Saturday, December 31, 2005
Good ol' fashioned family holiday - Part VII
Spin Cycle - New Year's Eve and beyond: Enter the Hoop
When the sun got hot enough for me to strip off my hat and scarf, I decided it was time to go down and listen to Jon’s set, the morning slot, 8-11, which started out promising, but was nipped in the bud by a visit from a ranger: a barrel-chested silver fox with wrap-around mirrored sunglasses and a Dudley Do-Right chin. Rafael, who is the lead organizer of these gatherings, talked to him for a long time while Jon went deeply ambient on the turntables, feigning new-agey calm. Finally, some sort of deal was struck. The ranger ambled through the campsite, which I suppose held about 200 people or so by the morning of New Year’s Eve, with a very placid drug-sniffing shepherd, found nothing, and left us alone for the rest of the weekend. It’s good to get that kind of thing over with early. When I was in Goa in 1990, we always paid off the cops (and had a drink with them) long before the party even got started. Not to imply that any money changed hands here. I really don’t know what happened. It seemed much more subtle than a baksheesh exchange.
Once we had the place to ourselves again, Jon spun me into a twisted dancing marathon. I had decided to wait to dance until I could actually not stop myself, and my body dove me into deep, grinding movements for hours on end once the music overtook me. Anyone who didn’t know me probably thought I was crazy, but gently, not madman-crazy. But then again, almost everyone there was gently crazy after some fashion or another. I imagine that I must have looked like I was doing a long forgotten ritual dance from a lost civilization–and if they danced like that, it’s no wonder they got lost. Mostly, I disappeared into some cryptic, non-rhythmic track of the beat-heavy, multi-layered music, where I tangled with chords and surfed intermittent waves of barely audible spoken word snippets, or went off on a tangent until it disappeared into the brightening sky.
At dusk, I threw on my poncho from Peru, which had acted as a communal blanket at the edge of the sandy dance floor all day, and went on a comprehensive hike of the entire canyon with Will, Natalie and Elena. It was to be a casual sunset viewing, but it became a real trek, complete with serious safety decisions and on-the-spot bonding sessions, all as the sky went black and a crescent moon barely augmented our hard-to-carry lantern.
When we got back, Will and I cooked turkey dogs and chili for everyone while Natalie and Elena went to take a “nap.” Lynnie joined us. Jon and I did a touch of A; Lynnie did too, but only one drop, which she said did nothing. It was creeper stuff; stuff that made you think nothing was going to happen until you slowly realized it was happening.
For me, this was sometime after midnight, when I realized I had disappeared into one of the speakers. I spent the next two hours spelunking my way through its circuitry while this guy named Bob spun a wicked hardcore trance set, which Jon aptly called the “Rolfing” of trance (Jon’s style is more sensual Swedish). Bob had his long hair tucked up into a beige ski cap, and it curved into a stony comma atop his head so that he looked like one of those Incan priests with curved helmet-like diadems (or is it Mayan, or Aztec? Sheesh. Never trust me with world history...). I didn’t make my way out of the speaker so much as get ejected from it when Bob finished his set some time between dusk and dawn (I seriously had no idea), at which point I actually got to observe what was going on around me.
There were more people there by then, including lots of sweet hippy kids from the neighboring cities, and a few performers. Our faves were The Hoolagans, two radical showgirl chicks who spin these hefty, black-hose hoola hoops while dirty dancing [They’re superstars (hooperstars?) now!]. When they finished their show, they left some hoops out for the crowd, and Will had become an expert during my time within the speaker. I sat on a rock watching him spin the hoop, doing an economical little techno dance and hopping from rock to rock from time to time, and it was just so entrancing and so beautiful that I got a little hysterical–laughing, then crying, and laughing again. You know how I get when something really hits me (or do you?). All fluid and overwhelmed.
