Pickathon XI
Just over a week ago I left work early on a Friday afternoon bound for the one, the only Pickathon.
The short of it is that I spent two and a half days sweating my brains out and dancing to sweet sweet music on a dusty farm south of Portland and came away with a suntan, a hangover, and a renewed commitment to making good - great - things happen more often in my life.
The long of it, well... how about some disjointed thoughts?
There's this music festival. It has a well-deserved reputation as a rockin' little hipster-hippie-bougie-family-friendly convergence with amazing music and the most fantastically positive vibe. Nobody litters, almost nobody gets stupidly drunk and/or violent, and the drinking water and beer flows freely.
I run into a friend, of a sort. Someone I see mostly in my professional life, whom I'd always wanted to know better. We chit-chat, we ask these questions that seem a little silly for people who've known each other for 2 years.
Hobbies. We talk about hobbies, and I think, crap, what ARE my hobbies? I certainly have interests, pastimes, things I do: cooking gardening music hiking fishing etc etc. But when's the last time I devoted any measure of real time to any of those things? Much less the rest of my wanna-be hobbies: drawing painting art, playing music not just listening, going dancing, writing, real writing not twitter bullshit, those sorts of things. Has it really been 2 years since I picked up a piece of charcoal?
There's maybe a slight hint of flirtation. My world lights up. Possibilities and vivid new-life-trajectory narratives involving bountiful farming endeavors and riotous outdoor adventures flow forth in my head. Sure doesn't take much to send you down this path, you know?
I get my metaphorical shit together real quick-like because it's time for the square dance. Oh hell yes. Have you ever square danced under the stars with like 500 other sweaty delirious fabulous strangers? You must. The boy and I do a couple of nice dances, then he spins off and I lose him in the crowd, I spin around and I keep finding friends, near-strangers, people I haven't seen in ages - OHMYGODHILONGLOSTFRIEND!
So about that square dance: when ever else in your life are you going to dance with and hug and touch and get real close and personal in a totally pure happy way with a bunch of strangers? It is the wildest thing. I knew maybe 10 out of 500 people out there, but I touched and swung and laughed with dozens of them. Restorative, happy, wonderful - as silly as that sounds.
You can't really sleep in at a music festival when you're sleeping out underneath the great big sky. That sun comes up over the hills and the trees at 7 AM and that's all you're gonna get, darling. I do a little reading in front of the main stage and life is awfully fine. I think about the boy and wonder where he went, do a couple fruitless half-looking loops around the farm. Nope, not around, probably having an amazing time with some other friends somewhere else in some secret site. Where you clearly aren't, big loser.
Why is it so easy to be surrounded by so many thousands of people and feel so alone on such baseless assumptions?
It is now time for some Sam Quinn. Might as well displace some of that angst by mooning over a charismatic musician.
I return to my rad book. I return to some fucking amazing music. I traipse around the festival and I smile at people and enjoy the whole damn thing. The sun goes down. That boy's hanging out with some girl. I decide to pay attention to the music again. The music is awesome.
It's late but I AM NOT TIRED! I will not go to bed! I wanna stay up for the last! show! Friends all poop out or disappear, it's me and the strangers, all the warm sweaty strangers. Sam Quinn's up again. Horse Feathers too.
Oh hello boy! What, you were heading over to talk to who? Oh that girl? OK, sure, I'll come along and meet her. Hi girl! You're from Florida?! So am I! Why are you being so frosty, huh? Am I, like, getting in the way? It sure seems that way. Make some jokes at my expense, I am good humored, you go right ahead. What's that boy, you think I'm too straight-laced? Perhaps a little square? I think I need to go listen to some music now.
Moving on. This sucks. All of this sucks. If the boy thinks I'm square, does everyone think I'm square? Wait, whose fault is that?
Sometime in the night some people steal the festival golf carts and tear around the campsites in circles, banging drums, keeping all jillion of us awake. So much for that whole peace love and happiness thing.
Another early morning. A constitutional of black coffee and smiley googly eyes at the baby in our campsite. They call him Juju.
Do some reading as the music plays. Mindblowing trad tunes by this youngster from LA wearing highwater pants. Take a stroll. Catch some tunes in the barn. Play some cribbage with the boy and some other friends. Partake of free ice cream and beer because the friends are rad. Feel good. More music. More sunshine. More dust on my feet.
Some dancing and drinking and laughing back at camp as we pack up to call it a weekend. Thinking these people are great. Life is great. Filthy sweaty smelly tipsy laughing smiling watching the sunset and the stars and the night-lit stage. A late night drive back to Portland with all the windows down, smiling face turned to watch the lights go by.
