The Weekend

I’ll begin this post by turning away readers eager to read of my progress into super-heroism, for you will find none of that. I flexed only once this past weekend, and did not move my body a mote for its duration.

I did, however, have an incredible weekend. It began with Uncanny, a visual arts event that took place out on a fallowed organic vineyard. I arrived an hour before sunset to see a curious population milling about the huge expanse of rich, soft dirt, leaning curiously toward certain presentations. There was music for dancing, but no dancers. There were live bands as well. Upon arriving (and yes, I got lost first, and sped down dirt roads first), I headed straight to Mr. Bulis’s display, titled “High Tea”. It consisted of a tea table and stools, all hand made, all slightly rickety, all about eight feet in the air. Mr. Bulis was wearing a suit he’d tailored from burlap, walking on painter’s stilts and serving tea from a teapot rigged to a stick using twine. The whole setup was dangerous, but it was one of the most popular. When he described it to me, I thought he would have a set cast of people snootily sipping tea and looking down their noses as passers-by. It turns out he was allowing people to take turns sitting in the sky.

The sudden elevation changed the world. The table in front allowed the sitters to temporarily ignore the frightening height they’d reached, though the wobbly chair was a constant reminder that their time in high society could be cut short in a violently painful manner. Mr. Bulis claims there was no metaphor, but I insist there is. Then again, that’s what I’m trained to do: inject significance into art that may or may not have been intended by the creator. That’s what all English majors do. We bullshit. Sorry. It’s true.

And then the sun went down, and the whole place became a wild pagan festival. Visual displays became glowing pieces of wonderment. Music was everywhere, and nobody was pretending. We did not come to this place to project a personality. We came to see, to hear, and to exist. The lack of pretense and lie was the most enjoyable part of the evening, I think. People began dancing to the music, kicking up small clouds of dust and losing themselves in the crowd and the heavy bass. I didn’t see many people who knew how to dance, the way one might expect people to know how to dance on a floor. This was not a club. This was madness, a release, and nobody cared. I danced too, and I don’t know how long.

There was a display which lead people away from the crowds, from the lights and the noise, into the darkness. Glowsticks lighted the way, drawing the curious like pixies or goblins into the deep dark. At the end? Quiet, peace, the soft clanging of chimes in the distance, and a sofa. I was accompanied by a pair of girls. They pulled their cell phones out to light their way, but I insisted they put them away. Their eyes would adjust, if they let them. We do not spend much time beneath darkness and trees. This was a thing of beauty.

And then I walked on stilts and talked to cute girls, and the night was over.

That was Thursday. I missed Friday’s post. Sorry.

Friday, I started cooking a pot of chili I’d begun prepping the day before. That was two hours of work. Then I left to pick up Lindsay at the airport. There was an accident, and I was late. No problem though.

Until we got back to my apartment. She couldn’t find her ticket, and I could tell she was just about ready to freak out. I’ve lost stuff and subsequently lost control enough times to know what she was feeling, and how close she was to breaking down. I tried to keep her calm. I spoke with a mellow voice and did my best to engage her in conversation while leafing through her books and looking for hiding places. This was an expensive trip for her, and she lost the reason she got on the plane in the first place. I told her to call United. That took a while, but eventually, she found the number and made the call. I heard her squeal “really?!” from my room, and my arms shot upward in triumph. I had been looking forward to this weekend for too long to have shit like that happen.

I went to a friend’s house then, because I said I would. Lindsay was welcome, but she opted to work on a paper, which I guess worked out well. I got to try my hand at playing drums, which was a lot of fun. I was late returning home. I’d intended to make it back with time enough to make the drive to the airport to recover her ticket. We tried. We drove down there, but we were too slow. Somehow, I managed to get lost on that drive too, and we wound up at the airport despite giving up.

Megan called needing instructions later that night. I totally misunderstood her. She told me they were on the 5 toward San Fransisco, and had just left Stockton. That puts them just south of Sac, and maybe 40 minutes away from Davis. It turns out they were going south, and by the time they stopped and decided something was wrong, they were 100 miles away from Sac. Damn, I wish I’d caught that.

And then there was more difficulty with the map, caused in part by cell phone static, and in part by anticipatory intoxication. I am bad with maps and directions anyway. Try getting me to guide you when I’m senseless.

They arrived in Davis with the sun.

The next day, we gathered ourselves, directions, tickets, music, and made our way to Berkeley. We were all stinking of envy as we drove through that town. I wish I’d applied there, but I distinctly remember deciding I didn’t like Berkeley’s city. As a veteran college student, I appreciate it more now.

The concert was simply beyond words, so I will not try. We saw Arcade Fire, for anyone who doesn’t know yet. We were in the front, standing.

A few things to note then…

1) I didn’t think very hard leaving the house. I wore sandals, shorts, and a thin button up, and brought nothing else.

2) Despite having listened to Arcade Fire ravenously for four months, I did not know the lyrics.

3) I did not know the lyrics because I was listening to the albums starting with the oldest, and working my way backward. I knew “Headlights Look Like Diamonds”, a song they had not played for a few years, better than most of the stuff they performed. I regretted not being able to sing along with most of them.

4) Sometimes a good quesadilla is better than a large burrito. I don’t need to add any more beans to my diet anyway.

5) The opening act was really cool. I fell in love with the drummer, but Kevin says she looked like a boy.

And then the concert was over. Sure, there are details I’ve missed, but the point is that it’s over. My guests left in a flurry, and the weekend that had been sitting in an envelope on my bookshelf for the past four months is over. I was seriously bummed.

This is where the flex comes in. That’s what I’m calling it now, because I kind of have to flex my awareness in order to slip between moments. I flexed, after they’d left. I knew I could stop time to an extent, (though not completely—infinitely small moments still pass between instants), but I wanted to go back. I wanted to have my weekend again.

I sat and flexed and pushed and sweated, fought until tears poured free, but I could not move backward. There is only forward, though I can adjust the size of the steps I take.

Like the conclusion of my last post, I have learned that there is no turning back, so I’d better do it right the first time.