burning log: 09.04

September 9 2004

Back in Eugene.

I watched the mileposts count down with a sadness that made me feel almost guilty... shouldn’t homecoming be sweet? Full of relief and welcome and long-craved comforts? I love my life in Eugene.

But for three weeks I wore a cowboy hat and a kilt, and worked in the sun with a remarkable group of folks to make something that wasn’t there before. And now it’s already gone. I’m feeling some serious withdrawal. Three weeks of celebration, sunrises, sweat, silliness... but I should start at the beginning.

So, the burning log.

August 10 2004

I just finished my shopping for Burning Man. From this angle it’s feeling less like an exercise in “radical self reliance” and more like a credit card binge. I rang up about $120 at the Trader Joe’s in dried fruits, nuts, little boxes of soymilk and the like. Then I headed to Fred Meyer (the northwest’s version of Target) for another hundred in bottled water, sunscreen, and ziplock bags. In an average week here in Eugene I’d probably spend $50 on food; this time of year a chunk of that would be on fresh fruits and veggies from the farmer’s market. That feels a lot more self-reliant to me than instant bowls of udon, but I’m trying not to make any judgments just yet.

My other big burning purchase was steel-toed boots, a necessity for my two weeks volunteering with the Department of Public Works to set up the city. This will all happen before the 30,000+ burners show up at the Black Rock Desert in northern Nevada for the official weeklong event on August 30. It’s how I get to see the backstage of building a city, and it gets me a free ticket in.

You likely know as much about Burning Man as I do, if not more. The first I heard of it was in college, and my general understanding was that a bunch of transients got together in the desert to drop acid and burn shit. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it wasn’t enough to cart me across the country. Since I moved to Eugene two years ago, though, I’ve run into a lot more burners – including some I seriously admire in their every-day lives.

I’ve become intrigued by the interactive installations, the intricate water recycling systems, the no-money economy, and the whole reality of an ephemeral city. I have no idea if this magic and creation will be wholly negated for me by leering frat boys, endless mobs of high people, and consumerism disguised as self-expression. Is it really any worse to wear a $200 prom gown to your prom than to wear a $200 prom gown with irony on the playa? Does shipping your shopping spree across seven states in an R.V. make it... art?

I’ll keep you posted.

August 15 2004
11 am

It takes about two minutes to leave Reno, once you find the onramp. It just up and ends, at a line of utility poles, and the landscape becomes rolling brown hills covered in dust and scrub.

I drove through Mustang and Gilpin and stopped in Fernley to fuel up before the last road to Gerlach, Nevada 447. Fernley made me nervous, with its main street draped in red-white-and-blue banners: Fernley Stands United. Towns that stand united, in my experience, are often not united in support of pickups papered in liberal bumper stickers heading north to an anarchist ball.

I pulled in to the Chevron and the attendant, a seventeen year old with braces, rushed over smiling. As he beat me to the pump I asked, “Can’t I pump my own?”

“Well you can,” he replied, “but we’re nice here in Fernley.” I handed him my credit card and he shook his head brightly. “Pump first, then pay.”

Bliss, my blue pickup stocked with long-shelf-life food, fifteen gallons of water, and a duffle bag of mismatched clothes, slowly fueled. Across the pump a guy on a Harley pulled up and tried to hand over his card, getting the same, “Pump first, then pay.”

“That’s how I do it too!” he chuckled, until he caught my eye. “Shit!” he said, startled, “I didn’t realize there was a lady present.”

What could all these nice folks possibly think of the caravan of freaks coming their way?

8:30 pm

I arrived at the Burning Man office in Gerlach around noon. Gerlach is a one-street town of less than 500 people, and it serves as a staging ground for Burning Man volunteers in the weeks leading up to the event.

The whole Burning Man phenomenon began in the mid 1980s when burner-infamous Larry Harvey burned an effigy on a San Francisco beach with some friends. It grew from there, moved around a bit, and has temporarily settled in five square miles of BLM land in northern Nevada’s Black Rock Desert – a.k.a. the playa. Last year over 30,000 people from around the globe showed up. The single night of burning has been replaced by a week of participant-created art and exchange.

“Participant-created” means that Burning Man Inc. does not supply a menu of entertainments for visitor enjoyment. Instead, nearly everything that goes down on the playa is conceived, created, transported, and unveiled there by another ticket-holding burner. A select number of art installations and other amenities receive some financial support, but the bulk of it all is brought to the middle of nowhere for the love of the burn, to be celebrated and shared by a temporary community.

“Radical self reliance” is another commonly thrown around Burning Man phrase, and it means come prepared. The Black Rock Desert is an extremely dry and harsh zone, with temperatures commonly peeking a hundred in the afternoons before diving into the forties at night. The elevation is high so the sunburns are bad, and the wind whips up impromptu sandstorms. Aside from preparing for these extreme conditions, burners must also bring in everything they need to survive for the duration of their stay. No food, water, or supplies are sold at the event.

Aside from coffee and ice, Burning Man operates entirely on a gift economy. It’s different from barter in that goods and services are not necessarily exchanged for other goods and services, but are simply given, with no expectation of anything in return. People arrive on the playa with vast reserves of stickers, pins, and necklaces to give away, and food and alcohol is freely distributed. Drugs, I’ve heard, are the gift economy exception.

Tickets to Burning Man start at $150 and get pricier as the event nears. All tickets are good for the whole event; you can leave after two days if you choose, but you pay full price. This limits the number of short-term tourists, and encourages those who will contribute something throughout the event. There are a handful of reduced-price scholarship tickets and I-have-no-cash-flow tickets, but no press passes, day passes, or other special deals. The only way to get a “gift ticket” is to volunteer for certain event-related positions: flagging off the city, working the gate, cleaning up. And the Department of Public Works.

I chose the DPW on the initial volunteer questionnaire because it made sense: I wanted to learn how a city gets built from the ground up, and I was available for the two weeks before the burn began. But the questionnaire asked for my “trade.” I skimmed over the choices: electrician, plumber, mechanic, heavy equipment operator... it’s shocking how far a B.A. in biology will not get you at surviving in the desert. Fortunately I’ve done a little carpentry, so that seemed like the most appropriate way to stretch the truth.

So it was that I arrived in the office to check in as a DPW volunteer. Free-spirited as Burning Man may once have been, my check-in began with all the paperwork you’d expect from a government agency, including a form to acknowledge each form I received.

Paperwork highlights:
Code of Safe Practices #9: Do not throw materials, tools, or other objects from buildings or structures until you take adequate precautions to prevent injuries caused by falling objects.
Black Rock Station Rules #3: No open display of firearms at any time.
Black Rock Station Rules #9: No fighting, arguing, back stabbing or sniveling.
Gerlach House Rules #15: Do not take or appropriate from our neighbors.

After a lot of reading and initialing, I was ready to go.

“I had you down for spires,” said Mayfield, the volunteer coordinator, “but since you have carpentry experience, I’ve switched you over to First Camp with Headhunter. But for today just go help in receiving at the depot. Ask for Paloma.”

