Decompression Post Depression

Several days later, I am still trying to process why I did not have a good time at the big party.

Found this on my cell phone.  I probably took it.

It was the official Sacramento Decompression and we put a couple three weeks into preparation, pretty much since getting back from the Burn. The yard back of the shop was the scene for raising the Lighthouse, reassembling the Colosseum, putting together the octahuts, and clearing out areas for use by invited theme camps. I worked on the Lurveseat, several of us painted street signs for the concentric streets sort of laid out, and a great steel firefly was welded in place. Theme camp people came in and set up their bars and DJ booths and camera backdrops. A large cage was built, festooned with ghoulish decorations, shackles, and an artfully corpsified mannequin. A rope bridge spanned a corner of the yard, a temptation to the drunkenly brave and coordinated; and by sundown, fire spinners and fire sculptors and rope lights and personal lights were setting the space ablaze with light and color and excitement.

I was rushed and didn’t really costume myself up, basically wore shorts and a vest and a pile of necklaces. I found the hat I’d brought back from Mardi Gras 2000 and wound with el-wire during a dust storm in ’08. Loaded it with new double-A batteries so it would light up. Wore my big desert stompin’ boots. Wandered in and immediately hooked up with bunches of people I knew. The first hour was outstanding. I was there to connect and reconnect and that I did: Hugs and laughter, conversation and compliments, good times being in and part of the scene. It was like a cocktail party on hallucinogens and without the pretension.

Then I had a drink, and from then the scenes get shorter and more vague, and then fade out completely.

I don’t drink particularly and have no particular history with it. Last one of these parties I shifted from beer to whiskey about midnight and cruised happily on to sunrise. I’m not a very interesting drunk and tend at my worst towards a sort of giggly docility, fading to tired hence a little cranky if conditions lead me there. So to say a drink faded me to black is not to say I entered some alcoholic blackout phase. I’m familiar with those as a close but outside observer. What happened was I had a cup of the jungle juice.

A fat man in an electric cowboy hat was serving his specialty cocktail. I was warned off it by a couple friends of mine. Said it was evil, stay away; so of course I went and got me some. Got a full cup. Asked what was in it. This, this, this, this, and vodka. I don’t remember the other ingredients. But he overdid the vodka and I suspect I poisoned myself with far too swift a bellyful. I’m not too sure what happened after that.

Mostly I remember sitting on a couch with Alchemy, her bare leg over mine as she told me all about her husband’s upcoming trial for bank robbery. It was a sob story of good intentions, bad judgment, and poor execution – quite a tale, really – but I did not quite share her belief in his fundamental innocence nor her optimism for his release. She wore a gossamer skirt and a bikini top and was a woman my age who was looking pretty good and I felt that among other things, her story was an effective way to warn me off trying anything. Not that I was in the mood; and it wasn’t a terrifically long time before I had wandered off. I found her later in my Lurveseat with a kid less than half our age who was clearly boring her to tears with his relentless aggression but she needed to sit down and it was very nearly the only comfortable seat around. (A note to my students: When you build mobile art, make the seat comfortable so women will want to sit in it.) I’m not sure if I saw her mouth “Rescue me!” or not. I saw them later, in another part of the yard – someone must have driven it, possibly me, yes, I have a vague memory of operating the joystick while walking alongside – but I don’t recall being cognizant enough to care. I absolutely have the gene for being a protector and a rescuer, which is actually an unfortunate thing by and large, but it doesn’t switch on so much for women who can evidently take care of themselves, not anyway while I’m drunk.

Next day I heard some drugged up kid tried to hit a girl and had to be subdued by a couple of our women sweet-talking him until security could escort him out. Girl power is awesome. I have been wondering if this involves the same people. I might never find out.

The remainder of the night was lost in a haze of flames and bad coordination. I remember a brief flirtatious conversation with a woman barely twenty and barely dressed who was hanging on the cage bars and gave me a piece of candy. I also remember when they set fire to the centerpiece. That is, I recall seeing something on fire. There’s a video of it here that was uploaded by a guy I only now, at this moment, remember talking to. He races power tools for a hobby and works regularly with the Flaming Lotus Girls. (There’s a whole nother world out there, isn’t there. I find it dig-worthy, personally.)

For all I know, I didn’t talk anymore after that. I didn’t dance (which is bad, because in contrast to the typically restrained kid I was for the first forty years or so, I love to dance). I was occasionally cognizant of being somewhat vertical and wondering if anyone noticed I wasn’t very well balanced. I saw my wife for an instant – well, that’s another paragraph.

The woman whose house I moved out of loves these people but decided not to go because I would be there and that made it too painful. That’s what she wanted me to tell people if they asked. They did, I did, the response was, “That’s a copout!” Which it was, but it’s not for me to decide if she should play the victim or not. She went out dancing with her girlfriends instead. Then about three she decided to come down anyway. She was received warmly, got her hugs and her connections; and all of a sudden I saw her in the firelight, escorted by some person, we traded niceties for a couple seconds, and she was gone. Another memory dredged up while writing this.

And about then, I think, I sat in a chair in the front office, a quiet place with desks and a water cooler and a door that closes. Tasha woke me up: “Hey, Don, it’s after five!” I dozed some more; and then the Captain said, “Do-o-on!” and I crawled out of my chair to see he and her embracing, her back to me and her top off, and I thought, aw fuck, fuck this, I’m fucking out of here, fuck.

And I was still woozy, after all that time, but drove home anyway, fell on my floor, and got about a four hour nap. In retrospect I would have been better served to crawl out into the air and find someone to mingle with, maybe even cuddle up to, but I felt too icky to think that clearly. Instead, after I woke and showered and went back to help clean up, I found the party had finally just ended and heard the tale of the near-fight and the girl power (amazing stuff, I wish the UN could make use of it).

And that was the big party. I keep seeing effervescent reviews on Facebook and elsewhere, what a great time, best Decom ever; and someone posted pictures already of a bunch of people having an awesome time and I’m not in them and hardly recognize anyone. Looking at the pictures is just like in the old pre-Burn days when I would look at pictures and wish I could be there. Better yet, be there single. And I was there, and I was single. How cool is that?

I am so glad irony is not lost on my readership.