My wife and I split up a few years ago. I had believed in almost nothing more than I had believed in us, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, I was wrong. If all the things I thought were right could be wrong, and so many things that I thought were wrong could quite possibly be right, how the hell was I supposed to tell right from wrong…right?! What’s healthy? What’s not? What is “acceptable”? It rocked my world, undid my faith, and I found myself in a spiral of drugs, booze, and loneliness. I was drowning. Sober got harder by the day. Sober, I didn’t want to get out of bed. High, I didn’t want to get into it. Just high, surrounded by stars with no desire to reach for any of them, and my whole life started to feel wasted on false dreams, false hope, false faith… lost. At a loss for what to do, one day I called up my best friend, Choncho.
“I have so many questions, I don’t have any answers.”
“Chrip (he calls me Chrip), neither do I, but I do have an idea. There’s this place, a civilization of transcendence, an experiment of community and art, a world of immediacy, radical self reliance, radical self expression, and inclusion...Burning Man!”
I drained my savings account for a plane ticket, an entrance ticket, and a yurt. I packed two suitcases full of scarves, glittery booty shorts, and Kellog’s Lucky Charms, I slung a guitar over my shoulder, and I was off! Not my guitar, my ex wife’s guitar. I gave it to her when we started dating thinking I was going to give her lessons. I never did. When we split seven years later, I couldn’t bear to let it go, so I brought it with me.
Our truck skipped over the playa dust to the greeters gate and my heart skipped a beat. They welcomed me home. I’d never been here before but still they said welcome home. I didn’t know any of these people. They didn’t know me. I didn’t buy it. There was no denying that it was fun, but their behavior with a stranger was so personal that it had to be impersonal; an insincere intimacy. It had to be fake.
However, one particular night at sunset I rode my beat up old bicycle, blinking and flashing like a busted old spaceship during Christmas, out into the middle of this barren wasteland of dust storms and hippies. Surrounded by incredible and enormous structures of steel, fire, and artificial and fantastic light, I found myself drawn towards an immense pyramid right in the middle of it all. The sun was setting behind it, her rays scattered by the beams of wood that made up this Egyptian monolithic creation, painting the expanse of the desert dust with with her own true, brilliant, and fading light. I had the guitar slung over my shoulder; my own personal symbol of failure. I walked inside to find the walls saturated with knick knacks, photographs, and hand written notes of sadness and loss. But also joy, intentions, and courage. People stood or sat, smiling or crying, alone or embracing, holding hands, and letting go. It was beautiful. And emotionally, I was untouched by all of it. I was afraid of feeling. I was afraid of what those feelings might mean. I was afraid it was going to hurt. God, I hated my fear. So I thought, fuck it. Get naked.
An old familiar voice popped up in my head.
“No, nobody wants that.”
I took off my head scarf.
“Stop this. It’s inappropriate. Nobody wants to see you naked.”
I took off my shirt.
“You’re embarrassing.”
I slid off my boots.
“This place isn’t about you. Nobody is interested in you because you’re not good enough… because you’re fake. You’ve always been fake. You were fake growing up in California, you were fake in New York, you were fake in your marriage, and you’re fake here. Because, the real you isn’t worth it.”
I slid off my booty shorts.
And there I was, stark naked, standing next to a neatly folded pile of my clothes. I lay down on the playa floor and stared at the fading light coming in through the hole at the top of the pyramid, forced myself to just lie there and face my shame, and I cried. Not the soft misty tears of melancholy, but the choking sobs of a child. Eventually I wore myself out, but still I continued to lay there, staring up as the end of the light died. I have no idea how long I was splayed upon the dust, but when I finally lifted my head I found I was surrounded by people… holding hands in a circle around me. They were all just… looking at me. But their eyes were full of love, or a least acceptance.
So much of my life I’ve believed in other people, loved other people, forgiven other people, but not out of kindness; not out of selflessness. It was because it was easier than believing in myself. It was easier than forgiving myself. I got up, looked each person in the eyes, got dressed, and walked out. I left the guitar. Later that night I watched as they lit the whole thing on fire, the guitar burning along with all of the intentions left inside, their smoke and ashes rising together to the stars, and I said goodbye. It’s time for me to want me.
-Christopher Whipple, NYC