Tales From The Playa are dreams and memories of events that took place at Burning Man, as told by its participants.

At Burning Man 2010, my wife and I traveled with some good friends and had an amazing week on the Playa. It was all our 1st time there and it met and exceeded all our expectations.

After we left, I noticed the back window of the truck had this dust pattern on it:

amazing since the theme was Metropolis!

Here is a close up of the magical “city”:

Tales From The Playa are dreams and memories of events that took place at Burning Man, as told by its participants.

Two dirty palms press the passenger window. Encased in the House of Balls truck, in my last clean moments, I am not about to open the door. They are the hands of a rough looking character. On his bare chest rests the skull of some animal. A chain loops his lip and dangles down to the dog collar which circles his neck. His eyes shine. “I want to give you a hug,” he says.

“No thanks,” I yank the crank and snug the window shut, latch the wing and foot vents, knowing it’s useless. In time I will be covered in dust. That’s what happens if you go to Burning Man.

“Welcome home!” my closed window muffles the chain-lipped guy’s voice. “Maybe it would help to drop and roll.”

I will not be doing that and don’t even need to say so.

I give him a forgiving look. He’s a greeter. I generally feel sorry for those who must be nice in their work. But he’s a volunteer and his chipper manner is getting to me. With my window closed I listen to him schlep through the routine; leave no trace, camp locations, speed limit. He finishes. I crack the window just enough for him to pass the map, the sticker, the schedule of events and the first edition of the Black Rock Beacon. The newspaper’s headline reads, “Welcome to Nowhere.”

At this point in the Burning Man experience I always wonder what the hell I am doing. Years ago, when other mothers were back-to-school shopping and taking their kids to meet the teachers I’d lit off for Nevada and a week of unrepentant play in the Black Rock Desert.

These years the kids are nearly grown. Now I wonder what this little adventure costs me in wrinkles and lung capacity.

You’ve seen this landscape on car commercials, it’s long and flat and white. In the ads there’s always only one car. One car leaves a decorous plume. Tens of thousands make a dust storm.

A funnel has swept the truck in sediment, following us down the entrance road, right up to the gate. Allen has turned off the engine, gotten out and is embracing another greeter. Inside, the truck is hot, and still and empty. A thread of sweat gathers at my hairline rolls through my shoulder blades. The seat is damp behind my knees and I shift to cool them in the still air. I have no choice but to be now here, where it’s hot and dirty and kind of weird.

A clean woman appears from the door of the camper next in line. A virgin probably, which is what some people call first time burners. Personally, I prefer to call them first time burners, innuendo being as tiresome as dust.

I am already thinking about the shower in the nice hotel in Salt Lake City a week from now. I am thinking about how dry my hands and my neck will be and how I will rub them with endless lotion. I am thinking about the layer of dust I’ll carry into cumulative age.

It’s the eighth time I’ve been to Burning Man. I may be jaded. But Jaded is an under appreciated emotion. People often mistake the jaded for the joyless. Veteran status is a fine thing, knowing what you’re in for and still doing it anyway. Jaded, you earn.

The chain-lipped greeter has left my window and is walking over to cheer the newbie. She’s a dozen years younger than I am. She’s got wide eyes and thick braids wrapped in a scarf. I note her flip-flops and imagine her pink lungs. She drops to her knees. Three or four people are chanting “roll, roll, roll.”

Allen gets behind the wheel and looks over at me. “It’s really cooler out there in the air.” He shifts the long lever into low. The House of Balls truck inches forward. We pass the newbie, who has rolled and come up with a smile – so genuine. The chain-lipped guy is patting her on the back, making little dust puffs rise from her shoulders, his glee downright innocent.

“You’re thinking about the shower at the Hotel Monaco,” Allen says.

“I am,” I say.

Tales From The Playa are dreams and memories of events that took place at Burning Man, as told by its participants.

The pilgrimage, the lines, the coolers with fast melting ice.
Expectations, shedding the layers …the layers …the layers.

Am I here yet? The hours drift by. Camps are erect, RV generators hum, the layers become, become glowing with anticipation.

Night falls… with music, glow sticks, and bikes …ah how I loved riding the playa at night.

…dust, neon, lack of sleep …art-cars and sunrise bars. We come from afar …to light up the night sky, strut our flame, and awaken who we are!

We Are! We Are! …all here blossoming, flowing, nurturing our creativity …a part, a scene, a piece of what seems …to be, to be, the whole of everything.