The playa has its own language, so it was not uncommon to encounter sentences like this with upwards of five completely unrecognizable words. (I did, however, recognize the phrase “carpentry experience”.) Mayfield gave me quick directions – “Turn at the gravel entrance, you can’t miss the city!” – apologized for not having time to escort me, and sent me on my way.

I drove out of Gerlach and onto an empty highway that snaked around the Black Rock Mountains. After a few minutes the landscape on my right opened up into a flat white expanse, a duneless desert bleached white in the sun. The playa.

I turned on a gravel road marked “three mile playa entrance,” which, it turned out, was about five miles too early. Consequently I bumped across the empty playa, kicking up clouds of dust and squinting to follow faint tire tracks, scanning the distance for anything that might resemble a city. Fun fact I didn’t know at the time: edges of the playa often become “swamped,” turning them into a quicksand-like bog that can not be seen, but that can engulf your vehicle. After ten minutes I nearly turned around. Would I even be able to find my way back? There were no landmarks, just playa stretching in all directions and distant mountains on the horizon, melting into sky with wavy clouds of heat.

Just as I was about to give up, a shimmering blue green line appeared in the distance. Its unmistakably foreign color gave me a burst of hope, and as I sped forward the shape took form: portopotties. Suddenly rows of portopotties appeared on all sides, mingling with tractor-trailers and a few large white tents.

Black Rock City. Welcome home.

Monday August 16
7:45 am

This is all a little harder than I expected.

There are about a hundred people out here, and I feel like the only new person. Everyone knows what to do when: where to park, what to bring... and there are a million of these things. I’m in the middle of a fucking desert at 6:30 am, trying to find the particular unmarked tent where the morning meeting might be taking place, and someone will growl, “Drive on the roads!” As if there are any fucking roads.

Last night was misleadingly fun. I was fixing up the bed in the back of my truck when I overheard a small crowd talking about beer. I popped my head out to introduce myself, and we all ended up at a smoky Gerlach bar (smoky bars! remember those?) kept by a longtime Gerlach resident named Larry. He mostly wanted to talk about our tits.

At midnight we all drove out to the playa – this was the first night volunteers could sleep out there, instead of in the Gerlach trailer park. It was beautiful and quiet and still. A stranger gave me a welcome shot of whisky.

But today has been discouraging, and it’s still so early. I’ve been assigned to First Camp, a team building the camp where the founders and senior staff of Burning Man stay during the event. So in fifteen minutes I’m heading somewhere to find a guy named Headhunter. That’s encouraging. I don’t know where First Camp is or what I’m supposed to do there. I think this is the part where I put on my boots and hope for the best.

4 pm

My workday is done. Dinner isn’t for... well, I don’t know how long, because everyone just intuitively knows when meals are. But at least an hour, I’m guessing.

Today had an unpromising start, but it quickly improved. I met the First Camp team. Headhunter is a tall, quiet, heavily tattooed guy who wears a black utilikilt and a black bandanna to hold back his dreads. He has a limp from the gash he cut in his leg with a skilsaw last July. Spider is a builder, here with his new wife Charity. Keith is here for the first time, a young musician between jobs and residences. Scott has been out here six times; he’s waiting for a construction contract in D.C. but the government keeps delaying the start date.

I was given my first job. I had to lie on my stomach on the playa and scoop out the two-foot-deep postholes that were drilled earlier by a Bobcat. Dust blew into my face and fell back into the holes as I dug them out. A few hours later, once the posts were placed, I got to shovel the holes back in. It was not a particularly fun first job, but Headhunter said that tomorrow they’ll set me up with a nail gun. Wahoo.

Things I wish I had, day 2:
more books
a lantern
astringent

Things I wish I didn’t have:
blisters across the backs of each foot from my new boots

So, the city.
Black Rock City is large. Before I arrived, a bright orange fence went up around the perimeter. It took about fifty people two full days to get it in, and that was record time. The fence is visible as a tiny orange band in the distance right now, but it will slowly disappear as the city is built.

There is a detailed plan of BRC created each year by Rod Garett. It is translated onto the ground with a GPS and lots of little flags. A water truck sprays the future roads constantly to settle the dust and speed compaction so that the increasing traffic doesn’t rip the surface apart. On the open playa the dry, cracked surface creates huge clouds when a single slow vehicle passes. The dust is incredibly fine and alkaline. It is cruel to eyes and bare feet, and it clings to hair and clothes. It is everywhere.

The city plan this year is like the face of a clock: the towering wooden Man will be built at the center of the clock face, and streets will radiate outward at half hour intervals. Concentric perpendicular streets circle the clock face like a bulls eye; these are named for the planets, since the event's theme this year is Vault of Heaven. So you could meet someone at the intersection of 4:30 and Mars, or pitch your tent at 8 and Neptune. Much of the clock face remains open playa, where art installations are placed. As of today, street signs are starting to appear.

Some burners come to Burning Man independently, with tents, trucks, or RVs, but many come in theme camps – groups that plan and camp together, and provide something for the larger community. Theme camp members often come from the same hometown and spend months designing, fundraising for, and building their camps. The Earth Guardians give tips on low impact playa life and the natural world of the desert. The Faerystar Artists Guild gives workshops on making poi (those spinning balls on string that seem ridiculous until a hot girl in leather and platform boots lights them on fire and dances with them). Jiffylube provides a public and judgmental place for gay men to have sex with multiple partners. It’s all about community building.

The camps sometimes amass into villages, and each camp and village is assigned a designated place on the playa to ensure high density entertainment. Independent campers reside in nearby designated areas. It’s all a new urbanist wet dream: residences, bars, crafts, and snuggledomes in an exclusively pedestrian metropolis. And what would an urban village be without a centrally located coffee shop? Center Camp is the site of the only sanctioned money-based exchange at Burning Man: coffee, chai, and ice sold in a festive shaded pavilion around an open air performance space. Right now it’s a rapidly closing ring of posts.

Tuesday August 17
6:30 pm

The sun is still up and I am already drunk on Busch beer from an after work party that started at 4:30. I met the shade crew – they put up frames of varying sizes capped with dark cloth to provide protection from the desert sun. They work their asses off, building all day and struggling with the heavy cloth on ladders against the wind.

There are crazy factions on the pre-event playa I can’t begin to understand. The DPW, it turns out, has something of a reputation as a rough crowd. As a group we sport an unlikely concentration of piercings, facial tattoos, mohawks, and shitkickers. The other volunteer groups seem to give us space. “This is your first year,” people keep asking, “and you’re doing DPW? How did that happen?” In general, though, everyone has been perfectly nice to me, and most of the isolation I’ve felt (finding a table at dinner, for example) has come from my own inhibitions, and not anyone else’s attitude. I’m a little intimidated, but that’s mostly my problem.

