Some years ago (this 16x Burner can’t remember when) early early morning on a moonless, dark, chilly Playa;
Me and my significant other walking hand and hand back to our camp, no one else around. On the way we spotted a random Burn Barrel flickering flame & embers. Stopped, sat near on a bench to warm ourselves.
I felt a plastic bag with soft contents next to me, and picked it up to see what it was. Exactly, simultaneously she says “this would be perfect if we had some marshmallows…”
2013 was my first burn. Those who know me well probably figured I was going because of a midlife crisis. An event like this is so out of character for me. Perhaps they would be correct. Regardless I needed something to shake me. Burning Man shook me to my core in many ways.
Like many “virgin burners”, I found myself overwhelmed. My camp mates were very gracious and patient with me. Because of them I was able to explore and experience so much that I never would have. I was stretched both personally and professionally as a photographer. The one thing that left a strong impression on me was the concept of gifting. It blew me away to experience all sorts of gifting, both material and intangible gifts. It is a practice I want to make part of my daily life.
But as great as this was, there was one “negative” experience that threatened to overshadow my memories of the week. One experience that left me feeling confused and angry enough to forget about the beauty that I experienced. (more…)
I rode out to the temple to honor my dad, the big, loud, brilliant, frustrating, handsome drunk who had died of kidney failure earlier in the year, begging me for a drink from his deathbed. I looked forward to journaling there, connecting with his memory and my complicated love for him. But once I entered the sacred space, everyone, EVERYONE, was on my nerves. People were gabbing and laughing and ogling and dancing, ugh, is that guy hitting on me?? While I am trying to mourn? Fuck you and your beribboned dick too. I was repulsed.
After moving around the building, more uncomfortable and resentful in each new spot than the last, I finally fled, hopping on my bike and riding furiously to the very edge of the Playa, where an unprepossessing plastic fence stopped my flight yet offered no shelter. There, in the dust, I sat, anguish rushing through me, no way to go forward, no way to go back. How could I have treated my father so badly? How come it took me so long to find peace with him for who he was and not who I wanted him to be? How was I ever going to cope with the feelings of guilt and shame and loss, myself newly-sober and vulnerable as a turtle with no shell. I knew behind me lay the glitter of Burning Man, that psychedelic carnival, with every drink and drug I could imagine waiting for me, for free, all I could handle, more than I could handle. I also knew all-too-well where that path would lead. Alcoholics like me don’t get sober unless our ass has been kicked soundly, and profoundly, by our addiction. There was no going back there.
And yet this new path, one that did not include numbing myself, seemed impossible to tread as well. My only option was crawling into those nearby dead denuded hills and dying, alone. The pain was just too great. I wanted, needed, to disappear. In this nadir I cried out to that god, goddess, I don’t understand but had surrendered to, in order to live, in order to let live. You have got to show me it’s going to be ok. Right now. You have got to. Now. It wasn’t a prayer as much as a command.
“Hey are you all right?” All at once a man pulled up behind me, out of nowhere, in the middle of, well, nowhere. Oh jeez god no not this, this is not what I meant! I tried to brush off the intruder, Mister Nobody From Nowhere, an average, pudgy, normally dressed, non-descript unfabulous white guy with nothing—nothing—to offer me. As if we were at a Starbucks in West L.A. and not alone in the middle of the desert, I replied curtly, making it clear he needed to go away now. “Yes,” I said, “I’m fine. I’m just grieving my father. It’s ok to grieve.” I added the last part, knowing that this buffoon could not possibly understand the importance of processing feelings. By asserting my authority on the grief process to explain my, um, miserable condition, I intended to dismiss him post haste, send him back where he came from, cloaked in the ignorance that so clearly enshrouded him.
But he didn’t take the hint. “Oh man,” he said, dropping off of his bike and kneeling down beside me. I cringed at this human contact, this violation of isolation. “That’s not ok. How was your relationship?” “Well, it was good,” I said honestly, “but only for the last 11 years.” Now he would know I was an unworthy daughter. I waited for his condemnation. But to my shock he replied, “Eleven years is a long time. I have a friend whose mom just died and she didn’t even know it. They’d been estranged for a long time.” Relief and pity flooded through me. It hadn’t been like that for me and dad, not at all. We had shared his final stage of life together. And this unlovely nosy busybody was right. Eleven years was a long time.
“How about you?” I asked, suddenly aware of another human being’s presence. His demeanor quickly changed. Shoulders sagging he told me it was his first Burn and he was having a miserable experience. The woman he’d come with had left early and he was all alone. Alone at Burning Man: not a great place to be. I understood. “Let me give you a hug,” I said, and stood to embrace the man who’d saved my life.
“Ahhh,” he said as our bodies parted. “That was what I have been looking for all week.” And together we two humans pedaled slowly back to Black Rock City.
Such a warm love when the sun sets. It falls behind the mountain and the city echoes. The werewolves of the BRC are beginning to Awake. Such brilliant wonder as the city turns on.
I remember some art was burning on the open playa as it got dark, so I jumped on the back of my truck, to be joined by 2 fellow adventurers. Talks of what Burning Man is becoming was amongst that interval. “The future is in the regionals,” was said. I said we are all responsible and cannot let the BRC fall to the wayside. But there is much more to that conversation. Not important to the night ahead.
A couple years ago, some camp mates and I decided to show up a week before the festival began and volunteer to help build the city. We arrived at the barren Black Rock desert with few city installations in place and even fewer landmarks. The man wasn’t even up yet. News quickly reached us of how a bad water barrel had taken out a majority of DPW and the city was desperately short handed. We were asked to help build First camp and gladly abided. After a long, cloudless week of work, along with meeting tons of great people, getting fed in the commissary, and watching the city grow and take shape before our eyes, we had set up First Camp(the camp site/HQ of various department heads that run the city). On our final workday we enjoyed sunset cocktails in the 2-story Media Mecca, giving us a nice view of the endless river of headlights now approaching the city. (more…)
Wednesday afternoon, I was exhausted from dancing at the District all day. I took a nap and when I woke up, my campmates begged me to join them at a show with one of their favorite DJs. I followed them on my bike, but quickly got lost in the crowd. I turned around and headed back to camp thinking I would just go back to sleep.
On my way back, I passed a big dance party. I was tired, but I had one of those, “You’re at Burning Man, what the hell are you doing trying to go to sleep?” kind of moments. So I parked my bike, took off my tank top and headed into the crowd. I’m not exactly shy, but I don’t typically enjoy going to parties by myself… I felt impelled to jump in. (more…)
On Wednesday night of 2006, our crew threw a huge all-night dance celebration – some 8000 people under the huge Conexus Cathedral we had just finished building on Tuesday, and lighting that day.
The next day, I’m out re-burying some lighting and power lines that had got kicked up by dancing feet. I take a break for water and a stretch, and here’s this beefy dude at the other end of the trench, using his bare hands to clear and rebury the cables. He nods at me, and keeps working towards me. He’s built like a linebacker, and doesn’t look much over 20.
After 15 minutes or so we meet in the middle, finish up, find some shade, and I offer him a beer and a nod in thanks. Words didn’t seem necessary. (more…)