The man burns… We chant with excitement. Whooping and hollering. We cannot be bothered… not by the default… not by me or you… not by the layers. Here it is all new, new but familiar. The music starts, the night is young …we begin our dance ’til the rise of the sun.

The temple burns–we are solemn, we sit, we wait, we hold our breath. …hello …good-bye …to those no longer by our side. The flames rise, they slow, we stand in honor at the ashes on the playa floor. We wander a bit, but not before leaving something… a wish token perhaps, a loved one’s ashes, a promise for next year… Yes! A promise!

Tales From The Playa are dreams and memories of events that took place at Burning Man, as told by its participants.

Magical moments occur of their own accord at Burning Man. These often appear as a spontaneous act of generosity, the perfect gift, or they might simply be a moment of special significance that would be missed if you weren’t paying attention. At Burning Man 2008, my magical moment was a dream that came true within an hour of wishing it.

This was the second burn for me and my partner, Flossie Starbutts III. As we were setting up our trailer at the Burning Mbers Camp, our neighbor Desert Wren was putting finishing touches on what she called Dream Tags, gifts she had made for her campmates.

“What is your dream?” she asked each burner. Then she carefully wrote the dream on the colorful quilted square, and hung it around the burner’s neck.

She got to me as we were readying our bikes for our initial foray out to see this year’s Man. What was my dream? I said the first thing that popped into mind. “Free flight.”

That was weird! Because by all appearances, I already live a dream that is the envy of many wannabe fliers: In the Default World I am an airline pilot. Not only do I fly jets around all time, I have also flown hot air balloons, gliders, seaplanes, aerobatics, and, oh yeah, I fell through the air under a parachute once, too. Plus, I get to fly for free as a benefit of my job.

But Burning Man was working its magic. In the spontaneity of the moment, an unfulfilled desire rose up to reveal itself: That I still have not flown free.

Desert Wren carefully wrote my Dream Tag: “My dream is of flying free on the playa.”

And off we went, Flossie and I, biking out to see the Man. Then something shiny and silver glinted in the sun. We changed course to go see what it could be. As we biked closer, it became a gigantic steel sculpture of bird wings with outstretched feathers, mounted onto a steel ring that was large enough to stand in. Standing in the ring, I was putting on a pair of huge silver bird wings. Just then, a breeze kicked up and I in my wings slowly pivoted in the wind… Flying free…

And, just like that, my dream came true. It is magical moments like these that make it – Burning Man!

(Note: The sculpture is “Spread Eagle” by Bryan Tedrick.)

Tales From The Playa are dreams and memories of events that took place at Burning Man, as told by its participants.

Having been raised in a strict religious environment, I spent the great majority of my life inside of a very small box, never being allowed freedom of expression because it was “too evil”. I had to come to burningman alone, with family and friends telling me that it would be a very dangerous enironment of drug crazed violence. In spite of the warnings, something deep inside me was crying out, “I want freedom of expression!”

As I prepared to leave, I kept asking myself one question, “What is inside of me that wants to come out?” Strangely enough, the picture that came to my mind was me wearing a dark mini-skirt with white nylons! I had never done cross dressing in my entire life, but the thought was strangely exhilarating! Also I wanted to be Naked in public, a complete opposite of my religious background. So I packed everything into my small Honda Civic, (keeping it simple with pup-tent, canned food and a small stove) and began my long journey into the heart of the Nevada dessert.

I arrived at about 5 a.m., dead tired, was barely able to put up my tent in the dark before crashing. Next thing I knew, it was a burning hot day with freedom in the air! I stepped outside the tent, and told myself, “OK, now is the time to express yourself by getting Naked!” And I froze. I couldn’t do it! It was far too embarrassing. Then I said, “OK, now is the time to wear a dress!” Once again, I couldn’t do it! What will people think? They will throw stones at me like they did in the Bible!

So I spent the first 4 days wearing very conservative clothing, watching the courage of others in following whatever came out of their hearts. Good, wonderful people everywhere courageously living their truth! Their courage rubbed off on me, so finally I walked to the edge of the desert where I could be alone, dropped all my clothing (symbolizing the shackles of false belief) and started walking toward The Man! Every step closer to the Man was one step closer to living my entire life by the Heart.