The biggest insult around here is hippie. Those who live by the doctrine of radical self reliance are less than sympathetic to those who show up empty handed to enjoy the gift economy. As in, don’t try to bum a cigarette off of me just because your lazy ass didn’t bring your own, you fucking hippie. As in, I don’t have a lot of disposable income either but I managed to come with beer so put that can back, you fucking hippie. As in, ooooh, are the long days hauling lumber in the sun getting to you since you’re so special, hippie?

...But it’s all said with love. Dark, sadistic, DPW love. It totally works for me.

August 18 2004
3 pm

Last night Jimena, who places camps and villages in their appropriate spots on the grid, borrowed two of the placement tricycles and we triked around the huge empty playa in the dark. It was wild. We spotted a tiny light in the distance, and headed towards it for twenty minutes without passing anything, our headlamps just illuminating more and more patches of playa like the edited-out footage of a Wild America episode. It was like being on the moon. Except that at the end, after all that pedaling, we came up to the light, and it was a blue neon cross for the medic station, which was set up just like MASH.

So, to recap: imagine riding a tricycle for twenty minutes across the moon to arrive at the deserted set of a seventies war sitcom. This is life on the playa.

Today I am off early because our lumber did not arrive. First Camp involves two large, fancier-than-average shade structures for the hoi polloi to park their RVs around, as well as an extra special two story shaded deck (with twisty staircases) to view the festivities. That’s what I’ve been working on. Much fun with power tools. But no lumber, nothing to be done. So I’m packing a bag for a trip to some reservoir.

10 pm

Keith and Zubi from the First Camp crew, Mags and Logan from the shade crew, and I piled in to Mags’ van to find the reservoir. We didn’t know where it was – only the general direction, and that it was thirty minutes away, on the left. We drove miles down the wrong gravel road, and when I suggested to Mags that she turn around she admitted that she didn’t want to turn around because she didn’t really know how to do a three point turn, because she didn’t really know how to drive. In fact she doesn’t have a driver’s license at all, mostly because she doesn’t have a green card at all (she’s Irish), and the van, which she bought for $75 in the hopes that it would get her from San Francisco to Burning Man and perhaps even back again, was hardly drivable in the first place. Which I soon learned about in detail, because for us to turn around meant I had to become the driver.

The van flashed warning lights at all times, including the check engine light, which is usually not the choice one to ignore. The brakes worked occasionally and at their own whim, and generally needed ten to twenty seconds of appeal before reluctantly engaging. The gears, which claimed to be automatic, shifted at will without any recognizable correspondence to speed or terrain. Luckily, we found the reservoir. It was glorious.

Back at BRC we ate dinner – meals are provided in a commissary for all the volunteers during the build, and the food is great. The reservoir crowd was about to head to the hotsprings, but on our way out we ran into Beanie, a DPWer who organizes her own theme camp. Beanie drives an orange school bus with a mattress on top. It is popular playa transport. We climbed on and spent ten minutes ripping through the playa air, drinking and blasting music. Then, as suddenly as it launched, the bus came to a halt and everyone scattered. There I was alone in the middle of the empty, dark playa. A battered Chevy cruised slowly by at the edge of my vision. Deep and low, the passenger droned foghorn-like into a megaphone, “blooooow jooooob.”

Being on the playa is a lot like being in a Douglas Adams novel.

August 19 2004
general observations

Women dress up a lot. Colorful braids in their hair, platform shoes, hot pants. The men dress for work. But everyone works hard.

The overwhelming everyone is straight. It is very much presumed that you are, too. It is also presumed that your particular sexual orientation is more or less irrelevant for the length of Burning Man, as is your particular marital status, age, level of personal hygiene, and other minutiae.

People are often, but not always, friendly. Guys are often, but not always, friendly in a specific way that feels like they are exploring the potential for sex.

Some people have playa names that they use, perhaps exclusively, while at the event. Lowdog, for example, is always Lowdog. But Vortex is also Eddie, depending on context. Some people hate the whole idea of a playa name, because it feels false. Others embrace the playa name because it just seems right. A few folks around here have as many as four names: their given name, a playa name, a Rainbow Gathering name, and a raver name. So, hypothetically, Sara could also be Wheelbarrow, moon dove, and Princess Sparkle Glitter Kitty.

When I introduced myself as Jenn, I was informed several times that I needed a playa name – but that it would be given to me when the time was right. And, indeed, riding to dinner in a busload of drunk DPWers one night I was joined by a hardly coherent woman named Degenerate. “Shit!” she exclaimed, “You are so white! Haven’t you been in the sun all week? What are you, radioactive?” She promptly produced a Sharpie from her pocket and scrawled in giant letters down my right arm: RADIOACTIVE. And that was that.

August 21 2004
6 pm

Today was my first crappy day, but I’m feeling significantly better now. I just had a shower and an apple, so that’s been helpful. But I’m already dirty again just from the wind. My hair has become strange and strawlike. I think I could have great dreads in two days.

Joe, who is kind of the lead carpenter on First Camp, was in this pissy I’m-a-white-boy-make-way-for-my-shit mood. He bitched at me for the way I cut something, and then spent the day yelling “fucking a!” and “Who the fuck did that?” at miscut two by fours. Everyone was just supposed to give him space and tiptoe around his attitude. I felt like a random victim of his anger, and it is really not the energy I came here for. Anger can be so selfish.

Just now as I was venting that, Lee walked by. He is a sweet boy from San Francisco who does theater work in real life, but is here as an electrician. He gave me a juggling lesson, and then came back with half a bottle of Bailey’s. This is the kind of thing that happens whenever I start to feel bad: unexpected juggling lessons and aperitifs.

sometime late

Tonight was Early Burn, when a small and overtly sexual effigy gets burned for all the volunteers. This year it was basically a turtle with a gigantic penis. It’s supposed to be like the original burns, but it was pretty low key, except for when that one guy stuck firecrackers in his butt and the other guy on stilts came by and pretended to hump him. But other than that.

An impromptu singing fest broke out (with no audience) so I did a little backup dancing, and then I got the best massage of my life from a Lamplighter named Bigfoot. It lasted three minutes and realigned my whole life.

Now I’m hanging out in my truck, wishing someone would turn up. It’s strange, how you can feel lonely here, just like in NYC. And in the same way the loneliness is even sadder for all the people around.

August 22 2004
2 pm

We had the morning off to recoup from Early burn, so Natasha and I drove to the Frog Pond hot springs. Natasha is a new teacher in California, and a remarkably empathic person. On the day of unnecessary anger she walked up to me out of nowhere and instantly said, “Oh, sweetie, you’ve had such a hard day.”

“Actually, yes...” I started –

and before I could continue she put her hands around my waist and said, “And you’re getting your period. Here, have some water.” It was startling. I think she’s going to make a stellar teacher.

The Frog Pond hot springs are on private land adjacent to the playa, about a fifteen minute drive across unmarked terrain. They close during the event, so it’s a special bonus for volunteers to enjoy in the pre-event weeks. Surrounded by dry scrub, the ponds appear out of nowhere in a tiny grove of willows. After a brief swim we were joined by two and then ten other volunteers, splashing around naked in the steamy, slightly sulfury water, ducking under the shade of the trees and rinsing off the layers of playa dust, sweat, and sunscreen. It was divine.

