It's a short train ride. Not really. But there's a silent excitement in the air that pushes down on the fast forward button in times like these. The mind's already racing. The itch of Coachella in my limbs. And I just close my eyes, and that Dead Mouse is there in my ears to take me back, me back, that electric orchestra, that deep mist echo, deep breaths. Ahhhhhh. And we're there.
Butt-fuck middle-of-nowhere Germany, that is. West of the old, modern city. Down the stairs to the bus-stop where our other like-minded kin has gathered, with backpacks, and tent- and sleeping-bags. And that bouncing step when their standing, unfocused eyes looking past it all. And the anonymous camaraderie, between lost souls. The shuttle to the forest is a old metro bus, and it's packed, standing, for the twenty minute cruise through the green open countryside with just a row of old, thick trees on either side. We pass people on cycles, we pass people walking, all cheering our trek, waving as we fly by. We'll see them soon enough. And it's down a little village street to the right, and we pile out, walk down some wide, dirt path into the woods, pay the twenty euros, and we're in.
Throw the headphones. The trees open onto this massive meadow to grand to measure, this open freespace in the middle of the forest and there's cars and tents in lines making aisles like Coachella. Except it's grittier, and dirtier, and not so big. But wilder. Surrounded by dense woods, not polo field lights, and the animal inside is jumping. The bass from the stage on the far side comes over the whole place in waves. Even by our little plot near the rear where the New Zealander and his chick, and a few others (who had driven straight to in the morning) had already set up a little huddle of tents and Subaru Outbacks. We help Corinna and Toni and Dajana with their tent and squeeze in for a quick couple spliffs and the speed comes out so hey, why not. No booze. Just waters and orange juice by the liter, and graham crackers and peanut butter, and some bread and ham and cheese. Maybe a beer or three, you know, for the carbs, because this is rage, rage, rage time, survival-style like an episode with Bear Grillz in the Berlin countryside. The whole gang from Corinna's house last night's all back together in fine form. I turn to Max and Grant and them, "Man, I wish Sharhar was here. He would fuckin' love this place." But he's out in Tel Aviv again, probably up to some of the same, so we all "Prost!" to him and pass another spliff around, king spliff, with all the Indian hash he left us. What a vagabond of world-intellect class he was. A survivor. With parachute pants and a goatee. The sun was getting super, super low in the afternoon, almost twilight. This night was for him.
But it was mostly for us as well. It's why we stayed those four crazy days, the bait at the end of the line and we got it baby. Prague tomorrow. No line, no sinker, we'll snip that shit off at the hook and spit the metal out. We're firing on all cylinders as we bounce-skip down the aisles of dry brown grass, barefoot, towards a cluster of food tents and a euro-firetruck. And behind that, and then just two hippy Burning Man lookin' music tents and a three story tower of lights, all flanked by hordes of people on both sides. There's a all covered in long trails of tee-pee flailing in the wind from the East. The music's getting louder, and the skin hairs bristle to life. We got the Molly still and some E, but we'll save that for later. This shit never stops, remember, so pacing is the game, and this ain't our first rodeo. It's a fuckin' rodeo though.
Just dive right in and start dancing. Minimalist techno. The cool evening breeze turns to a sauna in the stew of bouncing, swaying souls, and the lights aren't even on yet. They will be though, in an hour when the sun goes down. Ah, but what's this? Through a thinned out patch in the meadow wall, there's another area we didn't even see before. It's a sand beach shoring a still, little lake, reeded on both sides, with a disco ball hanging hanging by a thin wire over of it's entirety. Up on the beach, there's a long makeshift bar with a DJ playin' some jazzy, older tunes, and a huge tree-top canopy all facing the other stage in the meadow. What heaven is this in the Berlin forest?? The sun goes down, the light tower explodes to life with strobing whites and colors like Pleasure-town, and smoke, and fire out the top. We parachute the first of the Molly, and away we go. Every inch of muscle's moving and flexing and dancing, raising chest, rolling shoulders, curving hips to the beat. The Beat. That. Never. Stops. And rises and falls like the tides. Through forever build ups, slow, methodical, in no need to rush. But oh, mercy, when that drop comes it's something like an orgasmic rebirth, and I open my eyes to the crystal summer skies and the stars are smiling down by the millions. And if you thought, for some reason, I didn't bring my safety goggles, well, you're dead wrong. Of course I had those shits, and everything was magic.
