you are huge structures covered in light, and full of life. On your other side is the vast, wide open. An empty dark space broken only by a skyline of sorts: a strip of colored lights quite far away. You are surrounded by people who glow from every part of their bodies; others with wings and claws are passing beside you. These figures navigate the night and the dust with astounding comfort and confidence. They belong in this place. They are creatures meant to be seen only partially.
As you marvel at the crowd, you hear music steadily increasing in volume. You turn to look behind you and see a massive beast drawing near. It's a dragon fly, and it is emitting music. It's 30 feet tall at least. It has a 40 foot wingspan. It flies slowly, slowly towards you. Parts of it phosphoresce with an other-worldly light. Its wings begin to unfold in an elegant sweeping motion. As the wings reach their horizontal state you see that two dozen people at least are riding the thing, dancing on its back. It's close now. You can finally make out the driver of the thing. His co-pilot seems to be the DJ.
The dragonfly passes very close by, and its occupants are beckoning you to join them. The riders of the great beast themselves appear para-human. They glow and throb and cheer. Some are spinning poi, another dances with a flashing hula-hoop. You have somewhere to be. Despite not being exactly sure where it is, or when you have to be there, you can't join them. You have a goal: ill-defined, but compelling.
You marvel at the thing's passing, watching it drift into the night. Just then packman floats by, mouth opening and closing, followed closely by three ghosts. Coming from packman is a man's voice screaming "WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA".
The PACK team rides away.
In the distance, you see a forest of fire. The "trees" reach up to the sky, tipped by small flames. In a magnificently choreographed sequence, the trees release crests of flame. In the center of these "trees" are human figures, four of them, each dancing with fire, displaying an absolutely unreal elegance.
Beyond this you see a huge white dome. It's massive, even at the better part of a mile away. It is intermittently illuminated from within by flashes of bright light reminiscent of white magnesium fireworks. The flashes display the lattice which makes the dome stand. More impressive, however, are the directed lights. They light triangular segments of the dome are illuminated in brilliant color extending up from the base. The pattern of light zooms around the circumference of the dome, giving the distinct illusion that the thing is spinning.
Approaching the dome, the crowd grows dense and the music becomes unbearably loud. Giving a spare pair of ear plugs to a stranger holding his ears closed, you are adorned with glowing lights by him and his friends. Now inside the light show you notice that the writhing dancing mass of youth is directing their attention to the center of the floor. Three women begin climbing long silk scarves which reach the ground. As they climb, the structure to which their silk is attached to begins to rise up into the air. They are at the ceiling, easily 50 feet off the ground. Again and again they throw themselves from their scarves, letting the fragile pieces of fabric catch them from freefall. The onlookers cheer wildly. It's impossible not to join them.
Walking away, three hours later, the crowd has only grown. The energy here is irresistibly contagious.
But it's more than the landscape and environment which is dream-like. The people seem like figments as well. Interaction is whimsical and fleeting. Impermanence seems to be the order of the day on all things, friendship included. You may touch somebody for a moment. Speak to them for a moment. Have a thirty minute conversation about Consciousness. Then it's off to another dream. The interactions seem as if they might very well have never happened the moment they are over. If you don't do something to remember, they'll slip away just as easily as any daydream.
As we left, we were all handed little love notes. It was Puck's closing speech from Midsummer night's.
"Think but this and all is mended"
Nothing to mend, my humans. My aim next year is to be the dream, and not only a dreamer.
I want to go home.