I headed back to do an afternoon shift, but a windstorm had picked up. When the wind gets going it causes brownouts and eventually whiteouts, where everything completely disappears. They are visible from huge distances as white walls advancing across the playa. The only thing to do is cover your eyes and mouth and stay put for the ten minutes or two hours they last.

Dust storms are a main factor in playa style: go go boots, bikini bottoms, dust mask and goggles is a common ensemble. The perfect intersection of form and function. Like much on the playa, it is sexy but practical. Cold beer and clean socks are equally valuable commodities. The little packet in a guy’s pocket might be a condom, but it’s just as likely to be a wet nap. There’s a lot of sexual energy out here, with all that bare skin and heavy lifting, but there’s also a lot of assault from the elements. Nothing kills kink like sunburn and dehydration. So tastes accommodate: no shirt, good; sensual application of SPF 30, better. It all makes Oregon seem so... temperate.

August 24 2004
2:30 pm

Yesterday was a long, hard workday. We finished the deck twenty feet up in the air, and for about an hour everyone seemed to be working around First Camp: the trenchers and electricians, shade crew, senior staff, placement. It was buzzing with vibrant work energy. It was fantastic.

Then there was a string of free beer. Once in a while a truck just pulls up with a cooler of PBR on ice. Deluxe.

Back at the DPW Ghetto, the camp where many of us are temporarily parked, Deacon broke out his archery equipment and was teaching people to shoot at a coffee can target. Mags brought by her hurling sticks; it’s an Irish sport like a mix of lacrosse and baseball. And hockey.

The ghetto was going to be home to many DPWers through the event, but due to personal conflicts and internal strife that are outside my understanding as a newbie, the grand scheme dissolved. Now DPW volunteers are making their way to other camps all around the playa. Fortunately this won’t take full effect until the event gets started, so for now the ghetto remains a locus of inebriation and miscellaneous lawn sports.

In the evening West threw a housewarming in his new van, actually a DPW van he commandeered and moved into. He deflated the tires so they couldn’t take it back. This is the sort of selfish but sharply funny act that wins you a mix of hatred and admiration from the DPW. (“What happened to the tires?” asked a senior staffer. “I don’t know,” West shrugged with a confused expression, “I think someone let the air out of them.”)

After this we went trolling for a new party, singing rock ballads and Willy Wonka songs on the way. We ended up at the Lamplighters Village. The Lamplighters form a procession each evening of the event and raise oil lamps throughout the city along major streets. They are spiritual, perpetually high, fire-spinning friendly folks who touch each other frequently and exude a lovely magic. It is delightful to spend time around their burn barrel. I stayed there till late at night before wandering back to the ghetto for some sleep.

August 25 2004
1:30 pm

Twenty typical Burning Man minutes:

I walk with West back and forth three times in front of the camp of a guy he thinks is hot. Finally the guy appears, and I rush up to ask him a completely unimportant question about his camp so that West can walk closer. The guy sees West and asks him to help square up the eight by eight wooden cube he is building to live in for the coming week. I announce that I have to go do that thing, and leave.

On my way back to the ghetto, a car with no doors or windshield pulls up and offers me a ride. On the roof is a man holding up a fifteen foot tall wooden spire. I don’t know where the car is going, but I get in the back. It careens down several blocks and stops at a party. One of the partiers is Divina, a DPW volunteer from Philly. This is the first time she has ever left Philly. She is a little overwhelmed. We walk towards the ghetto but spot a geodesic dome made of silver and blue tarp triangles. We go in. Hanging from the center of the ceiling is a plush reclining chair. A sweet and very stoned man positions us in the chair and gives us a push so that we are swinging in gentle arcs around the dome.

The man’s name is Lars.

August 27 2004
9 am

Last night was Lady’s Night. Basically it was one of those completely random excuses men fabricate to dress in women’s clothing. The most badass fuckyou members of the DPW turn out in evening wear and eyeliner, and the women just wear as little as possible.

Nipps is a fashion designer in her real life, so she decked us all out from her bags of slutty garments. There were fishnets, bustiers, and bizarre disembodied fur sleeves. And you certainly wouldn’t want to arrive in the desert without an assortment of fake eyelashes. I got a smashing white sequin cowboy hat and a matching halter top. Yes, that’s right, I just used the phrase matching halter top. And meant it.

We headed over to the commissary, which had been retrofitted with a sound system, a runway, and stripper poles. What would drunken debauchery be without a little pole dancing? There were rumors of kegs, but as it turned out no alcohol was provided. Luckily many of the “ladies” had taken the precaution of tying / duct taping bottles of whisky or tequila around their necks. There’s nothing quite like taking a shot of Jack pressed up against the sequiny chest of a hairy man who’s been digging postholes for a week. Except maybe chasing it with a draw of Jose Cuervo clipped to a stuffed coconut shell bra.

Sexual tension reaches something of a boiling point by Lady’s Night. After more than a week of working in the heat with the same scantily clad, rapidly tanning people, you pretty much know whom you want to sleep with. Unfortunately, you also know whom they want to sleep with. So it becomes less about whom everyone wants to sleep with and more about whom anyone would sleep with. Sooner or later the lengthening lists of potential partners are bound to overlap, and Lady’s Night is that night. In the silence between songs you can hear the gentle creak of standards lowering.

The lack of consequences on the playa is intoxicating. It’s like all the incestuous exploration of a freshman floor or a professional conference without any of the drama. Oh, you slept with the guy I wanted to sleep with? No big deal, I slept with your husband. Or no big deal, I slept with his sister. Or no big deal, there’s always tomorrow. It’s like Much Ado About Nothing without the deception, or The Ice Storm, without the death.

August 28 2004

I had my first cigarette this morning at nine. That’s always a good sign for a nonsmoker.

There is a lot of substance use around here. It’s impossible to avoid it. I met one single straightedge guy, but he took off after the first week. Once when I overheard a friend saying that he was exhausted even though he hadn’t touched a thing the night before, I pointed out that he had been drinking heavily and smoking cigarettes and pot all evening. “That’s not drugs, honey,” he smiled, “that’s maintenance.”

“Self medication” is pretty standard burner fare. I’ve had lots of self-medicating friends before. What’s new to me is the endless string of conversations about emerging and exciting chemicals and their effects in various dosages and combinations. E.g., “Have you tried GXB? It’s distilled from a vine that grows in the Amazon, and if you take it when you’re rolling....” And so on. One evening I became a reluctant audience member to a slam poet giving a rambling recitation about how all his nonprofit work had just left him wanting, and at last he found this superb drug that filled the void.

Now if you’re reading this you likely know me, in which case you likely know that I have a stuck-up judgmental self-righteous opinion about drugs. In fact you may already be one of the dozen or so friends whose first question when I returned was an anxious and hopeful, “So did you do any drugs?” As in, did you finally get over your right wing Christian Coalition Reagan era DARE program brainwashing, you so-called progressive liberal?

