The blurry photo above is of a massive pillow fight at Z camp. I have a story about that night, but before that, a different story will help give it context.
Safety Third
Burners have an expression, “Safety third!” The idea is that we should think of safety, of course. But not first. If you put safety first, you don’t get to party in the unfriendly environment of the desert, and you certainly don’t get to set shit on fire there. Each of us gets to decide what comes before safety. For some it will be love, which is never safe. For others it will be truth or beauty or family or whatever. But the truth is to truly live, safety does not come first.
My pals and I boarded a cloud-covered art car (there were two of these…often there are so many art cars that there are multiples: several ships, countless dragons, several fishes and quite a few boats of various shapes. I was keeping count, but they look so different at night that it can be difficult to be sure). The mutant vehicle was built out of a double-decker bus, and we climbed the stairs to the second story.
A metal table was bolted to the floor, and this level was open to the sky. The music of this art car seemed only themed in not playing dance music. At the time, they were playing an old swing song from the forties.
On the table there was a woman dancing. Her name was Dahlia, and she was tearing that shit up. Her style was more modern than the music, with lots of kicks, but fit perfectly with the song just the same.
An old Russian man encouraged me to get on the table and dance with her. I declined, “She’s having a moment,” I said. I’m not shy to dance on a table, but to get up on the table would have interrupted the perfection of her dancing, and I wanted to soak it up completely, without disturbing it.
All around the table, shirtless men (I presume they were Russian) were beating on the table to the rhythm of the music. With every pound on the table, they stirred up a cloud of dust that danced around her thumping boots. In the distance, the lights of the stars and the playa at night served for background. We were shouting and clapping too. And the whole bus was shaking so hard to the rhythm that it felt like it might fall apart. It’s a good thing they didn’t take off, or Dahlia might have been flung from the rickety table. The shaking was just enough to make it feel like we were inside the music, the experience was all-encompassing.
It was like something out of a music video.
It was in watching Dahlia dance that I grokked the “Safety third!” concept. Because those Russians couldn’t have had that moment if they were putting safety anywhere near to first. (Russians aren’t known for emphasizing safety, so maybe “safety third” puts safety a little higher on their priorities, eh?) But it was such a beautiful moment. How could I dream of wishing it not to have happened, for the sake of safety? I couldn’t. It was too wonderful.
Safety Third at Z Camp
There’s a playground at Z Camp, which was one of three landmarks we’d use to find our way home. In our first nighttime outing to the Esplanade, we climbed a two-story structure where there was a never-ending pillow fight.
Before I left for Gerlach, little virgin-me wondered if it would be safe to climb two-story structures built just days before by drunken campers who were eager to be done with building to get to the party/art/whatever. But the “safety third” instinct was in me already, because I couldn’t resist the pillow fight. Besides, it looked stable.
In the middle of the swaying net, ground zero for the pillow-fighting action, was a sleeping bag and blanket. I had a headache, so I climbed to the middle and lay there, the throbbing rhythm of the swaying net soothing the throbbing in my head.
The burners threw pillows with lusty abandon. Many of them landed on the ground below, and were thrown back up, or carried back up by new participants in the fray. Because I lay in the middle, I received many pillows to the face, all accompanied by a cloud of dust. Mostly I didn’t throw them back. I was content to lie there.
Soon a nice woman (I’m sad I don’t recall her name) noticed my lack of participation, and took in interest in my welfare. We talked for a bit, and she brushed my hair back, and tried to protect me from some of the incoming carnage of fluff. She decided to build me into a pillow fort to protect me.
Soon I was covered in pillows. I could see out, and my friends were laughing and having so much fun that it made my heart swell. It was one of those beautiful moments; I was so incredibly happy. There was so much joy and I was just lying there, soaking it up.
A little voice in my head warned that if I was buried under pillows, I couldn’t be seen. I had a hint of fear, but consciously ignored it. I decided to trust in the moment, not because I thought I was safe, but because I was so happy and I wanted that to last as long as possible.
Seconds after I made that decision, I felt a powerful blow in my gut. I couldn’t breathe. I sat up, struggling to pull in air. A woman screamed, “Oh my god, there was a girl in there!” Referring, presumably to myself. All the happy people were now frowning, gathered around me.
I knew that a man had leaped into the pile of pillows in the center, landing on me. I was pretty sure that I’d had the wind knocked out of me, because I’d had that experience years before when I was hit by a car. That kept me from panicking.
All the concerned faces asked, “Are you OK?” repeatedly. But you can’t talk if you can’t breathe. And while I was pretty sure I’d be all right, I wasn’t to eager to report that until I resumed that old oxygen-sucking habit.
It took a few minutes for my body to return to normal functioning, and then I had to offer reassurances, which were followed by cheers and applause. The guy who landed on me offered copious apology and explanation.
The thing is, I knew I was taking a risk in lying down in the middle of a pillow fight. I knew it was risky being buried in the pillows. In the spirit of self-reliance, I took responsibility for those actions, and didn’t hold this guy responsible for ending the happy moment, and putting a dent in my gut. The moment was perfect just as it was, regardless of how it ended. Maybe in retrospect I might have suggested the pillow pile wasn’t a great idea. But all in all, I made my own choices. Some of those choices weren’t safe but all of them led me to so much beauty and joy, that it’s hard to find room for regret.
Photos of the Playground at Z Camp
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