In doing further image searching for this post, part of a continuing series on my plans for Burning Man, I came across this:

 

This is “Dr. Jeffrey Life” after and before his personal transformation.  I can certainly understand looking at oneself and wanting to be more fit, but there is something to be said, I think, for moving on into the last phases of life.  I know plenty of men my age and older who are slenderer than I, who have watched their weight and kept up with their exercise, but if you were to see a photo of their torso you would not mistake it at first glance for a 30-year-old weightlifter.  Again, that’s “at first glance,” because it doesn’t take long to see the good doctor’s body as a simulacrum of youth.

Women of the wiccan/feminist variety have a handle on this:

This is a plaque depicting the Triple Goddess: Maiden, Mother, Crone, pictured here in reverse order.  The youth of the Maiden, the fecundity of the Mother, the age and wisdom of the Crone—all three are present and available to women throughout their lives, and it’s a pathway from power to power.  The seemingly useless old woman has been reclaimed as a sorceress, a queen, a figure of authority and knowledge.

This motif is ever-present in ritual studies.  A Google image search reveals an unending supply of variations on the theme.

Here’s the deal, though: there is no male equivalent.

Part of the issue is that the female archetypes present themselves readily based on women’s ability to bear children, but men do not have that defining role.  Our ability to procreate does not end as women’s does, and that does lead to some problematic archetypes.  (“Problematic” for our Burning Man ritual purposes, that is.)

Mostly the image of the older man in culture is like this:

(See also, also, and also.  This appears to be an anomaly.)

Or this:

The first is Silenus, tutor of Dionysus; the second is Shakespeare’s Falstaff.  This is what is embedded in our heads as archetypical “old man”: fat, drunk, lustful without cause or hope of consummation—in short, an impotent laughingstock.  Hardly a counterpart to the Crone in terms of dignity or power, and so it’s no wonder that Dr. Jeffrey Life, after taking stock of himself in the mirror, might want to take steps to turn himself into this:

Yes, well, wouldn’t that be nice?  (For the record, I never looked like that in my life, not even close.)

But that’s not what a man’s body looks like or is supposed to look like as we age.

Here’s a set of photographs by Thomas Eakins, now thought to be of Walt Whitman.

 

This is an old man.  He brings his experiences,  his accomplishments, his gnosis, and while a 20-year-old may be prettier to look at, you will not learn from him what you will learn from Old Men.

The point of all this is that as I thought about heading out into the desert as a 60-year-old—and in celebration of that fact—I was interested in establishing our bodies as Old Men, as positive figures of wisdom, power, and authority, the male equivalent to the Crone.  To that end, some exposure is required, and although nudity is a thing out on the Playa, that’s not my main interest or a goal at this time.  Bare chests and bellies will make our point just as well, I think, without risking Total Sunburn.

So tomorrow we’ll look at the birth of 3 Old Men: a ritual troupe.

 

You will recall that, having decided that I wanted to go to Burning Man Festival, I had to decide what to do that qualified as Participation.  It had to be transportable and not too expensive, and I at least wanted it to be meaningful.  I mean, I could  just grow a beard and throw on a tutu and that would be sleazy but part of the scene.  But I want more.

I’ve  spent a lot of time over the last two or three years studying ritual and how it functions in our lives—posts for another series, perhaps—and so naturally I began to think in those terms.  Another concern of mine has been that of aging, especially the relationship between our physical bodies’ decay and our interior growth.  What does it mean to be an old man?

First, the physicality.  There is no question that there is a difference between these three photos:

Youth, middle-age (a 47-year-old Johnny Depp), and old age.  We look at these three men differently because their physical shapes are different.  We expect different things from these three men—socially, societally, physically, artistically—because their physical shapes are different.

That’s one reason I find this guy disturbing:

There’s just something wrong here.  His face tells us to expect one thing, but his pecs and abs are telling us another.  There is a conflict, too, between his buff physique and the actual skin he owns; it’s not the skin of the young man above.  He’s a chimera.

No—while I’m not completely happy with my physique, I am proud to have earned my 60 years, and my Burning Man offering should reflect that.  So, ritual and old men is where we’re headed.

Next: Maiden/Mother/Crone

So I’m going to Burning Man.

The question must be asked: Why would an aging East Coaster travel to a  desert two hours away from any city of note and spend a week with no electricity, no food, and no water, except for that which he brings with him?

The answer is not simple.  Part of it is that I am aging: I turn 60 in May, and this is a kind of birthday present to myself.  I’ve known about Burning Man for years and have been fascinated by it; especially after being let go from GHP last July, the idea of going really presented itself, although I had already thought about the possibility of taking off a week in August anyway.  So it’s kind of a bucket list thing.  In fact, it’s the only thing on my bucket list.

Another part of the answer is that I’d like to have a “life-changing experience” like GHP.  Sure, each summer was wonderful, but I was in charge.  At Burning Man, I will simply be one of 68,000 campers.  (For a week, this barren desert is Nevada’s third largest city.)  I get to experience the art and the music and the fun without worrying about whether someone’s going to have to be taken to the emergency room.

I figured I’ll document my journey there and back again, because what could be more entertaining than watching a stable member of the community morph into a dirty hippie freak?

Part of the deal that is the phantasmagoria of Burning Man is the Ten Principles which guide the entire enterprise. You should go and read them—they’re pretty solid.

The principle that I worried about first was Participation.  You can’t just go and watch; you have to be a part of the show.

That immediately raised the issues of expense and logistics.

If you go and look at some of the theme camps, you’ll notice right away that these people are committed: huge art projects, mutant vehicles, large structures where hundreds of Burners can gather—there was one guy who schlepped nearly a ton of king crab from Alaska and served it to whoever showed up.  (Another principle in operation here: Decommodification.  The only things you can buy at Burning Man are ice and coffee.  Everything else is to be bartered or given away.)

Whatever I chose to do to participate, in other words, had to be dragged all the way across the continent, set up, and then taken down and dragged back across the continent.  (When they say Leave No Trace, they mean it.)

I should note that I’m not alone in this venture.  When I announced my intention to celebrate my 60th like this, my friend Craig said he’d join me for the same reason, and then another friend David said he’d like to go too.  (He’s turning 50, I think.)

So our parameters are: three men of a certain age, participation, inexpensive (or at least not involving either my life savings or fundraising), easy to transport.

I will pause at this point to allow everyone to consider the possibilities.  If there were any actual readers of this blog, they could leave comments.  (No fair peeking, those who already know the solution.)