1. in which we prepare
Tickets
Goggles
Glasses
Dust masks
Extension Cords
Light bulbs
Tie downs
Zip ties
Lights (x-mas)
Fudgie bear outfit
Meds
Boots
Pillows
Sleeping bag
Sheet/ light blanket
Padding
Tent
Cameras
Towel/ wash clothe
Shampoo/ conditioner
Soap
Toothbrush/ paste
Bathing suit
Fabrics
Tent rug
Hats
Tire repair kit
Bike
Lotion
Umbrella
Baby wipes
Trash bags
Trash signs/boxes
Paper Towels
Toliet paper
Gifts
Flashlights
Batteries
Pipe Tobacco
Magic book
Mirror
Hot glue
Ash tin
Cups
Comforter
Water
Food
Champagne
We had it all. Except for the champagne and six pieces of rebar to keep our tent from blowing up and into the wings of a high desert dust storm. It is the night before we leave. Erin and I have agreed that there will be no sleep for us tonight. Right now the glow-print digits of the clock quote the hour at 3:42 am, and we still have a ton left to do before we can meet up with Dan and Dayna, then make our way to the pan and graben that is Black Rock City.
Erin had learned to use her sewing machine and was putting together the last of our costumes, at the little table in the kitchen where she creates soap. I packed and drank espresso at a pace which might cause some doctors to frown and furiously scribble on a clipboard. Finally, all of my shit had been pursuaded and compressed into two bags and a medium sized plastic tub. Erin's belongings were spread everywhere and still she hummed away at the sewing press, between intermintent gulps of her coffee. I took up Niel Gaiman's 'The Dream Hunters' and read to her the whole thing with no stops. She held up the last garment, which was a belted, ebony skirt, artfully shredded and bustled in the back. She beamed. It was immaculate. Her sense of vision and style is just one more reason to love her. She tried it on and god damn, another reason.
But wait, I still needed to do a load of laundry at the laundromat, go to Home Depot for rebar, and buy three bottles of champagne. It was a bit after six and we were both through the border lands and making our way into the heart of delerium.
She began to pack as I climbed into her car and headed out. First stop laundromat. Second stop, Von's, which had the worst availabilty of champagne you could imagine, so I picked up two bottles of what I hoped would be at least serviceable, if not pleasant. At Home Depot, I took a lesson in surreality. The place was swamped with Mexican men of all ages looking for labor oppurtunities which I could not afford them. That endless sea of puppy dog eyes comes to haunt me still, in the quiet moments. I barely found a parking slot and proceeded inside to find what I'd come for. On the way out, a security guy asked me if I was a rock star. What the fuck? Ahhh, it's because of my boots, which reached to my knees and are girded by many buckles. Only in my mind, I told him, only in my mind.
Once home, we took showers which would be our last for some time to come. We listened to Tom Waits - Blood Money, as the last of our luggage was put together and loaded into the car. Just a few more small errands then we could leave the city.
It was a little after noon when we arrived at Erin's cousin, Dayna's house. She lives in one of the most beautiful houses I have ever seen. Beautiful in this sense does not mean expensive or over the top extravagent, but dark wood, spacious for L.A, and loaded with charm.
Dayna is half Mexican, extremely beautiful/fucking hot, and the most organized woman with rockin' bangs you've ever met. She is the manager of an upscale bohemian restaurant here in town and a performer for Lucent Dossier Vaudeville Cirque.
Dan is her actor/writer/electrican boyfriend of three years and they have recently moved into this house together. I had met them once before a few months back, but didn't really get a good read on him, as it was only over breakfast. He is funny, charming, of solid Irish stock and likes to laugh. A guy's guy. When we arrived, he and I began to load Dayna's mom's van which is new and fully automatic. It was one step away from belonging in a Bradbury novel.
I am not a shy person, but I always tend to be unsure as to what to say around people I hang out with for the first time, especially when I know that they are going to figure into my life in a big way, in time to come. It was fine though, Dan is a great guy, and once we were done loading, at Dayna's direction, because she is our camp mom, we made our way from the city of angels and devils and out onto the black top pulse of the American highway. It would take us twelve hours and some change to reach our final stop.
2. Black Rock City
We arrived at three thirty or so in the morning. A segment belonging to a snake of cars which wound its way around a shadow cloth mountain, pulling to a halt at the multiple line of gates which led into the open desert. We had in our possesion, confirmation slips with our names, which would allow us early access into the dust theatre on that dark, dark Saturday morning. The event itself would not open to the general public until midnight of Sunday, yet a couple thousand had come early, to build and set up. The line had begun to shift forward.
