J美祭１

はじまる。　あとうれしいメールをもらう。密会はいつになるのか？

　ちょっと苦手な知人がいる。　「アート系」を自称している女性なのだが、細かいことにピリピリしているから何かと気を使う。たとえば、* ちょっと何かに触れるたびに手を洗う　自分の座席に他人が座ると怒る　などなど。さらに当人が「私って繊細だからみんなとは文化レベルが違うのよ！」という態度なものだから余計に腹が立つ。　でも冷静に考えたら、これってケダモノの特徴じゃないのか。汚くなくても洗わなきゃ気が済まないのはアライグマみたいだし、なわばり意識の強さなんて「動物」そのものである。　文化レベルの違いとはこういうことだったか。アニマルレベル。−−−　　よくある話だとは思うが、箱入りティッシュの使い始めにいつも失敗する。あせって引っぱるせいか、１０枚くらい一挙に抜き取ってしまうんである。　抜いたティッシュは使わないともったいないので、出ない鼻水を無理やりかんで「使った」ことにしているんだが、おかげで鼻がヒリヒリするのでかなわない。といって、むきだしのティッシュが散らかっていると精神衛生に悪いので、がんばってすぐに使うしかない。　　「同じ枚数で高さがスリムに」とか「柔らか仕上げで紙質アップ」とか謳われる昨今のティッシュであるが、使い始めの問題を解決するほうが先ではなかろうか。　そこで画期的な新製品を提案したい。「初めから少しだけ使ってある箱入りティッシュ」である。　今度こそ、クリネックスあたりからオファーがくるかも。ドキドキ。

It's Monday evening and I'm finally doing the dreaded playa laundry, a triple load of clothes that used to be black, for the most part, but are now almost white with alkali dust. The desert is not kind to clothing. All of my vintage slips and negligees feel brittle. My burgundy Lip Service bloomers are ripped in two places. Everything I own which is made of leather could use a good polishing because no amount of soap and water is going to completely banish the dirt from my coats and boots. A few years ago, a friend of mine, still addled from his weeks in Black Rock, was doing his own playa laundry at the local laundromat when he noticed that the clothes he was wearing were pretty filthy and could do with a good washing. His shirt was halfway over his head before he remembered that he was back in the real world, a place where spontaneous nudity is not appreciated.
I gave him no end of grief when he told me that story. That only made it more embarassing when the very next year, I nearly stepped out of my dress in a laundry on Franklin Street --I was that close --and a crowd of pseudo-hipsters with brightly colored hair and tell-tale filthy sneakers all smiled in sympathy. We all had the Reality Bends. We had it bad.
I still have my Playa Body, ten pounds lighter, tanner, sleeker than my usual self. Everything fits a little more comfortably. The Playa Body is a point of pride at Burning Man. It takes almost a week to fully acclimate to the harsh Black Rock terrain, tan enough that you don't need to slather yourself in sunblock, tough enough that you don't need to carry a gallon of water with you at all times. You burn two thousand calories a day just sitting in the shade and sweating. You need avocados, candy bars, steaks, things you would never, ever eat in the real world, just to fuel a rigorous workday. The legions of the tanned, whose bodies no longer secrete natural oils, sneer at the newcomers, anyone whose hair is still neat, those people whose clothes look suspiciously clean, people who look as if they have had a shower (a real shower with hot water!) in the recent past. A newcomer, a tourist, a pansy frat boy spectator who probably brought beer instead of water and is only there because they hear Burning Man has lots of tits, is anybody who arrived on the playa after you did. In some ways, Black Rock City is not so different from San Francisco.
At Thunderdome, we are filled with the malicious urge to defile our newcomers. The first thing Matt does when he sees me is grab a handfull of playa dust and rub it into my hair. When J sees Jen, more than a week later, he rushes her, screaming "You're so cleeeeeeeean!" A true playa veteran is dirty, dirty and unrepentant.