Satan lives in New York, like me. Later I'll tell you how I know this.
I was standing on the man with a friend, Tues. 2002, minding my own business, chatting a few people up just having general "goodtimes" with complete strangers. Satan, milling about aimlessly with the denizens, turns and introduces himself. Dyed red hair, Long braided red beard. Have you seen him? I bet you have. After a short amicable conversation he asked if he could take our photo. Sure.
After pulling the trigger he says, "You know the ancient aboriginal belief that a photo will steal your soul? Well, I've just stolen yours." Now, doesn't this sound like entrapment to you people?
I ask him, "My soul. In your digital camera? How many souls can you fit onto that memory card anyway?"
"A whole lot more than you'd think." He replied cockily. "Honey, you're no TIFF, not even a jpeg, you're a mere GIF."
"IS that so?" Too much pride, this one.
I was angry, and lost.
During the ensuing days on this playa, I found many of the messages in the bottles which uncannily pertained directly to 'finding one's soul'. I was aware that I had a mission.
Thursday evening I was feeling a disturbance in the universe, a creeping sadness. My friend E (actual person not drug reference), who was on the man with me the eve Satan stole my soul, had traded a ride round the playa in a Ranger's jeep for a sweet ass polaroid of her doing the Whitesnake Tawny Kitaen style on the hood of said jeep.
When 4 of us finally piled in, I did not know where we were headed. First we stopped at the downed plane. The story goes: The pilot was so damned excited seeing our beautiful city beneath his plane, he literally forgot to put down the landing gear and belly-landed. In this crash no one was hurt, but the pilot's dear pregnant Chinchilla escaped into the desert. (Side Note: I happened to camp up the street from the Chinchilla Junction folks this year. Camp named in honor of the lost Chinchilla.)
Next we were off to the Grotto Light. This place was pure magic for me last year. I still keep a perfect ceramic shell near my computer to remind me. I went back as often as possible. This evening I moved into the sacred space, and left an offering in the artist's personal pile, said a prayer, and felt magically my wandering soul return. I had a wholeness that replaced the creeping sadness. I wept with gratitude. I did not realize that this spiritual part of the night's journey was only the beginning.
Next, we hit the DISCO BALL! Chase the lights squealing with delight, swim upstream in the lights, stomp the lights twister style, dodge the lights... oh the GLEE, pure play, bliss! Like a small child making up games on the fly. Red Rover, Ghost in the Graveyard, TAG! You're IT!
Then off to THUNDERDOME!!!!! Pure aggressive energy! Shouting curse words, hot blood coursing through our veins. Adrenaline rushes. GRRRRRRR! Well, Ain't we a pair, Raggedyman? TWO (WO)MEN ENTER ONE (WO)MAN LEAVES!
Then tired, we returned home. We'd had a full-life experience in the space of 2 hours. A shortened analogy of the BIG PICTURE. We gave our rangers cum tour guides, BillyRaked and Gondalf tokens of our appreciation, including shrinkydinks and superdrinks.
HA HA! Satan had no power over me! I was able to lead myself back to my own soul. He is ineffectual, insignificant! I spit on you!
And on a gorgeous spring day in New York City, while walking to Chelsea Garden Center to buy pots for some sweet dwarf citrus trees, I see him again. He is sitting outside at a table outside of "Bubby's Pie Shop." I shit you not. SATAN IS A PIE-EATING PUSSY! Anyone who knows him, can tell him i said so! Oh, and if you DO know him, can you ask him if he'll send me a copy of that soul stealing photo? It has a whole bunch of sentimental value to me.
I think our sould tend to wander sometimes... Like I am not certain mine is back with me in Brooklyn yet. She seems to still be wandering the playa, but I know she'll always come back home where she's needed.
I blow a kiss.