The next two hours were packed with images that were so irresistibly entertaining that I felt as if I were part of a secret, sacred circus. I kept remembering a soundbyte from Bob’s set, something about what was your life like, was it interesting enough to make a movie about? And I thought, oh yes, definitely–already, yes–but I’ve got an even better one planned. Stay tuned. My mind went on a gentle surf through a spiraling series of poetic twists and turns about all this as I watched the crowd: a fire spinner dressed like a silent movie diva, and another spinner, less flamboyant in performance style, dressed as a sort of medieval handmaiden, quietly looped infinity into the sky with streaks of flame. The romance of fire...
A slim, pale, tall girl with a haughty air, dressed in Russian snow-princess winter regalia, with a high-waisted black fur-lined coat and a fur hat, strode regally over to a rock, sat down and straightened her coat, then crooked each leg up daintily and removed her big, clunky, mudcaked hiking boots. Later, she took off her hat, under which she’d been harboring a little blond buzz cut that made her look like a big silly fairy instead of a severe princess of the tundra. The power of hats...
A skinny boy in big pants and a skinny girl in a tiny pink t-shirt circled around each other in Spirograph patterns, kissing when they met. But the boy’s true love was a little yellow glowing ball that he kept moving in a continuous, spiraling caress around his body. Boys and their toys...
A circle of people huddled around the fire. A circle of people huddled around a bottle of wine. A circle of people huddled around a bong. A circle of people huddled around a teddy-bear backpack. There was a big projection show on one of the canyon walls, but I barely watched any of it, I was so entranced by my immediat surroundings.
And all the while, Will spun the hoop. No, I won’t jump through that hoop, sir, but I’ll sit here and spin it around me for a while. Would that do? Of course, the hoop became an overarching all-encompassing metaphor for me, the way Lunch use to be (see my eponymous untitled novel for details), the way religion is to most people. By dawn, I was testifyin’: Hallelujah for the Hoop!
Natalie and Elena showed up, refreshed from prolonged naps, sometime just before dawn, having slept through the midnight hour. But it was no matter, since the party was still going strong. I started to wind down just as they were starting to trip. I had a nice, slow, sweet touchdown to planet earth while lounging on a furry blanket and watching the one-night-only revelers (mostly teenagers who’d probably had to tell their parents that they were going to a party in town–wait a minute, what town?) dance their final, happy-sad dances and say their good-byes.
I danced a little more as the morning made itself unmistakable, and spent the rest of the day barely moving from my poncho at the hearth camp. I shudder to think about the random junk and goodies I must have eaten that day, but it all tasted damned good. Will stopped by now and then with his latest reports on all the cute guys passing back and forth, which was entertaining, but I could not be bothered sexually, and that was very relaxing, as was nearly everything I had experienced on the entire trip. It was the best New Year’s celebration I can remember, and I’m already harboring dreams of a four-wheeler for regular desert revelry, as boondocky as it gets.
But then, as Jon and I discussed before Lynnie and I left the party around dusk on New Year’s day (the sounds my car made on the road kept up the trance soundtrack of the party, and I barely noticed I had left until I was home in bed), how much inspiration do you need before you actually take it all in and settle down to do some work? Good point, but not an ultimatum. No, I see the future becoming organic, ultimatum free, with no dead-ends or decrees. Yay for me, I’m an optimist again.
Epilogue: sometime in January, 2001
HOOP-dee-doodle-now!
Lynnie and Will each bought a hoop from the Hoolagans–Lynnie had gotten stuck in the machinery of the hoop for a couple of hours herself while the sun rose. The hoop appealed to me, but aside from a couple of half-hearted attempts, I didn’t enter the hoop until last weekend, the day after our little hearth camp family met for dinner at Natalie’s house because we couldn’t stand to part yet. That Saturday, Jan. 6, under a pale waxing moon in the ice blue afternoon sky, the hoop let me into its confidence. It did so for about five hours straight, during which I listened to a few new CD’s I’d bought, and found a few of my old ones that made good hooping music.
