No, to the Lehr
The glass blowers at Center Camp cackle to one another like a middle school clique, but you can’t help but envy their skill with a mandrel. Staring at the vases cooling in the lehr — forged from the same star-stuff that contributed to the evolution of our small intestine — reminds you that each cone of formerly molten sand demonstrates mankind’s anal-retentive control over the elements.
You — on the other hand — control nothing. Even here in the cold desert, you are defined by congenital anonymity and lack of agency. You drift from sculpture to sculpture with an empty notebook and empty cargo pants. If a conversation occurs, it is forgettable.
Of course, this was all more or less planned from your conception. Unhappy with the strange series of names they had previously chosen and discarded, your hippie parents took to calling you “Sir” at age four.
The youngest of six irascible siblings, you adapted to the blind anger of the world by adopting a quiet (i.e. aggressively silent) curiosity.
“Is he mute?” they wondered.
“No,” you’d reply. And nothing more.
Childhood passed like a dying river. You left home and fell into a life of online poker. Math and bluffs and luck, you’d been more up than down. But always at the mercy of the stars.
Which is why you find these glass artisans so fascinating — their craftwork is the epitome of control. You envy their passion for feeding the furnace; their patience for detailing elaborate patterns with tweezers.
Suddenly, you realize you’re standing just inches from the blistering fire. A woman with bright pink dreadlocks pulls back her goggles—panicked—and asks, “Sir, would you like to try?”
This moment — right here — is why you came to the desert. Why you spent your winnings on dust masks and headlamps. A furry bike. And to fill your empty notebook with one original experience.
“No,” you reply, and walk west alone towards a beached metal whale.
During Burning Man I had a series of “Difficult Conversations” with friends and strangers, with the intent to turn elements of those conversations into a series of fictional essays. This is the second entry in that series. If you’d like to have a “Difficult Conversation,” shoot me an email: evan.cudworth [at] gmail.com