At the gate, once confirmed and given a lime green wristband, the Greeter asked if there were any virgins in the van. I had heard what becomes of a first time person and began to murmur, nononono. They all three shouted in unison, YES! I was pulled from the car.
A tall woman with strong and smokey features, dressed like something from a Seuss novella, took me by the hand and led me into the low lamps of the vehicle. "You are too fuckin' clean." she informed me.
"Do you know what a dust angel is?"
"I can figure it out."
"Then make one."
So I did. On my back and then on my front. I remember thinking that these clothes were meant to stay pristine while everything else I had packed was destined for filth. I was three minutes past the point of no return.
I remember that she was shouting something, but the high winds carried it away from my ears and into the black. She helped me up. Then led me to a bell which was a helium tank, cut in half and suspended by sturdy timbers. She handed me a metal baton, no longer then your arm, and instructed me to hit it like it was a hot sixteen year old. I hit it twice.
She pulled me to her and gave me a generous kiss on the mouth, then pointed to the van and slapped my ass. As I climbed back in, I was greeted by laughter and we drove forward, and into the night.
Dayna was guided by some internal compass or perhaps it was that she had some better knowledge of the street layout as there were indeed streets. In retrospect, it was her sixth year. Either way, she took us directly to where our camp was. What we found was a 5-ton grip truck, loaded to its asshole with props and the like, and a couch sitting next to it with a sleeping man wrapped in blankets. The man was John Pedone.
What I knew of John at this point was that he was a rather quiet and intense man, who was the leader and organizer of our camp, the Mystical Misfits. It wasn't too hard to make out his features in the cold starlight. I could see that he was much smaller in build compared to your humble narrator, with a severely handsome and unshaved face, in his mid thirties, and I had heard that he was once in love with Erin.
But what I came to find out and then repeatedly observe, is that everyone falls in love with Erin. It is as Dan says, "She has only to look you in the eye and begin to talk."
We found our bikes which came in on the large truck, and rode around together to take stock of all that was being set up. We went to Center Camp, which was at the heart and crux of the already assembling city. The city that was the shape of a very wide horseshoe.
Center Camp is a large, round pavillion style affair, topped with flags and spoked with many, many wooden and aluminium tubed bicycle racks. It was closed, waiting to be born.
We rode back to our camp to sleep the next few hours in the van. Before retiring to the back seat I was taking a piss and casually, I looked upwards into a scene which started in my eyes then sent a reel into my cortex. The open bled of the sky was like nothing I had ever seen. As a child, growing up on a ranch in eastern Oregon, I had witnessed the true country dark which is necessary to look into the soul of the night. But on our ranch, we were surrounded closely by heavily forested mountains. It had nothing on this. What I saw before me was the kind of starry night expanse that evolved the minds of our ancestors into concepts of mysticism and spirit, into the beliefs of the night gods and the worship of the moon. The stars we know, which make up the constellations we greet, now had wondrous back drop. Stars behind stars, with great dimension.
I zipped up and crawled into the van.
3. the silt and the sun
When I woke, it was to the smile and the sapphire eyes of my girl. My own were filled with sand and the rag tag fadings of a now forgotten dream. The first thing I noticed was how much like a sauna the van had become. I clambored out and into the wind and the light. The desert was huge and raw. Definable by the far off mountains which formed a ring around the playa.
In this context, a playa is not a young gangsta with too low jeans who manages to get laid a lot. First of all, its pronounced 'pli-ya'. Wikipedia tells us -
The Spanish word playa (/..»pla..ùa/) literally means "beach". A playa; also known as an alkali flat, sabkha, or salt flat; is a dry lakebed, generally the shore of, or a remnant of, an endorheic lake. Such flats consist of fine-grained sediments infused with alkali salts. Their surface is generally very dry, hard and smooth in the summer months, but wet and very soft in the winter months. While the playa itself will be devoid of vegetation, they are commonly ringed by shadscale, saltbrush and other salt-tolerant plants that provide critical winter fodder for livestock and other herbivores.
