When you start going to music, art, or transformational festivals, a few things happen.
One, you enter into a land of wonder and dimension you weren’t sure existed before. It’s dirty, golden, and fabulous. Have you ever seen a full wheeled clothing rack inside a Coleman? Sequins, vintage fur, and iridescent ponchos. Music happens in various forms, and you participate. Plumes of burning Palo Santo wood filter down onto ancient Persian carpets and inflatable furniture. You get to see the quirks and thoughtfulness of your neighbors in the creation of these temporary weekend dens. Tan oiled arms in the air, coconut breeze in her hair; we are simply supposed to be right here.
Also, get a Yeti cooler.
Sometimes, you get a festival moniker. I didn’t get one until my second year at Burning Man and she is called Nala. She’s a mother and a fighter–day drinker, night sinker. Cowrie collar, lion leotard, red fringe. A leopard beret, mild pink hair, a catsuit.
But this story is not about Nala. It’s about a girl named Moon Jelly.
The second year of High Sierra Music festival, I ambled up there with a crew comprised of a variety of men and women who were a mix of best friends, future roommates, future married-s, San Franpsychos , and fire women.
Most of them came to Quincy in a silver van named Silvia. High Sierra is on the cusp of July and it is hot–during the early part of the day we usually nurse our dehydration in the Feather river’s cooling waters.
This first ride out that year we went to the Rope Swing, 15 minutes away with just enough time for a naming convention. Rattle Snake, Moose Juice, Indigo, Wild Rabbit, and finally, with zero fanfare, as if she had already known her whole life: Moon Jelly.
Moon Jelly and I have been friends since we were 19 years old. She’s seen me though some of my worst behavior. Truly vile yet harmless 22 year old shit. I once, in a fit of passion about a boy I can’t remember, high kicked an Orange County glass shop window in stiletto Topshop over-the-knee faux suede boot. Unsurprisingly it shattered, big time. We looked on, shocked. THEN WE RAN.
We ran way the hell away and she never held it against me. I felt like a criminal. She nursed me back to equilibrium without judgement, even if it was there. I also cut out any more Topshop boot acquisitions.
I’ve seen her through a bit of a longer, less violent phase. When Moon Jelly found a new tribe.
This new lot of tow-headed smart boys in flannels and rust colored pants who worked for big companies but rarely wore shoes, ate goji berries, and probably took philosophy confounded me.
Names I could never remember but really didn’t try to: Reetman, Bartac, Tallow, Saphran, Ziggy. Young, Californian men like this have connections to magical lands. A ranch in Bolinas, private ocean coves in Carmel, dewy plots in Sea Ranch, mountain tops in Big Sur, high ceilings in Marin.
Moon Jelly took to these spaces and band of brothers like she found her name, with a grace and enthusiasm that should upleveled me to what she was uncovering. Moments like the most psychedelic, rarified sunset. Above the clouds. Red wine from the box in a clay cup. Knee high socks and hiking boots. Long, tawny blond hair. And that goddamn light up frisbee.
My ego interpreted this as loss; loss to these unfathomable mountains of an in-crowd and lifestyle and crew I couldn’t seem to touch or be a part of. Had M. Jelly forgotten all our vodka grapefruits at Club Deluxe and fervent declarations of sisterhood despite all odds?
No. But she had found a family and built it from love, nature, planning, sharing, time, appreciation, and her own blend of kinetic energy. And I was still welcome. I just had to show up and pay attention.
Then one evening in Santa Cruz, I was shown the light in way I could have never anticipated. Moon and I were having beers when her two friends joined us: Tiger and Diego. My mother and sister were meeting us shortly; we do a weekly family Aptos beach house trip every year.
We played the thing where you throw bags at a holes at breweries. I could truly not be worse. It’s not an exaggeration. I may as well have closed my eyes and gagged myself, spun around, shibari rope tied my tits, and tried to throw. It’s just a nightmare.
Tiger was my victim and teammate. He was a knight in shining Patagonia. This kind, smart, effective man let me throw bean bags into the sun for all he cared as he held my beer and asked me gentle questions. Diego ribbed us from across the way, and Moon rested her elbow on his shoulder. I took stock of this sweet family I had felt excluded from. My heart painfully bloomed in that pleasurable way when you know you were wrong but it still feels so great.
This was the shift for me. And it also was for Moon. That summer she ended a 7 year relationship with a great love. She also bought a cobalt blue truck and turned it into her new home. She got a promotion at work–saving the tuna. She spent months in Puerto Rico, the island of her origin, dancing salsa and eating tostones. She backpacked into green jungles by herself. She wrote it all down in a book. She sat with strangers in a sacred circle and shared what was going on.
She was wild, brave, and free. She was single. She didn’t have an official address.
I realized all of this recently, when Moon Jelly and I went hiking in Butano State Park. There’s a bat sanctuary, and I was really looking for the bats. It was day, so no bats.
Freed from my bat burden, it finally dawned on me the enormity of what she had accomplished. She could have stayed in the cave but she chose to walk through the fire. She’s at this highly specific moment of her life–stunningly beautiful, professionally accomplished, geographically liberal, and manifested into a powerful form.
I didn’t know it then, but it’s a uniquely Moon Jelly move to go through a break up and decide to take on a solo van life. She did it completely her way.
Oh and the crew I spent 6 paragraphs explaining? They are totally still around. I find they tend to manifest wherever Moon’s fabulous blue truck is parked.
Because home is where the heart is, right?
Son in the City 