When you're in the middle of all that, talking's useless, there's too much other stuff going on that's more important. But when we do communicate, it's with eyes and nods, with expressions and touches. And with girls. Lovely girls from everywhere, the free spirited youth of Europe, and everything's in the moment, the passion, the dancing, the looks, holds. The young, Italian girl with daring in her naked eyes, who would take my sunglasses off to kiss me. She speaks English with a firey sex, and she knows how to lick her lips and look at you with sly-grin desire. And she wraps her body around me with her hands up my shirt, her hips moving on mine through the music. And then like that, she's gone, off with her friends into the midnight human jungle, under the rainbow lights.
Always have meeting points, kids. Because drugs wear off, and then you need some more because it's 3:00. Our meeting place is in the trees between the beach and the mainstage. We'd meet up, all coming in at different times to rest and drink the water we brought, and eat graham crackers. And watch the Kiwi slack-line in the night. The forest was lit up with a herd of multi-colored, chest-high light poles stuck in the ground. Nothing fancy, and everything's still shadows in the slightly lighter dark. And there's a spotlight on the disco ball, throwing diamonds onto the lake and into the reeds and the trees around. There's enough light to a spliff around anyways. And when we're all present, or at least most of us. It's down the hatch with the rest of the stash, and we all split off into our little snakes through the people towards the stage, towards some open space to dance with our shirts off. It's amazing. Max, Grant, the Colorado Kid and me all get pretty close. And dance-off, bitches. Then I give this Dutch girl the kitty-paw growl, laughing between my dance hands, and she's smiles and kitty growls back and dances over with her friend, and they put a big, thin cloth scarf around my neck, and paint on my face. "Whoa! You guys are from Holland! We love Holland!" Max says. And then, "Whoa! You are from California!" they say. And we all grab hands and spin together, and the music takes over. Everyone's high, and so in love with everyone they meet eye-to-eye. Everything I see, everything I hear is so visceral. Ah-mazing. The Dutch girl and I hold each other like old lovers. Then her friends need water and go to the bar, but we're not quite ready for that yet. We're still dancing, and gliding through the crowd with hands in the air. and head tilted back, chin up, so my neck's stretching and swaying in the cool air above the shoulders, where the sauna's not so strong. It feels so good. There's a spot-light on the disco ball.
We dance. And we dance, dance, dance until the sky gets lighter, and the sun comes up. The feeling of sitting in the sand on the lake-shore sounds so appealing now, so we do. We sink in, lay down and watch the cotton-ball clouds in the sky get brighter with the sunrise with some slow-step tune drawling from the bar. The lakes only about waist-deep, even out in the middle, and there's a couple frolicking nude under the disco ball, making love. What a place. I pick in the sand at a lump digging into my back and, of course, it's a little zip-lock baggy packed full of weed. So we roll up a little (not so little) joint and I suck it in slow before I pass it, holding my breath trying to freeze the moment forever in my mind. Where we are, how we got here. With all that non-planning. It's some kind of wonderful.
I was tucked away not far from a small rural town just west of Berlin. Tucked away in a clearing surrounded by dense German forests and accompanied by a mystically tranquil lake, or pond, or something of the like. A solitary disco ball had been suspended not too tautly over the middle of the lake as a constant reminder of our objective, and that objective was to D.A.N.C.E. Bare-foot at times, freezing at times with nothing but a cocktail of drugs and others' body heat providing warmth, dance is what we did. Into the sunset and through the sunrise, my body is in a constant undulation in time with the music and my brain doesn't dream of sleeping. As I am flung farther away from that rabbit hole there is a tinge of longing for a love un-matured in the form of that dirty-blonde blue-eyed German siren with an Aussie accent and a laughing smile of pure ecstasy. Her name was Anya, and this was her proclamation (as she toted an old sock on a stick with a little plastic windmill):
"Socke. Fische. De socke fische dantze."
Her name was Anya and I haven’t a clue why our paths chanced to meet. It’s an encounter I can quite confidently say will never happen again, and for that reason, coupled with others, but primarily that singular fact allows her to be perfect for me in every way I can think of; a kindred spirit, destined to meet just once.
I rolled us a spliff and she put Molly on my tongue and hers, and we played together all day in her tent and the fields and the forest.