With no wind, the sun would have been baking. Yet, as I have said, it was present and cooled us as we brushed our teeth and began to build camp. Camp was to be a large construction of scaffolding placed to resembled a very large aztec temple, at least in shape. Connecting the top of the scaffolding were about a dozen twenty foot squares of aluminium frame with heavy duty tarp stretched in it. This was the roof which our tents would be erected beneath, giving shade. We worked for a couple of hours with dark goggles on and handkerchiefs wrapped about our faces due to the intermitent kick ups of dust.
Then came the white-outs.
A white-out is playa dust that comes along and makes it so you can't breathe, at least not very easily. A white-out will reveal to the ones around you how you will look when you are in your late sixties if your flesh is still firm. A white-out will put you down and make it so you cannot do much more then cast wary looks at one another. Remember in that waste of time movie we all saw called 'the Mummy', when the huge wave of sand and dust became a god-wall with the power to crush and torment? This is a white-out and it ran amok all day long.
While the white-out has a good time, let's see who has joined us so far..
John we met. He came with Terry, Peat, and Launa. Terry is married to Noelle, and resembles a giant in his forties with a dark and greying goatee, which frames a perpetual smile. He is both fatherly and brotherly and when he hugs you, you feel completely at ease. His wife Noelle, hadn't arrived yet. She is best described as a force of nature who believes with a jihadists conviction in her ideas, even if they are doomed by logic. You cannot help but love her.
Launa is my age, in her late twenties and beautiful in a way that is singular to young women who are hard workers or have something to prove to themselves.
You'd like Peat. His personality falls into all catagories and none at all. For the Burn he created an art installation of different sized sticks which were crafted to resemble a kinetic wave. He went on to accent it with plastic milk jugs which he got from his father, who works at a factory. What makes these jugs interesting is that they are a collection of the first jugs created in the morning to get the machines going. So they look nothing like a jug at all, instead, a milk-white plastic carrot which a light can be inserted into at the base, to make a very cool lamp.
Andrea was there as well . She is a very beautiful woman in her thirties with a clean, full on, hippie sex appeal. She sounds a bit like Janice from the muppets, or perhaps she might have had an accent, I couldn't be sure. I do know that she thought my name was Ken the first couple of days.
That afternoon, Pete and Valarie arrived. I had never met them before, but knew that they were to join the four of us to create the core of six that we would become. With all of my heart I love these two.
Pete works at the Mint in L.A as a bartender. He is an improv actor and and says whatever comes into his mind which is more often then not, the funniest shit you've ever heard. Valarie is the queen of cute, also a stage actor with an amazing capacity for sweetness.
Knowing these people, the summations are weak, but I'm not trying to get bogged down with character descriptions. It was with these people that I weathered the day.
As the sun fell behind the mountains, everyone on the playa erupted in coyote calls and wolf howls. Just like that, the wind died and we continued to work, breaking only once for a quick meal of salmon and wine.
4. our chests had run out of ice
It was the next day, our chests had run out of ice, and the ice merchants would not open until later that afternoon. There are three ice selling camps called Arctic with the main being next to Center Camp and the other two on the outlaying flanks of the city. Corporate advertising and selling of any type is strictly prohibited at Burning Man, instead relying on a gift system which works amazingly well. The exceptions are Arctic and Center Camp. Center Camp slings coffee and iced drinks, like lemonade and water, and all proceeds from both, along with the generated funds from the recycling, goes to the tiny town of Gerlach, which is some twelve miles south and is home to around 500 people.
The white-outs of the day were more forgiving, but not by much. We put finishing touches on the camp, raised our tents, and greeted camp mates as they rolled in, becoming excited at every RV that joined us, as collectively they created a wall against the wind. We also spent that afternoon picking things from our noses that belong strictly in B-movies. The day, as it does, moved on.
After we had bought ice and ate a meal of hummus, eggplant, pita, and warm water; we mounted up and as a sixsome, rode into the playa. Everywhere, art was being built and the sheer size and detail was beyond compare. Beg mention of the originality. The descriptions would take too long, and wouldn't you much rather see it? All right, I'll post photographs of it then.
The desert reach is so vast that to gauge time is tricky. How many hours we spent travelling out there I do not know. Only when we watched the sun retreat a second time, chased by howls and the death of the wind, did we make our way to camp and begin a serious drunk.
Out on the open face of the elements, brown liquor is highly discouraged, and besides, vodka can mixed with damn near anything. That night it was red bull and the blood of cranberries. Peat brought out his gas mask bong, pure desert gear. I rarely smoke these days, but that night was a night for it. With it strapped in place, Peat became a blur, but I heard him say, "Can you feel it in your eyes? It's as if your eyes are smoking it too." Everyone was laughing and talking at once, but in my head I was thinking, yes, my eyes are smoking it too.