The hoop is good. The hoop is my friend. The hoop understands, and still it spins. I go outside for a couple of hours every day in front of Lynnie’s apartment building and hoop my head off, and when it lands back on my body it seems to be better arranged. I’ve already created a makeshift CD and water holder system with goods from the Army Surplus store on Hollywood Boulevard, but Lynnie and I are thinking along the lines of something a little more chic–how about a little cropped vest with CD holder on the front, along with a side zip and pockets for cell phone, wallets and keys, and a refillable water pack on the back, equipped with a little straw that could hook onto your headphones, allowing the fanatic hooper to sip water throughout his or her ecstatic possession by his or her hoop of choice?
His, her...wouldn’t it be nice if there were only one gender? Sheesh, how much simpler language would be. Language is responsible for the slow, ineluctable foment of many wars, I’m sure of it. I think if one were to get every person in the world to hoop at the same time while listening to the same music, peace would reign forever and ever. Not that I’m that big a megalomaniac. Just a maniac, plain and simple, and I continue to spin as I am bid.
Postscript, 12/31/05
Another new year is upon us. Welcome. The Naked Animal cannot believe how fast time seems to be passing. The whole experience I just finished blogging seems like it took place just yesterday, and yet, it also seems like a lifetime ago. Isn’t that the paradox of time in a nutshell? I still have the hoop (as you can see in the pictures I’ve posted)–it’s been well-battered by many such gatherings and copious home use over the intervening years. During my recent illness with cancer and attendant chemotherapeutic ordeal, I hooped almost every day. I had non-Hodgkins lymphoma, so I trampolined, did yoga and hooped to get the lymph system circulating again. I’ve never been able to do anything remotely fancy with it. I just stand there and let it go. Lately, it has folded itself into my sporadic meditation practice. I’ll hoop for five or six minutes in each direction with my eyes closed (I almost wrote eyes “clothed”) while practicing a combination of deep breathing and visualization exercises. On the physical plane, it’s also great for your abs. Yes, the hoop is good. I may not still believe that it can save the world, but it is a good thing. If you plan to hoop yourself, make sure you get a real sturdy adult-sized hoop made out of heavy black rubber piping rather than one of those flimsy little toy store affairs. Even if you’re a little kid (aren’t we all?).
...and a Hoopy New Year to all!
Categories: backstory, family, friends, holidays, psychedelic, music, trends, travel
When the sun got hot enough for me to strip off my hat and scarf, I decided it was time to go down and listen to Jon’s set, the morning slot, 8-11, which started out promising, but was nipped in the bud by a visit from a ranger: a barrel-chested silver fox with wrap-around mirrored sunglasses and a Dudley Do-Right chin. Rafael, who is the lead organizer of these gatherings, talked to him for a long time while Jon went deeply ambient on the turntables, feigning new-agey calm. Finally, some sort of deal was struck. The ranger ambled through the campsite, which I suppose held about 200 people or so by the morning of New Year’s Eve, with a very placid drug-sniffing shepherd, found nothing, and left us alone for the rest of the weekend. It’s good to get that kind of thing over with early. When I was in Goa in 1990, we always paid off the cops (and had a drink with them) long before the party even got started. Not to imply that any money changed hands here. I really don’t know what happened. It seemed much more subtle than a baksheesh exchange.
Once we had the place to ourselves again, Jon spun me into a twisted dancing marathon. I had decided to wait to dance until I could actually not stop myself, and my body dove me into deep, grinding movements for hours on end once the music overtook me. Anyone who didn’t know me probably thought I was crazy, but gently, not madman-crazy. But then again, almost everyone there was gently crazy after some fashion or another. I imagine that I must have looked like I was doing a long forgotten ritual dance from a lost civilization–and if they danced like that, it’s no wonder they got lost. Mostly, I disappeared into some cryptic, non-rhythmic track of the beat-heavy, multi-layered music, where I tangled with chords and surfed intermittent waves of barely audible spoken word snippets, or went off on a tangent until it disappeared into the brightening sky.
At dusk, I threw on my poncho from Peru, which had acted as a communal blanket at the edge of the sandy dance floor all day, and went on a comprehensive hike of the entire canyon with Will, Natalie and Elena. It was to be a casual sunset viewing, but it became a real trek, complete with serious safety decisions and on-the-spot bonding sessions, all as the sky went black and a crescent moon barely augmented our hard-to-carry lantern.
