'We brought bread and fall flowers'

We brought bread and fall flowers, even though it was summer and I’m gluten-free, but, hey. The party was at the House of the Future, which was a bit of a misnomer because the house was built in the ‘50s. I think the future of the ‘50s is much more interesting than the present of today. We have a lot fewer starburst clocks now.

My dad always says he wishes he could live long enough to see the end of the world. I never understood that. I remember the first time I found out the Earth was going to be swallowed up by the sun. I panicked. Then I heard it wasn’t going to happen for thousands — millions? billions? — of years and I relaxed. It doesn’t make sense, though, because either way I’m going to be dead.

One time I was watching a meteor shower with a roommate of mine and she explained some phenomenon that would essentially mean the Earth would be eliminated in the blink of an eye. Maybe by a black hole. I said I hoped that wouldn’t happen. She said we wouldn’t even notice it because it would be so fast. But I think I would notice. And I wouldn’t like it.

We brought bread and fall flowers to the party at the House of the Future. It was full of Burners — Burning Man fans. A group I finally realized I will never, ever, ever fit in with. Even if there was a  party at the House of the Future the day before the sun swallowed the Earth, I would still be the one in the corner wearing my Ann Taylor Loft walking shorts and wondering why people felt the need to wear balloons on their heads encased by pantyhose. Maybe if there was a joke in there I could understand? Some sort of sly reference to the plight of the bourgeoisie? Nope. Just balloons in pantyhose, floating on by.

One year at Burning Man I decided to join the playa choir because I thought it would give me a purpose out there in the desert. We practiced at 10 each morning. My lungs caked with dust as I belted out our hallelujahs. We performed in center camp on Sunday, the last day of the event. Bodies writhed in front of us, contorting in drug-fueled yoga poses. “Why does your wife look like she’s not happy?” someone said to my husband when he pointed me out from the audience.

One of our singers stood in front to give a speech. She started talking about how much Burning Man meant to her, and not only that, it had meant a lot to her dad. She was holding something in her hand. What was it? It looked like a pill bottle. Was she about to dose herself in front of us. She started talking about how much her dad had wanted to attend Burning Man this year. Hmm… She looked down at the pill bottle. No. no no no no no. This is not right. She opened the bottle. She explained that she had brought her father with her this year. Right here, in this bottle. Dad’s powdery ashes spilled out from the bottle in a semi-circle around her feet, right near where the bodies had been writhing before. After the performance I couldn’t help but walk to the front area to get off the risers. My feet shuffled through a combination of humanity and alkaline dust that I’m not likely to experience again in my lifetime.