It was then fast approaching midnight, the hour when they would start letting in the line of traffic that had been siting all day long waiting to enter. We were on a colossal drunk and it only made sense to us that we should volunteer to welcome people at the gates alongside the official Greeters. We mounted up.
Erin seperated from us once we had stopped and started to add ourselves to the mayhem. She needed to be alone for a bit, to connect with herself and with the night. This year was her third year and her first with a boyfriend. It also carried with it a certain gravity, as a dear friend and powerful love in her life, Orion, took his own life earlier this winter. Orion was an important person to his friends and a large character in their Burning Man experience. His memory and presence was felt by everyone.
Back at the gates, we helped with ass spankings, dust angels, having girlfriends sit on bells while boyfriends rung them, and all other bits of high strangeness bestowed on virgins.
After a while I began to miss Erin and rode back to camp to fall asleep with her.
5. day one
I woke with a powerful headache and a funeral taste in my mouth, stretched, and considered a shower. A shower in the desert consists of taking up a gallon of water and shambling (if you are in my current state), to the evaporation area. This area resembles a 15' x 15' sand box with a canvas privacy booth in the corner. Instead of being filled with sand, the low-walled box is lined with thick, black plastic which hastens the sun's desire to evaporate the waste water. There was also a segment of the area dedicated to dishwater and the like.
Erin had given me a peppermint liquid soap to wash with. It smelled amazing and had the power to invigorate, but once it hits your junk, you are suddenly given over to silent screaming and cheek biting.
Get dressed, jump on your bike, and pay a visit to the portapotties, or portaparties if you are an asshole who thinks he is clever and is greatly amused at his own word concoctions.
Considering the amount of people who use these banks of hard plastic commodes, they were usually in reasonable shape. Sometimes they ran out of paper, but not very often. Someone had taken a digital 'Happy Birthday' music device, which ran on a loop like you might find in a Hallmark card, and hid it somewhere inside. Ambiance I suppose.
My headache would not go away. From there, I rode to Center Camp for a cold lemonade and an eyeful of the unexpected. Once arrived, I saw a nude couples yoga class taking place in the center of it all. Fantastic, I thought, I as I made my way into line for something cold. I contemplated the cup that I had brought for the week. One must always carry their own cup as it saves on wasting. Mine was metal, made to hold 16 oz., had a carabiner for a handle, and came with a thick, screw-top lid. My mind turned to the Little House books I loved as a kid, where everyone had a tin cup that lasted them forever, and sometimes on Christmas they would get a new one, which would be the most amazing gift ever. Watching these sweaty, naked couples struggle with unweildy grace to loft each other up and contort into incredible poses, I wondered what Wilder would have made of it all.
This was by far, the tamest exhibition I would see all week.
Returned to camp and the six of us wove our way through the esplanade and into the desert, headed for Shrine's Tasseograph, which is an equisite, tea leaf reading temple he created from trash and found items, that he combined and painted. Its top pays tribute to the four elements.
I had met Shrine once before at an event outside of Portland. He emenates a sensitivity and certain dignity unique to anyone I have ever met. When he looks at you, it seems he does so from behind his eyes in the manner of a painter walking through a gallery and stopping for a moment to examine something which is poorly lit.
I also met his wife, Adrianna, who reminded me of a Mount Helcyon Muse. If Erin is the Muse of Poetry, then this one must be Painter's Muse, such are the similarity of beauty and intensity.
We then rode to the Temple.
The Temple is like nothing you have ever seen, unless you have been to certain rural areas of Japan. It is crafted entirely of intricately cut wood by the artist David Best, and much larger then you can readily imagine. It is a place meant for giving prayers, releasing thoughts or behavior, saying goodbye, sending messages, honoring the dead, and so on. This is done by writing on the Temple itself. The night after the Man is torched, the Temple burns as well.
The general air of the day was one of business, as people poured through the gate and worked quickly to raise their camps and construct their art. Thousands of fingers and backs moved to the same chant, 'Let's get this done so we can party'.
The dry pounding in my skull had all but vanished.
The sun had an hour or so to stroll it's fat ass back behind the mountains, which would be our que to host the camp dinner that night. We'd be preparing home made cheese and chicken tamales, black beans and rice, and Oxacan mole . But first, we would need to visit the Golden Cafe.