Naked on the outside represented Naked on the inside, no more hiding my authentic self! I was accepted by all, even cheered on by some! No stones! On the last night (burning of the Temple), I wore my black mini-skirt and white nylons, felt totally exhilerated, once again completely accepted by the most loving people on the planet! Speak your Truth, Live your Truth! I was dead before burningman. Now I’m living a life of passion in every area. The Man broke the ice around my frozen heart and forever melted it into the dessert sun.

Tales From The Playa are dreams and memories of events that took place at Burning Man, as told by its participants.

Captain Amazing and Sticks rode into the magical playa that evening, the cool wind licked her face, causing her furry bear ears to wiggle and flap around incessantly. He pedaled with all his strength, carrying the black silhouette of a little bear on his LED trimmed bike, lights spun with each turn of the wheel, pulsating to the music of the night. Sticks stood on pegs that were attached to the back wheel. It felt as if she was gliding through the desert effortlessly… It felt like that every time he took her for a ride… they went everywhere together that year. This night was special. They didn’t know it then, but the memory of it would remain deep in their hearts only to burst forth at a later time unexpectedly, like a six tier rainbow that reveals itself after a freak thunderstorm in the desert.

Something glimmering in the distance caught his eyes and he said, “Let’s stop here” as he slowed down the bike to let little Sticks jump off.

Together they walked towards the larger than life art installation that stood before them. It was truly a gift of love… someone had conceptualized and realized this work of art for all who would come across it and most likely it would be burned down at the end of the week. Four letters of the alphabet stood before them, each one taller than the Captain’s towering 6’3 frame. The capital letters of “L”, “O”, “V” and “E” were clearly there but try as they did, it was impossible to view it in a way that allowed the letters to spell the all-too-familiar word. They ran around it left and right, backed up a few feet, closed one eye and then the other, even did a headstand and a backwards flip… but still, there was no “love” to be spelt. That year the theme was Evolution, so perhaps the artist intended people to E-V-O-L-V-E from trying so hard to find “love”.

Fat markers hung from the sides of the 3-D blocks of white letters which, upon closer inspection were covered with love messages. Sticks could think of nothing better than to write a short poem on the letter “E” dedicated to the two E’s in her life… It went something like this: “E is for Eric… and sometimes Edison… but mostly Eric… penis bigger-er anyway”… she then encapsulated the poem with a drawing of a large penis and a smaller one inside it, followed by an even smaller one inside that one.

“What did you write?” Sticks asked Captain Amazing. She hopped and pranced around eagerly, trying to look over his sexy broad shoulders…

“I’m not telling you” was his response… Sticks knew well enough she’d have to wait for a more opportune moment to dig it out of him.

“Ok. Just don’t forget it when you do decide to tell me.” She knew it was only a matter of time. In her heart, he’d already told her because he intended to. Time didn’t matter.

Then, out of nowhere a song began to play… it was the kind of sexy, bluesy, soul music like the Otis Redding tracks Captain would play back in the default world. The kind of music that the two lovers would listen to before drowning in each other’s eyes, lips and every part of the body for a night of deep, inspiring sex. But out here in the middle of nowhere out on the playa, which was the middle of nowhere in Black Rock City, which basically is the middle of nowhere… Captain Amazing turned to his little Sticks and asked; “Wanna dance?” he smiled knowingly because standing before him was a girl who said “Yes” to simply everything.

Sticks draped her furry arms around his shoulders, pressed her face into the concave of his chest and breathed. The couple swayed to the music a little… it was only the second time they slow danced, ever. The first time was at his office Christmas party almost a year before. They were a couple in every way except for the title.

Sometime after the burn, Sticks had a house warming party and Captain Amazing came over with his friends. They were looking through photographs from the burn, some more R-rated than others, when one friend stumbled upon the poem Sticks had written that night. Everyone had a good laugh, especially the Captain since it was his first time learning what she had written. Sticks took the opportunity to ask him what he wrote, but the stubborn bastard kept his mouth shut tight.

Christmas rolled around and Sticks found herself up in Sacramento with the Captain’s family. It brought her back to that summer’s burning man trip since they had made a pit stop at his parent’s home. She thought he’d be crazy to refuse her the secret message during the holiday season which doubled as her birthday… “Uh… I forgot what I wrote,” he proved to be crazy.
Valentine’s Day arrived and Captain Amazing took Sticks to a fancy shmancy restaurant with the most stunning view of tidal waves crashing against the sea shore, complete with real sea gulls flying above the water. It was late in the evening, but a light fixture kept the ocean perfectly visible. Sticks thought it looked like a movie set from some documentary film like Planet Earth.