Well, no. If anything, Burning Man confirmed everything I hate about drugs, and pot in particular: that you can be in a beautiful place with a crowd of spectacular people, laughing and dancing and learning about the time they got lost in Lithuania, until everyone gets so fucked up they can’t walk straight or finish a sentence, and they don’t remember what they were talking about anyway. And away go the joy and the guitars and the connections, and everyone just slumps around in sleepy limbo. I fucking hate it.

But morning cigarettes... those are growing on me.

August 29 2004
4 pm

Thousands of people have arrived, and they are all reuniting and building things: towers, lawns, temples, domes. Beer gardens.

The event doesn’t officially begin until tomorrow, but theme camp members are allowed to turn up today to start construction. When I woke up and stuck my head out of the truck, the previously empty playa was spotted with clusters of tents and U-Hauls and pale, hugging bodies.

I’m a little sad, like something beautiful is ending: this time working together with a cool group of people in a serene place. I could live here like this indefinitely, out of my truck, wearing the same clothes, never buying things. Baby wipe baths aren't quite as good as showers, but I'm getting used to them. This could be a life. Today I realized I need to learn to weld. Why don’t I already know how to weld? How could I have let this wait so long?

Being here is like backpacking – simple and joyful and sometimes very hard, physically and emotionally. But I never want it to end, and while I’m here I don’t know why I ever do other things. And I can already feel it ending.

So last night I drank way too much, starting with Irish whiskey as they put up the Man. He stands on top of a geodesic dome in the center of the city, and at night he glows with blue neon. He’s a handy landmark.

The night was a drunken blur, riding around on a trike with Katy and others we picked up on the way. I was administered the requisite virgin burner spanking by a generous fellow from Animal Control, a theme camp that rounds up girls on the playa dressed like cute and sexy animals and throws them in cages. This is the kind of sick cleverness I’m seriously hurting for in Eugene.

Katy had to work a shift at Greeters, welcoming the arriving cars, from midnight to four in the morning. I couldn’t find my way home, so I went with her. I puked and passed out on a couch next to the gate road, which I’m sure was an appropriate welcome for some of the veteran burners. A saint named Paul wrapped me in his trench coat. It was decorated with shards of glass, but warm all the same. He drove me back to the ghetto just before sunrise.

It was the kind of depression-induced drinking I haven’t done since the end of my last serious relationship. It was gross and stupid and cathartic.

August 30 2004
8 am

Some guy a few camps over started bellowing “George” at the top of his lungs as soon as the sun peaked over the mountain this morning. Long, slow, drawn-out “Geooo-oorge”s as if he was looking for someone at Price Chopper. He is still doing it now, an hour later. In the same place. So he’s not just a clueless inconsiderate guy who lost a friend on the playa, he’s a clueless inconsiderate loser who thinks he’s funny. But yelling George isn’t funny, and it isn’t self expression, either, in case he’s making that mistake. It’s just a test of the do-whatever-the-fuck-you-want atmosphere that ignores thousands of other people, and the peacefulness of this place.

I am totally lonely. The people I’ve met have relocated all around the playa with their friends from hometowns or past years. I could potentially not run into any of them again at all. The ghetto is now Camp Me, and will soon be overtaken by people I don’t know looking for a place to park. I also fear that the dissolution of the ghetto populace means we won’t be getting that kitchen trailer I had planned on having access to. Looks like dried fruit for the foreseeable future.

Right now everyone is hanging around in their theme camps, drinking and talking, which I see would be a fabulous time if I had a camp. And in most situations I’m pretty good at meeting people. Book me a one-way ticket for a country where I don’t speak the language and I know things will work out fine. But here meeting people would involve walking up to a large group of recently reunited friends who are hanging out in a space they have created together. It’s not like at a wedding or a hostel or a classroom or a bar. It is unexpectedly intimidating. Maybe coming in with the DPW has made me a bit more... cautious about people here than I would be if I was starting today.

Being new sucks.

11 am

I’m back in my truck eating a melty Snickers bar and trying to figure out how to do this right. There is so much going on here, and I am 100% spectator, which is exactly what this is not about.

I am not feeling brave today, and this requires serious bravery.

Ron and Matt, two random guys camped nearby, just came by and gave me a grape twin pop. That’s a good start.

Eventually I will get up the nerve to invite myself in somewhere.

Ok. I’m going.

August 31 2004
10:30 am

I’ve decided that the easiest way to meet people is to go to events. Most of the theme camps host various workshops and gatherings open to the playa public. They are listed in a thick program called What Where When that is distributed at the gate. A brief sampling:

Monday 2 pm Comfort and Joy’s Pedicure Party. Find fellow foot aficionados to trade pedicures, gossip, and playa fashion tips. Your hosts will provide moisturizing creams, colorful polishes, and tools.

Tuesday 10 am Movement Therapy Workshop. Bring a therapeutic awareness to posture, breathing, and isolation movements. Learn all about toning sounds of the chakras.

Wednesday 5 pm Beginner Rope Bondage. We provide rope, direct instruction, and a comfortable dome. You may wish to bring pillows, water, or your own favorite rope.

And so on. Israeli dance, bloody mary hours, scrabble tournaments, lindy hop lessons, creating fetish attire from inner tubes. All tastes spiritual, sexual, athletic, and crafty are accommodated at some point during the week.

This morning I was hoping to make it to yoga, but last night went a little later than expected. In the afternoon I walked and biked around for hours, seeing the rapidly evolving sites. New attractions are constantly emerging: margarita bars, karaoke domes, drum tents, dance floors.

After dusk I ended up at the Lamplighters’ Sangria Soiree. Their magically lit camp encloses a gazebo of plush cushions and a small wooden bridge over a pond. The Lamplighters host the Sangria Soiree each year as an opening night. Shirtless cabana boys circulated with pitcher after pitcher of sangria and silver platters of warm quesadillas. I fed wine-soaked fruit to the California med student reclining next to me, and lounging couples made out in the shimmery corners.

The playa is like seven days of a dark dance club: everyone looks hotter than in real life. Hair is bleached, skin is tan, clothes are sparse and flattering, and the hot days turn gradually into crisp nights. Not to mention any given individual is as likely drunk as not, or in a clingy ecstasy-induced trance, or trying to score a night away from their dusty tent. As if that wasn’t enough social lubrication, it is miraculously easy to disappear into the playa after a night or an hour spent with a not-so-special someone. You are guaranteed not to run into this person in the produce aisle or at your next job interview, and even if he or she turned up at tomorrow’s thai massage workshop, you would be near unrecognizable in your new mask / tutu / wings.

Lest this all start to sound like a cheap nightmare of meaningless anonymous sex... well, there’s an element of that. But also there’s something wonderful about it. You know that cute barrista that hands you your latte? The one you know does not want to deal with the annoying advances of yet another anonymous customer having fantasies about her while waiting for a caffeine fix? What if just once, you could lean over the counter and give her one long sweet kiss, just because you think she’s beautiful and you really appreciate the coffee? What if she could just kiss you back, like taking a compliment, and never think about it again? That’s more what it’s like here. Simple and celebratory.