The Golden Cafe was a couple of streets down from camp and quickly became our favorite bar and daily worship.
There are a few things you should know about the Golden Cafe..
It is run by several different people, their leader a young jewish man called Lucifer. He must have preternatural powers, because his panama suits and matching fedoras remained perfectly clean the entire festival. The bartenders rotate, but remain the same, and the entire patronage is based on a hierarchy regulated by medallions.
If you do not have a medallion, you stand at the bar and wait as those who do are served first. Preference is denoted in this order - bronze, silver, gold, and then ivory. There are purple ones as well, given to musicians of stellar ability. Inside this medium-large dome is an array of instruments waiting to be played. Anyone can play them, but if you suck, you will be told. If someone is playing really well and putting their heart into it, at any time, any one who wears the purple medallion can waltz in, and in mid-lick, kick you off your weapon of choice and take over. Thems the rules.
You earn medallions by doing things for the bar. They bring their own collection of liquor and accept donations as they are brought in, thats one way. I earned my bronze by bringing a load of six bags of ice. The Golden Cafe also has an exlusive and admirable food tent which boasts some of the greatest chefs from around the globe. Good luck getting a seat at that table. Yet on our last night in Black Rock City, we managed just that. I get ahead of myself though.
After a couple rounds we mounted up and landed in camp to host our dinner. While the ladies did their alchemy in the make-shift kitchen, I turned my attentions to decorating the camp with the swathes of fabric that John and Launa had brought. While climbing around like the blissed out gibbon that I was, I had the chance to hang out with our camp mate, Kerry.
Kerry is such a source of warmth and comfortable energy, that you feel good everytime he smiles, which is often. He reminded me of being on a fourth grade playground when you are brand new and meet for the first time, your best friend for the rest of the year. Burning Man is a such a place to connect.
I also had the pleasure of bonding with Adele, who has the eyes and costume talents of an original Italian theatre goddess. I am so in love with this woman. There is a note of tragedy to her that is both overshadowed and illuminated by the goodness which radiates from every corner of her soul. Those eyes..
After sometime of swinging by my tail and shredding cloth and tieing it to create impromtu dreamcatcher drapes, a visitor appeared in camp. I had heard of this man numerous times from both Erin and Dayna, and had been looking forward to meeting him. Paris.
Paris was the child actor who played Mike Teevee in Charley and the Chocolate Factory. He is in love with the world, which he travels, and has eyes which resemble blue chips of glass that reflect the noon time sun. We had great conversation ranging from places we've visited, film, books, poets, and so on. After a shared meal, as quick as the winds of the playa rise and then fall, he said his good byes and returned to his camp in the Red Light District. Tiny shorts and all.
There was meant to be a lunar eclipse pasted to the face of the full moon that night, and as we changed into our evening costumes, the inevitable question was murmered, one person to the next - what sort of strangeness should we get into?
In the end, we decided to save ourselves for the following evening and push the liquor craze one more night. There are bars everywhere, as every camp is basically just that with a different theme. On the way to the Bad Idea Theater Camp, I noticed a throng of people gathered around an outdoor Dance Dance Revolution arcade. I think I said something retarded like, "Ahh, cool, DDR." to which Dan replied, "Yeah, but it's called Dance Dance Immolation, and if you fuck up, they shoot fire in your face."
And I thought he was joking.
The players were sealed into silver spaceman suits with welding visors sewn into the face, air was piped into the neck. They danced with skill, and when they didn't, well, you know.
We had our laughs and when they were done, we regulators mounted up and rode on to the first round of libations. Eventually, we ended up at the Lamp Lighters Camp for sangria, but once it was established that they had run dry, we turned our attentions to rum and more rum. Standing up there on the roof of their wooden camp structure, drunk as lords and twice as funny, the Earth's shadow began to stain the moon. How long would the process take, and how long would it last? Nobody knew.
It was Pete and Val's wedding anniversary and Erin and I had given them a bottle of champagne, but it was back at camp. The six of us set off to retrieve it. After doing so, we rode out and fell in league with the kids from the Department of Spontaneous Combustion, old friends of Erin and Dayna.
The DSC create wheeled contraptions that are part bike and part flame thrower. While hanging out someone yells that the Man is on fire. Bullshit.
Apparently not. We race across the playa to the Man and he is indeed aflame. No one can say what the meaning of it is, but to me, it is mythological poetry. The moon must have her mate and the unexpected union gave me chills. How pagan, I thought.