When we got back, Will and I cooked turkey dogs and chili for everyone while Natalie and Elena went to take a “nap.” Lynnie joined us. Jon and I did a touch of A; Lynnie did too, but only one drop, which she said did nothing. It was creeper stuff; stuff that made you think nothing was going to happen until you slowly realized it was happening.
For me, this was sometime after midnight, when I realized I had disappeared into one of the speakers. I spent the next two hours spelunking my way through its circuitry while this guy named Bob spun a wicked hardcore trance set, which Jon aptly called the “Rolfing” of trance (Jon’s style is more sensual Swedish). Bob had his long hair tucked up into a beige ski cap, and it curved into a stony comma atop his head so that he looked like one of those Incan priests with curved helmet-like diadems (or is it Mayan, or Aztec? Sheesh. Never trust me with world history...). I didn’t make my way out of the speaker so much as get ejected from it when Bob finished his set some time between dusk and dawn (I seriously had no idea), at which point I actually got to observe what was going on around me.
There were more people there by then, including lots of sweet hippy kids from the neighboring cities, and a few performers. Our faves were The Hoolagans, two radical showgirl chicks who spin these hefty, black-hose hoola hoops while dirty dancing [They’re superstars (hooperstars?) now!]. When they finished their show, they left some hoops out for the crowd, and Will had become an expert during my time within the speaker. I sat on a rock watching him spin the hoop, doing an economical little techno dance and hopping from rock to rock from time to time, and it was just so entrancing and so beautiful that I got a little hysterical–laughing, then crying, and laughing again. You know how I get when something really hits me (or do you?). All fluid and overwhelmed.
The next two hours were packed with images that were so irresistibly entertaining that I felt as if I were part of a secret, sacred circus. I kept remembering a soundbyte from Bob’s set, something about what was your life like, was it interesting enough to make a movie about? And I thought, oh yes, definitely–already, yes–but I’ve got an even better one planned. Stay tuned. My mind went on a gentle surf through a spiraling series of poetic twists and turns about all this as I watched the crowd: a fire spinner dressed like a silent movie diva, and another spinner, less flamboyant in performance style, dressed as a sort of medieval handmaiden, quietly looped infinity into the sky with streaks of flame. The romance of fire...
A slim, pale, tall girl with a haughty air, dressed in Russian snow-princess winter regalia, with a high-waisted black fur-lined coat and a fur hat, strode regally over to a rock, sat down and straightened her coat, then crooked each leg up daintily and removed her big, clunky, mudcaked hiking boots. Later, she took off her hat, under which she’d been harboring a little blond buzz cut that made her look like a big silly fairy instead of a severe princess of the tundra. The power of hats...
A skinny boy in big pants and a skinny girl in a tiny pink t-shirt circled around each other in Spirograph patterns, kissing when they met. But the boy’s true love was a little yellow glowing ball that he kept moving in a continuous, spiraling caress around his body. Boys and their toys...
A circle of people huddled around the fire. A circle of people huddled around a bottle of wine. A circle of people huddled around a bong. A circle of people huddled around a teddy-bear backpack. There was a big projection show on one of the canyon walls, but I barely watched any of it, I was so entranced by my immediat surroundings.
And all the while, Will spun the hoop. No, I won’t jump through that hoop, sir, but I’ll sit here and spin it around me for a while. Would that do? Of course, the hoop became an overarching all-encompassing metaphor for me, the way Lunch use to be (see my eponymous untitled novel for details), the way religion is to most people. By dawn, I was testifyin’: Hallelujah for the Hoop!
Natalie and Elena showed up, refreshed from prolonged naps, sometime just before dawn, having slept through the midnight hour. But it was no matter, since the party was still going strong. I started to wind down just as they were starting to trip. I had a nice, slow, sweet touchdown to planet earth while lounging on a furry blanket and watching the one-night-only revelers (mostly teenagers who’d probably had to tell their parents that they were going to a party in town–wait a minute, what town?) dance their final, happy-sad dances and say their good-byes.
