Cracks in the Darkness


by Desert Wind

It was almost dawn by now. They awoke cautiously from a blind fuck. She lifted off him and her heart shaped face dripped with an ounce of tear. Salty was the taste and this was definitely no dog.

Nobody really knows how cold the desert floor really is…you see it as a puzzle piece cracked form and you can feel the dust gather between your toes and other spaces. But you never really know how cold the desert floor really is.

**** He had emerged

He had emerged earlier from the Brimstone of Fire Sermon delivered in a five-sided room. He entered through the Black door and exited thorough the White. They stripped his body dry and anointed him with sacrament. Captain Morgan and company danced bare in the darkness while the slithering god of creation and destruction declared “I am a Giant Penis.” and the congregation responded: “You are a Giant Penis.” Like an echo of voices though a sane mans madhouse; the voices did resonate… resonate…

Resonation was the word of the eve. Meeting was established among dancing and thumping spirits worshiping the blessed Buddha; hallowed be thy name and green be thy color. He coolly glanced across the playing field and adjusted his mothers scarf. At the very same moment but not at the same time, she coolly glanced across the playing field and adjusted her mother’s scarf. Their eyes met with the embarrassment of nations. And quickly turned away. And quickly turned away.

He left; there was no place for nonsense such as this. So he walked and sojourned through the cracks in the darkness with the 3rd voice ringing in his cortex of thought and memory. Tortured be thy name. He continued this ridicule until acquiring upon another safe place along the road. If you could consider what is safe. Here, the fairies were swarming like ever before and he achieved Lotus and waited. This was one of his primary skills. Waiting. For if a man knows how to wait. Then a man knows the path to victory. For most know how to fight. This is not as difficult as it seems. You lay down your life and strike and leave success to faith and destiny. The true warrior knows when to fight and when to wait. This takes the results of battle away from the demons that be named Faith and Destiny and into other hands.

So he waited cross-legged. Nations of incadesants passed in and out of his sphere in the moments that he sat. This thought and that down and this up and that thought. Inside out altogether. The final destination was yet uncertain. For the state of uncertainty is real and this may be the only thing that is certain. What monk is there that stood on top of his situation? NO! Its more like a fish finally peeking his head out of the water only to be assaulted by currents of thought leading to places both high and deep.

In this cyclone of an eve, the swarms we circling and levy was leaking. She appeared again. Again. This time. This time. She was the only that existed. The other forms were mercy haunts of those that once were. She is all that is corporeal.

He asked her for a light. She had none. She asked him for a cigarette. He gave her one. Each bolted into opposite directions to kindle their flame without embarrassment. They rejoined in the center and smoked into silence. Her eyes were sapphires and her scarf was blue. What is there to say?

He started walking. South. She followed. Through the moonscape of the barren land. Devoid of life as we understand. Silence is the word of the eve. They soon reached the center. The center of what? Electricity shot in seven directions. The generator of the silence. The source of that is where they stood. It begged to be touched, to be grasped and twisted and plodded and pulled. He could only love her. No more. He grasped onto the current and let it evaporate into his veins. Ten-thousand memories awoke and faded in the time it takes for a crow to ‘cah.’

…The time was Ancient India. Legends of Love and War. Flowing white robes and vibrating crimson scarves crafted by silk. Elephants and Tigers. An invitation to the banquet…

…The time was Medieval Europe. Castles that reach into the sky. Soft hands and softer kisses. A plot brewing in the Tower…

He released from the current with sigh of a sigh and looked at her one more time. Or maybe he did not look. The pains of memory still twinged through his body. And the face in front of him was beginning to look more familiar. They exited the center and began to walk due East in between the cracks in the darkness…

About the author: Tales From The Playa

Tales From The Playa are dreams and memories of events that took place at Burning Man, as told by its participants.

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