September 1 2004
noon

September!
That makes me think of fall and school, which is so far from my mind I feel I must have the date wrong.

Yesterday rocked. I was having my standard trail mix lunch when Nipps came by and invited me to a party at her camp, the Philadelphia Experiment. Most of the Philly campers were due to work a midnight shift at the gate, so they decided to hold their customary late-night party in the middle of the afternoon.

The Philly Experiment has come out for three years. Under a giant “215” flag they set up a cozy dome, complete with couches and a bar, that opens onto a busy corner. Nipps unloaded several bags of costumes onto a table and harassed ill-dressed passers-by until they came in and stylized. Cocktails flowed freely, often involving a surprisingly refreshing mix of tequila and Gatorade.

One of the Experimenters is a tattoo artist, so he markered a radioactive sign onto my left arm with unnecessary concentration. Another appeared with a cardboard box and announced to the room in general, “Want to paint?” He had prepared small canvasses and brought a selection of brushes and acrylics, so soon there was a crowd of us painting around the floor of the dome.

At another quiet point, Jonathan hoisted himself off the couch and approached a group of bikers taking a rest outside the dome doors. “You guys want beers?” he asked, and within a minute there was a party right in the middle of the room, drinking, dancing, and trying on suede crop tops.

When it got dark I headed over to Flight to Mars, a theme camp in the Area 47 village. The Martians set up an elaborate maze that crowds of inebriated burners get lost in. In a frantic search to escape the pitch black tunnels and dead end rooms full of plastic balls, many desperate individuals lose their water bottles, cigarettes, and drug stashes, which I think is the primary reason the camp hauls this nine thousand pound attraction to the playa.

I met the Flight to Mars crew through buphalo, a DPWer who moved to Mars when the ghetto cleared out. Most of the Martians are from Seattle, and they seem to be the kind of funny, kind, profoundly twisted people I adore.

The evening began with a little marauding, as the Area 47 citizens formed a not-so-unruly mob and tried to take over neighboring camps. Alas, the other camps were inexplicably uninterested in being invaded. One good jousting match ensued, but there really could have been a lot more mayhem.

Buphalo and I took off on bikes to explore the new playa art. At least a hundred pieces appear on the playa by mid-event, many of them large-scale wood or metal installations. Most of the wooden pieces are burned at the end of the week, and several of the metal pieces have fire components that are on display each night. Twenty-foot high steel flowers shoot jets of fire; illuminated “Eyes of God” hover overhead. The playa at night on a bike is one long ADD adventure: see a flame in the distance, chase it down, see spinning colors on the horizon, race after them.

A few hours of this leads to overload, so we pulled into the Swinger’s Lounge – a bar with a zipline (Saturday is naked zipline day at the lounge, of course). Swinger’s is across from Area 47, so it was packed with Martians. We lounged and talked until about three, went through the closed maze in the dark, chilled in the Space Virgins snuggledome, and headed back out. Matty the Martian and I danced at the Starlust lounge until the music went bad and the sun came up.

Wa. Hoo.

9 pm

The goodness continues.

I accidentally napped through a pedicure, but I caught the end of poi making. Then on my way to happy hour at Philly, two guys drinking on the side of the road flagged me down. “You look thirsty!” one of them yelled. And I was.

Behind them was the Liquid Lounge, a swank bar that would fit right in to the new 5th Avenue in Park Slope Brooklyn. It’s constructed of a metal frame dome draped in silky earthtone fabric and lit with candles. It feels like they should be serving tapas.

A lovely woman at the bar talked to me for a minute and then produced a collection of small glass bottles from her bag. “Rosemary?” she asked, looking me over carefully. “No, that’s not right... how about tea tree? Yes, tea tree.” She selected one of the bottles and dabbed her fingertips, then applied oil to my neck, chest, wrists, and thighs. I felt so... anointed.

I danced for a few hours at a Philly Experiment outdoor party before heading to Center Camp. The coffee counters and seating areas surround an open air performance space that hosts 24/7 hoola hoopers, poi spinning, acrobatics, and dance. It is an unending mellow sensuous circus. Do you have any idea how sexy hoola hooping can be? Let me answer for you: you have no idea.

On my way back to the truck for dinner (mmm mmm almonds and apple rings) I passed a newly opened roller rink, Xanadu. Not to be confused with the Black Rock Roller Disco. I haven’t skated since Jenny Molluso’s second grade birthday party, but it suddenly seemed essential. “I believe in miracles...” blasted happily over the rink, washing out the loud clacking of my circling skates.

3 am

This whole event is entirely all or nothing. Bad moments are so thoroughly depressing, and then the good things are so deeply beautiful.

My playa prom date drank an exorbitant amount of mushroom tea and took off on his bike, leaving me all dressed up with everywhere to go. I wasn’t much in the mood for solo adventuring, though, since I’d been doing it all day, but my other friends were already out and about. Once you lose a group on the playa, there is no finding them. It’s not like you can just call their cell, or hope to bump into them in one of the two dozen dark dance clubs packed with thousands of costumed burners. My high school years involved the requisite trauma, but I was never actually left at a dance, surrounded by happy partygoers a la some teased hair taffeta Molly Ringwald flashback. It’s a feeling I really could have done without. But such is the downside of no-strings life: no one is responsible to you, either.

To cheer up I headed to Popcorn for the People. They distribute delicious buttery popcorn to the masses each evening from nine to two, and they even have a dental flossing station. Popcorn for the People are my heroes. They were playing They Might Be Giants and I wanted to stay there forever.

Of course within minutes I fell into conversation with the guy behind me in line. Now that everyone isn’t clustered in their theme camps all the time, it is exceedingly easy to meet almost anyone. We continued to chat as we munched our popcorn. Then the annoying touching started. This is an aspect of Burning Man I have not been able to navigate with grace. I have no problem with casual sex, but this does not necessarily mean that every girl wants it from any guy at each given moment. About five times a day I smile and say hello to someone, and his hand is instantly on my ass. And when I back away, he looks put off, and instantly leaves. Granted, I smile and say hello to about a thousand people a day. And I’m sure it’s not always glaringly apparent when a girl wants a hand on her ass and when she doesn’t. But there are some cues we’re all familiar with, and even in this world of minimum boundaries, gratuitous touching, and accelerated courtship, these exist. Those five ass grabbers a day who get pissy and storm off when the advances are unreturned are almost enough to bring on the no-eye-contact default of the real world, which this place just shouldn’t be about.

I retreated to Center Camp, and the exact same thing happened again. I guess it was getting to that late part of the evening where the exceedingly horny are starting to panic and forsaking what little passes for appropriate around here.

