This is the last information I have on Augustus St. George. By the time you read this, he’ll be in the exodus. Find links to the rest of this series here. – Caveat
I’ll be drinking at the jazz bar for a while. Too many memories in the French Quarter right now: too much heat. I don’t know whether some of the people there got played by Duchamp or if they’re members of his orchestra. I don’t know if Tanya will feel betrayed when she finds out her tip led to Crispy Crown’s arrest. I don’t want to watch my back in my favorite bar.
So I listen to a quartet on old instruments scratch some classics out of the dust and nurse a gin and tonic because they don’t have the whiskey I like, and wonder what might have been. That’s a dangerous place to visit. It’s even worse to live there.
The city’s closing down around me. The Temple doesn’t burn for another hour or so, but you can see the empty spaces where sculptures used to be and hear drills pull screws out of camp facades.
Maybe it’s all a façade. In a couple of months, when everything and everybody’s gone and the desert is the way it was when we got here, who’s to say different? The trouble with a Leave No Trace event is that you can’t count on the things you leave behind to tell your story.
This will be my last Burning Man. That’s what I tell myself. That’s what I always tell myself. The heat gets to me. So does the noise. So does the lack of sleep. The people are always smiling. Everyone always looks like they’re having more fun than me. “Screw it,” I tell myself every year. “They’re just not savvy enough, not sophisticated enough, to see through it all like I do.” Read more »