After dinner and dessert came the awkward gift exchange which turned out to be only slightly weird because the Captain had watery eyes while Sticks laughed out loud out of sheer delight of the holy moment when they realized that they had both gifted each other something to remind them of the night they danced in the desert at burning man…

She had drawn stick figures of them coming across the art installation and inside the card was the poem she wrote that night along with a few more phrases on “e”verything he meant to her.

He had given her a tiny slip of paper resembling those found in fortune cookies, but instead of a fortune he’d finally confessed the sacred words he wrote in the desert, “I realized I loved you.”

“You fuckin bastard… I knew you didn’t forget it.” She smiled and all he could do was kiss her.

Tales From The Playa are dreams and memories of events that took place at Burning Man, as told by its participants.

One day in the summer of 2004, I decided I needed to go to this thing called Burning Man. Somewhere in the desert, and there was probably music. I was at a job, where I had to wear a suit all day, and I longed dance and get out in the open air. I gathered two, then three, friends. We made some costumes (mud people, faeries, polar bears), and got a lot of water, and for some reason, so many zip-lock bags that I still have some now. We packed our dreams and our water and our tutus, and headed for the desert.

I couldn’t believe it when we arrived. It was like waking up and discovering that this other, magical, world was real. A collection of the most amazing people on earth greeted us, welcomed us home, gave us a place to park, showed us how to tape the inside of our goggles with gaffer’s tape so the dust wouldn’t get in our eyes, fixed our car, and fed us huge meals of fresh shrimp from a grill set up in the middle of the desert. I listened to a piano concert out on the playa, conversed with a filthy-mouthed robot, flew kites, volunteered to sell coffee and ice. The dust was everywhere, but it was nice, clean, dirt, like you’ve been in a zip-lock back filled with powdered sugar and shaken for a week.

At E and 4th, one morning after someone had shampooed my hair, I was feeling alive and free, and momentarily clean. I saw a man carrying a banjo, and so I flew up to him and said, “Hey Banjo Man! Play me a song?” He played Dead Flowers, others joined in, and before I knew it, we were jumping on a trampoline at G-spot, climbing the Temple, and walking the playa with our hearts blown open. The magic dust glittered in the air around us.

Eleven months later, he was holding me as I gave birth to our daughter, Brigid. The goddess of fire. She entered the world like she was shot from a flamethrower, and has lived with the heat turned up ever since.

This year, I am undergoing another rite of passage, transforming myself out of being a suit wearer, to my joy job as a photographer. My photos of Burning Man over the years are some of my favorites. Long live the magic.

Tales From The Playa are dreams and memories of events that took place at Burning Man, as told by its participants.

That year, life at home was as unpredictable as the dust storms on the playa as I navigated the treachery of a divorce. I had fallen in love with Burning Man three years before, while falling out of love with my husband. I looked forward to coming back to the playa especially that year. My friends and I set up a camp of our own with a fancy mailbox to mark our spot. Our neighbors became family as we shared our costumes, laughter and assorted sundries.

Around a night fire on the playa, we shared stories of the exquisite landscape discovered that day and details of work or heartbreak in our “real lives”. We huddled together close for warmth, sharing secrets even though we were strangers only days before. In a quiet moment, I was given a red velvet box tied with wooden ju-ju beads by one of my new friends. His sweatshirt’s pointed hood framed his face, and backlit against the fire he took on the ominous silhouette of a ancient priest.

The little box was handed to me without ceremony and in total earnest I was told it came from New Orleans and that it contained a most powerful potion of love. The bottle inside was cushioned on faded red satin, its label worn, almost completely erased. Only “Eau de Parfume” remained legible in the firelight. I removed the bottle and was quickly cautioned that I should deploy the powers of this potion with great care, if ever; that to whomever I should apply it would be forever enslaved to me and that I must be willing to accept the consequences of using such power. I laughed and asked if he had ever used it on anyone, and he shook his head to say no but I could see a mischievous sparkle in his eye, even in the flickering fire light (and the bottle was indeed not quite full).

On the playa, magic is tangible; the fantastic is quite probable in this place. When my personal life held no magic and I had no sense of control, it was a wondrous gift to hold a thing of power – real or imagined (or real because it was imagined!). I still have that box and the mysterious potion within, the red velvet on its corners all but worn away now after many years of considering it between my nervous fingers; it still holds the possibility of magic.