In a bold attempt at escape, I got on my bike and pedaled ten minutes out to the Temple. The Temple is designed each year by artist David Best and constructed by a team of woodworkers in the far far reaches of the playa. Each year the Temple has a different theme; this year, in keeping with the event’s theme Vault of Heaven, it is the Temple of the Stars. The Temple has been built over a period of weeks from crate after crate of wood byproducts. If you were to go to, say, the Museum of Natural History gift shop, you could likely purchase a balsa wood type model of a stegosaurus. Each of the pieces in the kit would have been laser cut out of larger sheets of wood, leaving behind waste panels: outlines where the dinosaur pieces were removed. These panels are the main material of the Temple. It is fantastically, unbelievably beautiful. A quarter mile wide with bridges, spires, and three towers, the whole structure is intricately detailed like a Japanese pagoda formed of wooden lace, or the perfectly preserved skeleton of a fossilized sea creature.

After walking around a bit, enjoying the uncommon quiet and darkness, I sat down to shake off the evening’s bad feelings. Within two minutes a figure approached, and I could feel myself starting to recoil.

“Would you like a brandied peach?” he asked.

This is not what I had been expecting.

He produced a small glass jar from his coat pocket and popped it open. He then unfolded a Swiss army knife, speared a dripping orange peach section, and handed it gently to me. It was luscious: soft and sweet and juicy. He was from Oregon. He had canned these himself. He hoped I would finish them all, because he had been eating brandied peaches for three days.

I thanked him warmly, and he left. It was absolutely, completely perfect.

September 3 2004
11 am

Yesterday was beautiful. I hadn’t been to the Temple in daylight, so I headed out onto the open playa on my bike, taking a meandering route past some of the other art. Way out in the middle of nowhere I ran into Amy and Travis from Flight to Mars. They were on a similar explore, so I joined them for the afternoon.

We started out at an unmarked structure constructed entirely of inflated white plastic trash bags, tethered together like stacks of pillows. I had heard rumors about the piece the day before: that it was a dance club inside, that it was a maze, that the d.j. recorded comments made by passers-by and mixed them into the music. It was an unfortunate case of the hype being greater than the event. Inside the pillowy walls was... absolutely nothing. Just a playa floor and the sun beating down. The building material was cool, but really all you wanted to do was jump on the inflated plastic. When one guy did that, an organizer instantly appeared and yelled, “Don’t jump on that! Don’t even touch it! It’s very delicate!” It was such a tease. We left.

We soon found a better fix for our interactive cravings: a six-person, pedal-yourself, incredibly dangerous looking ferris wheel. Riders were welcomed on two at a time only, in partnerships matched by weight – to be placed on opposite sides of the wheel. “Maximum of five pounds difference is best, but I guess ten is okay...,” said one of the operators tentatively. This sort of invitation for disaster is fairly commonplace. I am constantly amazed at the seeming absence of death and mutilation on the playa.

Of course we all rode the ferris wheel anyway, hoping for the best. The views were spectacular until a dust storm picked up, and then it pretty much felt like having sand thrown in your eyes while repeatedly falling. You can't usually have this kind of fun in America.

On the way home we passed Lush, a camp that hosts fabulous late night parties. As we were biking by, a guy ran out and yelled at us, “Bar’s open!” Another guy with a bag of ice, a guy with a bottle of vodka, and a girl with a bottle of juice rapidly joined him. They walked directly over to us, filled our cups (it’s key to carry a cup at all times for occasions like this), and then entirely disappeared.

Back at Mars I hung out on the Buddha Bus, temporary home to three of the Martians and their volumes of playa gear. Late in the evening I joined several of them on a “search for the perfect beat” in an Area 47 artcar. Artcars (technically “mutant vehicles”) are the only vehicles permitted to drive around the playa for the week of the burn; they must be sufficiently mutated to constitute a creative addition to the event. Artcars this year include giant rolling bunny slippers, a traveling tiki bar, and four different flavored cupcakecycles. The particular artcar we got a ride on was a hatchback missing its hatchback, and complete with a padded roof for passengers. It comfortably transported eight, and less comfortably transported many more.

We hopped from club to club, many of which were quieter than usual because of the freezing cold night. Some of the playa clubs have large indoor spaces, but most of them have main dance floors outdoors. It’s a little strange dancing in six layers, gloves, and a ski hat, but fortunately I had purple legwarmers left over from a spring 80s party that proved both fashionable and warm.

Just as the sky was lightening we piled back into the car and were whisked to the Temple to watch the sunrise. We greeted the morning with cold beer, whiskey, and a little bit more dancing. Back at Mars Matty whipped up a batch of pancakes, the perfect breakfast before a quick morning nap.

September 4 2004
1 pm

As the event progresses I am having shorter and shorter days, and longer and longer nights.

I caught a couple hours of sleep yesterday morning, then wandered blearily back to Mars. I wanted to sleep more, but it’s impossible to stay in bed when there is so much going on. In the shade of the Buddha Bus, Kerr was making a plaster cast of Amy’s hand and Travis was reading aloud from David Sedaris’ Naked. I could not have asked for anything more. It was like so many sleep deprived Brooklyn Sunday mornings, sipping tea and regaining composure over This American Life.

After several chapters Travis’ voice was fading, so we made the short trek to Pinkies, the pink bar. Pink chairs, pink costumes, pink drinks. We added to the general bar festivities by marker tattooing the knuckles of other drinkers. This is a burning experience you can replicate right in your very own home! You just need a Sharpie and an eight letter word or phrase (or seven letters plus an exclamation point). Then you, too, can flash your fists at others to convey poignant messages like “fish taco” and “adopted!”

For a radically self expressive crowd, burners can be a wild pack of followers. One person gets meaningless words scrawled across their knuckles and suddenly the whole bar is lining up. Do me! Do me next! Clam bake? Sure! Put it on there!

Fired up from fruity frozen drinks and causing a new playa craze, we coasted down the street serenading random campers with made up Jesus songs. We ended up at Pillow Fight Club, a boxing ring well padded and well stocked with pillows. Really, really dusty pillows that have been accumulating playa all week. If someone is getting on your nerves this is the place to harmlessly attack him, or, if he’s asthmatic, to actually kill him. Juicebox, the Jesus song lyricist, and Shug, the Buddha Bus owner, had it out in the ring. I’d tell you more about it, but it was disgusting.

September 5 2004
8:30 am

Yesterday at three in the afternoon the DPW reunited for the annual DPW parade.

Best Parade Evah.

(Actually in years past the parade has been even better, apparently, with racing and demolition and other fun drunk vehicular activities, but this year we had an escort from the county sheriff. It was a good time all the same.)

All the fuckyou DPWers piled on a dozen vehicles – smashed cars, tow trucks, pickups, hysters – and drove through the city screaming. It went something like this:

Give us your fucking beer! We built this city! You would be nothing without us! Fuck you! We will be here for weeks after you are gone cleaning up the mess you make! So give us your beer, cigarettes, and women! You are filthy!

A few people got offended, gave us the finger, or screamed back. Mostly, though, they cheered and blew kisses, and literally handed us the very beers they were drinking. In fact some of them ran to their coolers and brought sixpacks or half full bottles to our passing cavalcade. A guy raced after the truck I was screaming at him from and passed me an unopened half case of Budweiser. It was an island of rage and entitlement in a week of harmony and sharing, and it was glorious. I felt like a Viking.