I danced a little more as the morning made itself unmistakable, and spent the rest of the day barely moving from my poncho at the hearth camp. I shudder to think about the random junk and goodies I must have eaten that day, but it all tasted damned good. Will stopped by now and then with his latest reports on all the cute guys passing back and forth, which was entertaining, but I could not be bothered sexually, and that was very relaxing, as was nearly everything I had experienced on the entire trip. It was the best New Year’s celebration I can remember, and I’m already harboring dreams of a four-wheeler for regular desert revelry, as boondocky as it gets.
But then, as Jon and I discussed before Lynnie and I left the party around dusk on New Year’s day (the sounds my car made on the road kept up the trance soundtrack of the party, and I barely noticed I had left until I was home in bed), how much inspiration do you need before you actually take it all in and settle down to do some work? Good point, but not an ultimatum. No, I see the future becoming organic, ultimatum free, with no dead-ends or decrees. Yay for me, I’m an optimist again.
Epilogue: sometime in January, 2001HOOP-dee-doodle-now!
Lynnie and Will each bought a hoop from the Hoolagans–Lynnie had gotten stuck in the machinery of the hoop for a couple of hours herself while the sun rose. The hoop appealed to me, but aside from a couple of half-hearted attempts, I didn’t enter the hoop until last weekend, the day after our little hearth camp family met for dinner at Natalie’s house because we couldn’t stand to part yet. That Saturday, Jan. 6, under a pale waxing moon in the ice blue afternoon sky, the hoop let me into its confidence. It did so for about five hours straight, during which I listened to a few new CD’s I’d bought, and found a few of my old ones that made good hooping music.
The hoop is good. The hoop is my friend. The hoop understands, and still it spins. I go outside for a couple of hours every day in front of Lynnie’s apartment building and hoop my head off, and when it lands back on my body it seems to be better arranged. I’ve already created a makeshift CD and water holder system with goods from the Army Surplus store on Hollywood Boulevard, but Lynnie and I are thinking along the lines of something a little more chic–how about a little cropped vest with CD holder on the front, along with a side zip and pockets for cell phone, wallets and keys, and a refillable water pack on the back, equipped with a little straw that could hook onto your headphones, allowing the fanatic hooper to sip water throughout his or her ecstatic possession by his or her hoop of choice?His, her...wouldn’t it be nice if there were only one gender? Sheesh, how much simpler language would be. Language is responsible for the slow, ineluctable foment of many wars, I’m sure of it. I think if one were to get every person in the world to hoop at the same time while listening to the same music, peace would reign forever and ever. Not that I’m that big a megalomaniac. Just a maniac, plain and simple, and I continue to spin as I am bid.
Postscript, 12/31/05
Another new year is upon us. Welcome. The Naked Animal cannot believe how fast time seems to be passing. The whole experience I just finished blogging seems like it took place just yesterday, and yet, it also seems like a lifetime ago. Isn’t that the paradox of time in a nutshell? I still have the hoop (as you can see in the pictures I’ve posted)–it’s been well-battered by many such gatherings and copious home use over the intervening years. During my recent illness with cancer and attendant chemotherapeutic ordeal, I hooped almost every day. I had non-Hodgkins lymphoma, so I trampolined, did yoga and hooped to get the lymph system circulating again. I’ve never been able to do anything remotely fancy with it. I just stand there and let it go. Lately, it has folded itself into my sporadic meditation practice. I’ll hoop for five or six minutes in each direction with my eyes closed (I almost wrote eyes “clothed”) while practicing a combination of deep breathing and visualization exercises. On the physical plane, it’s also great for your abs. Yes, the hoop is good. I may not still believe that it can save the world, but it is a good thing. If you plan to hoop yourself, make sure you get a real sturdy adult-sized hoop made out of heavy black rubber piping rather than one of those flimsy little toy store affairs. Even if you’re a little kid (aren’t we all?).
...and a Hoopy New Year to all!Categories: backstory, family, friends, holidays, psychedelic, music, trends, travel
