(MISSION: MISH-UH-N. Noun.
So a mission then, me carrying my couch crucifix-like through a dark you forget exists in the perpetual bright of cities, through a rain reduced to a hop-scotching spray born on a freshening wind, and me there like that walking with both my arms locked under the arm rests and the mother of all face-plants risked with every slip and shift of my feet.
An odyssey, actually, watched on with great interest by passing Gatherers, perhaps because of the face-plant in the offing, perhaps because of the wondrous sight presented: me bent beneath my blue burden with jesters hat a-jingle, clothing and face spattered in mud and glitter spray. (Yes, Dad, glitter spray because, well, God Made Me Phunky.)
Still, I knew it was worth it - more - that it was a positive stroke of genius on my part the first time I sat down lengthwise in the middle of the Trance Zone with my legs up and out of the bog. The couch settled a little lower in the slime and then sailed as though made for conditions exactly like these.
As the trance deluged and the lasers railed I floated and looked to the sky and through brief windows of racing clouds caught glimpses of the stars, the weather breaking now, some six hours from the end.
And for the rest of the night my couch was a sanctuary, an island of comfort in the storm of festivals close, in the wet and the cold, the comedowns and the put-ons, and to it gravitated all manner of brotherly supplicants.
Weary of being buried they would come up and ask if they could sit - of course you can - and so they would - and they would rest - and we would share - and we would shape - and I would offer a smoke - and I would offer my whole - and then off on their way they would go. I even managed some serious couch dancing to the really thumping tracks.
If you are new, start at the bottom with post 1 and then work your way up.
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