At the end of the parade everyone was completely trashed, and there was a fair amount of actual fighting, sickness, and passing out. This I could have skipped, but it’s just part of the DPW package.

The Man burns on Saturday night, and each year a handful of DPWers sleep through it. Which does not surprise me, given the condition they were in at seven. I, however, did not really want to miss the burning of the Man at my first Burning Man. So I drank about a gallon of water, and headed towards the center of the playa when the sun went down.

The burning of the Man is not really the capstone event of Burning Man, although it gets all the press. Thousands of people arrive on Thursday and Friday and stick around just long enough to see him go down in flames, but that hardly seems like attending the event at all. It certainly was big and spectacular. But it wouldn’t even make my top ten list for the week.

As soon as it was dark, the crowd gathered in a jumpy, milling circle around the Man; this circle was then enclosed by a ring of lit-up art cars packed with passengers. Rangers kept everyone at a considerable distance from the Man’s dome – a new and unwelcome attempt at safety, according to veteran burners. Thousands of glowsticks streaked in every direction, and eventually the drumming began and dozens of fire dancers filled in the space between crowd and dome. A spark flew and the Man began to burn. His arms fell one by one, and finally he tumbled. The crowd rushed inwards and pressed itself around the smoldering pile, dancing to the drums. It was full of energy and soothing at the same time, and remarkably free of chaos. People were shoulder to shoulder, but there was little pushing. It was warm and bright from the burning.

I wandered out of the mass of people and meandered across the playa, stopping to chat with a group from California driving a large wedge of cheese. I drank a lot of wine. The fatigue of the past few days began to catch up with me, and I made my way back to the truck for a rest. I had fitful, fully dressed sleep, and dreamed that all the people I’ve recently wronged came looking for me. I woke up in time to bike to the Temple for the sunrise, and I found out that although it’s officially the Temple of the Stars, the inspiration for the Temple this year is Forgiveness.

September 5 2004
5 pm

I am exhausted and filthy. My cuticles are cracked and bleeding, and I have the lingering sadness of something long anticipated and monumental coming to an end. What just happened? For a few days, thousands of people came together to create a space, and then they just scattered. Hippies, healers, families; folks that live out of their vehicles. People who have trades: electricians, massage therapists, metal workers, jugglers.

For a few days I crossed paths with goddesses and geishas, ate snow cones with topless fairies. I witnessed the wedding of two people in full body furry animal suits. I navigated by the streetlamps lit each evening by the Lamplighters. I never knew the day of the week, but always knew the phase of the moon. I shamelessly made prolonged eye contact with total strangers, and often kissed them.

I never purchased anything.

My friend dropped acid and said the playa seemed about the same: Vegas-style freakshow of light and sound where it doesn’t belong with people leaving EL wire light trails.

A lot of people claim Burning Man is the most profound experience of their lives. Others are just here for the wild party, running down the dusty street with their cameras looking for Critical Tits, the topless bike ride. Most people say that Burning Man changed them. Has it changed me? If so I don’t yet know how much or in what ways, or when this might become apparent. The skeptic in me wonders if all this enlightenment isn’t just a warm cocktail of sleep deprivation and prolonged recreational drug use. But who am I to question paths to enlightenment?

All the wants for things that can’t be had gradually disappear out here. Meaningful conversations happen while waiting three minutes in a line. People care for themselves in a way that allows them to care for each other. Simple exchanged looks lead to kisses, gifts, advice, sex, or silence.

I will miss all of this, and it is dispersing as I write – through the U-Hauls and pickups and gray smoke rising off the burn barrels. They do such a good job erasing the city from the playa that soon there will not be a single trace left.

September 6 2004
7 pm

I’m parked at the post office of Bly, Oregon.

I left Black Rock City two hundred miles and seven hours ago – it took almost three hours to get out the gate because of the mass exodus. It used to be Monday was quieter, but the Sunday night burn is growing more popular.

I’m so very sad. Sad for the dismantling of this place I was just starting to navigate.

Last night I went to the burning of the Temple. It wasn’t quite the solemn event I had expected – the group next to us was noisily doing whippets – but it was beautiful.

Matty, Shelley, buphalo and I had a drink at Swinger’s afterwards, and summoned up a second wind to go out on the playa. Gatherings had formed around the burn platforms where the bulk of the city was turning to ash.

We went from platform to platform, served drinks by artbars emptying their stock. We went to Lush and danced. We took off again on an artcar and found an enormous flame-throwing vehicle blaring music in the middle of absolutely nowhere, ringed by leatherclad flamethrowing dancers. We danced more, and it was morning.

Flight to Mars took off, and it was terribly depressing. Suddenly this space that had been full of creative energy was empty.

My head is buzzing from tiredness. I haven’t slept a whole night in six days.

September 7 2004
9 am

I pulled into a state park last night around nine. I was just too tired to keep driving, and dying on the highway on the way back from Burning Man seemed a bad choice. I slept on my reclined seat for eleven hours.

Now I should hit the road, but I just don’t want to. I don’t want to plug in my phone and use my credit card and spend my time doing laundry. None of it appeals to me. I want to turn my car around and go back, except there’s nothing to go back to.

Black Rock City couldn’t last. It only works because it’s so short-lived. Sooner or later everyone would start to run out of food, and clothes would fall apart, and portopotty maintenance would need funding.

But for one week, it sure was beautiful. Not that I’ve forgotten that sometimes it sucked. All good adventures have awful parts. It helps you learn and it helps you appreciate and it makes for good stories. Remember that time when everyone moved out of the ghetto and I didn’t know anyone and I realized I’d be eating nuts for a week? Man, that sucked.

And there are still a lot of reactions I’m having that need untangling. What if all that lumber and labor created low income housing, instead of art for art’s sake? What if thirty thousand people spent a week of their lives registering new voters, or volunteering in schools, or improving the places where they actually live?

Really I’ve always been an advocate of art for art’s sake. And ideally the Burning Man community inspires burners to bring the spirit back with them. One day midweek I saw that someone had scrawled on the hand sanitizer station: "this is always EMPTY!" And within a few hours someone else had scrawled underneath: "So VOLUNTEER." There's no one to bitch to on the playa. If something is missing, the best course of action is to provide it, to yourself and maybe next year to everyone else. That's not such a bad lesson. All this wrapped up in passionate celebration... well, there’s little enough passionate celebration in our lives already without justifying away a single week of it each year.

If Burning Man was simply a week without advertisements, it would have been worth the trip. Or a week without doing laundry. A week without looking in a mirror. A week without cell phones. A week without exchanging money. A week with new people every day. A week with new art every day. A week with dancing every day.

Any of these things would have been enough. But in addition to all of these things, it’s a week of thousands of people who have come a long, long way to share themselves and their gifts with reckless abandon.

Pretty fucking cool.

burning log

Monday

preface / epilogue

(insert burning pun here)

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