Woman, woman, I am worn.
Woman, see these hands?
Calloused by a fervent rhythm
beaten when days were long.

Days were long and nites inviting
when Gaia did crown me King.
The honey desire of a fertile maiden
wriggling for my love.

My love, my seed warm in her womb.
How Gaia did bloom from inside!
The memory sweet of a day now passed
and a world that flourished in green.

Yet the rhythm wanes - our song mature.
My strength is nearly spent.
Retire I must to the land of the weary.
in the South, and far far away.

So I crown you my lover, my mother, my Queen,
my Gaia, as you crowned me.
To reign alone - that subtle song.
Persuasion is a powerful thing.

Woman, woman, I trust your wisdom.
Persuade me now to sleep.
Rock me gently and kiss me farewell
and give the world what it needs.

And prepare, for I’m dreaming of Spring.

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I hang out with boys who wear make up. I am comfortable nude in front of recent acquaintances. I try on different personalities like fish net thigh highs, just for the fun of something new. I'm a thespian, friends: do not be alarmed. On stage, in the dressing room, at auditions (show me your legs), I have seen sights and lived lives that make torn thigh highs look like Catholic knee socks.

Precisely why when I arrived at Burning Man, the United State's rival to Brazil's Carnaval, the intentional community (of 35,000) that hatches like a host of hydrated sea monkeys in the barren desert every year for one week in the name of art, humanness and setting-things-on-fire, I was not impressed. First of all, Black Rock City is an Official Desert - not like when I call LA a desert because of the 4” annual average for yearly rainfall, but the Official kind. The kind with cracked barren white sand, flat as far as the eye can see. The kind that keeps you in long sleeves even though it is 100 degrees. The kind that after I was initiated by ringing the Burning Man Virgin gong bell and hollaring like a crazed barbarian at the top of my virgin lungs, swallowed me in a blizzard of sand whipping through the sky tearing flesh from bones. I had to halt all movement, grip my eyes, hold my breath and urgently seal any other precious orifices that might be exposed.

Tonya Kay in the desert.... Not impressed.

It's not to say that challenging my grace at a full sized roller skating rink built in the middle of a playa didn't make me squeal like a little girl. It's not to say that standing on the second floor of an elaborately hand carved temple inside which thousands of visitors had signed, written poetry, or otherwise made an offering, didn't leave me feeling like I was a part of something vast. It's not to say that watching a sunrise from the wrong side of day, after a nite steeped in passionate dancing, exploration of art installations, and vulnerable conversation didn't make me feel brand new, though in reality had slept only 14 hours in the past 4 days. Yes, those things were actually quite moving, especially when you consider that this rich detailed counter culture theme park was all created without electricity, in one week's time, and was burnt to the ground before it was all over.

But still, as I wandered the playa studded with blinking lights, alien vehicles giving out snow cones and the sound of life vibrating like horny fireflies, I listened to my friend, Big Al, relish in awe "how surreal it all is" and how he'll "never be able to put Burning Man into words" for the lawyers or other 9 to 5er's he works with. And I thought to myself how fortunate my current lifestyle that Burning Man might seem "normal” to me. Or else how unfortunate my current lifestyle that not even the world's wildest art party might surprise shock transform me in some small way.

And then I saw it – finally something that changed my life, something that threw me for such a loop that all my casino jobs, limo rides and even that one time I got arrested, could not compare to this jolting vision of catharsis: there are no trash cans at this event.

I've seen a boy in a dress before. I've been a boy in a dress before (and all the glorious implications). Singing at the top of my lungs for the whole world (or at least all of Walgreen’s) to hear is an everyday kinda thing. I personally don’t need a festival to give me permission to self-express. But I've never existed within a community so responsable to one another, so respectful of their effect in society, that they did not tuck the gum or toss the butt. Perhaps the ultimate act of consciousness is to be aware of what we don't need.

Shower me with gifts, spoil me with massages, fly me to Thailand - to Mars. But festivals and communities, gurus and potential lovers, if you really want to impress this overstimulated thespian, find out how to not make garbage. I will remember you until the day I die.

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There is still a glow in the sky, though the sun slipped under the horizon more than ten minutes ago. The most pervasive powers are easily not noticed. That means they are firmly set in place.

I am walking on the beach, Huntington Beach, though I didn't want to at first. But now that I'm here it was obviously the best thing to do. I imagine this ocean like liquid hematite stretching to Japan or some other imaginary land. I am throwing my energy that direction so I might create a path and end up there in body soon. I think of destiny building (aka magick) like learning a new dance move - with repetition and intent, one forces neurons through new circuts, literally designing one's own infrastructure and fortifying a neurological pathway in the brain, in the body each time you get it "right". We call this coordination. I am building coordination towards imaginary lands across this hematite sea.

The waves glimmer and dark spots float insignificantly on top: brave surfer boys optimistic about the ever-next-better wave. Their bodies are young leather, their hair scarecrow gold, their shoulders strong to their sport, always a little rounder in the middle than a dancer, though. One dark spot is a girl. She is different than the boys. While they are learning to surrender while standing, she learns to stand while surrendering. We are all little dark spots. We all have something to learn.

Like me: trying to hold a new Chaos concept called 'non-local intelligence' in my head. I don't understand it, but I know I can with a little practice (concept coordination). Everything I see is hardware in the computer - something you, I, we, our race, our species, our biosphere has built to support the software. The hardware is a system and is here not there. The hardware is concrete and is this not that. The hardware exists within the space/time continuum and is most definitely now not then. But the software, the information, the intelligence is non-local, all-pervasive, uber-omni, the Eye of Saromon. Of course I don't even understand what I'm thinking about right now. Just pushin those neurons through, forging new pathways so that over the next however many millennia, if enough poets, yogis, children and criminals entertain this type of thought, the human brain just might develop a new lobe to accomodate thoughts of this sort - we call it evolution. Hey, the reptiles did it without even knowing. The human ego, our self awareness, is certainly good for something.

To all the system breakers: good job pushing that evolution thing forward. Thank you. Thank us. Thank us very much.

The wave now surrounds me up to the knees and pulls me gently, like my many lovers, trying to lure me in. And I dream three times a week for as long as I can remember, about drowning. I have seen it over and over, peacefully with lungs full of water. So convincing, so enticing, those kisses on my feet. Who will be the one to take me away? I do so love being loved and being pulled at. I'm promised to the Undertow, but that is not today.

In the dark I stumble across my tennis shoes on the shore, sitting exactly where I left them an hour ago before this wandering sunset stroll. The more I test the goodness of people, the more I find people are good. What the Thinker thinks, the Prover proves. Is it a reflection I see in every face around me then, what a self-compliment that my world is honest, generous, and infinitely interesting.

Maybe intelligence, consciousness, the software is non-local and metaphor, science, productivity and silence are all the exact same thing. In that case, I see that learning to swim would certainly eliminate the fear of being swept off my shore by love. But then I would loose the life/death struggle before surrender.

Drowning is romance to me.

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I saw a man upon the stair,
A little man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today;
Gee, I wish he'd go away.

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