Of course we later found out a lawyer from San Fran sparked it, which caused alot of mixed opinions, but no one was hurt, so fuck it.
Huge trucks doused the fire and we went home and to sleep. Laying in bed, hangman style, with Erin pressed against me, I drifted into the cusp, wondering what the next day might hold for us.
6. wine with the elders
While drinking bloody mary's, we pored over the directory books we were given the first night we entered the playa called the What Where When. They detailed the locations of hundreds camps including brief run downs of what each does. Need a hand job? Head over to Spiffy Lube, their motto is - get in, get off, get out. How about some spiritual healing and energy exchange? Head over to the Spiritual Accounting Office. There is the Pink Floyd Pajama Party, Orgasmic Vegan Sushi, Past Life Regression Group Session, Kung Fu Sabre Seminar, Largest Group Hug Ever, Jivamukti Yoga With Sandhi, Silent Football, Snack Food Glory Hole, "This American Life" Tea and Story Time, Coloring and Cocktails, Balloon Couture, Gorilla Gram Give Away, and more and more and more and more, 24 hours a day.
Just then, a giant magic carpet with a hooka, a kick ass stereo system pounding out old school rap, and loaded with people, drove by.
Ahh, here's the one for us - Brie, Bach, and Talk.
After a serious search, because it's location was printed incorrectly, we found it. However by the time we got there, there was no more Brie and the Bach had been turned off because no one could hear it. So we drank wine from boxes and talked. This is where we met the Elders,
Most of the Elders had come to the Burn for many years hosting this camp. They were equal measures funny, wise, energetic, loving, and naked. Our conversations went on into the afternoon. We laughed with them, cried with them, and shared ourselves in a pure exchange of the young and the old that is sadly missing from our current culture. We said our goodbyes and promised to return, then rode off in the direction of the Golden Cafe.
At sunset we returned to camp for dinner and more water. The organizers say that we must each drink a gallon and a half a day, until our piss runs clear. I'm pretty sure nobody does this. They even have a daily news rag called Piss Clear which is a waste of tree skin. More often then not, it is filled with rants from hipsters who believe people care what they have to say. Think I'm being harsh? Try to get through the whole thing.
The moon was on the wan, but barely. Someone hands each of the six of us a little blue pill which we toast and swallow, chasing it with a wash of warm water.
The primary effects of MDMA include feelings of openness, euphoria, empathy, love, heightened self-awareness and an increased appreciation of music and movement. Tactile sensations are enhanced for some users, making physical contact with others more pleasurable.[7] Other side effects, such as jaw clenching and elevated pulse, are common. Some users report effects similar to those of softer stimulants such as caffeine, and a few report effects comparable to harder stimulants such as cocaine. Alexander Shulgin stated that the single best use of MDMA was to facillitate more direct communication between people involved in significant emotional relationships.[citation needed] Psychiatrist George Greer came to the same conclusion in his report on the first 29 subjects administered MDMA in his practice, with the MDMA having been synthesized in Shulgin's lab.[8] This is why the most profound experiences are usually had between close friends, family, or partners in a serene setting.
Whatever the case, the rest of the night was a land of miracles and of great spiritual cleansing. Of bonding and learning to forget the lessons of the outside world which more often then not, devide and sabotage us. The moon bathed the land in quiet softness and god the universe, held in it's hands, a carnival of variant lights and wondrous spectacles.
7. windsday
As you can imagine, we woke late.
Eat a light meal, brush your teeth, and have a 'shower'. It only takes the one time to become wise with the peppermint soap. Get dressed and three minutes later, you are sweaty and covered in dust. May it never end. You posse up with your mates and make tracks to Center Camp.
What delight awaited us. Everywhere were friendly smiles, intelligent eyes, and open hearts. Monkey Chant was just starting in the round middle of Center Camp, which was packed. We slipped between people until we were right next to it. What is Monkey Chant you might well ask? I will describe it as best I can, but I offer you a better way to understand.
As soon as you are done reading all of this, take a deep breath and then run your ass to the video store and pick up a copy of Baraka, one of the most important films you will ever see. Amongst other soul soaring scenes, there is a portion which shows Balinese people performing the Kecak, or Ramayana Monkey Chant.
It is the story of monkeys helping Prince Rama battle the evil King Ravana. I just found out that it is also a trance-inducing exorcism dance. Well, hell yes.
What I witnessed was a small, whip-chord man in his forties, with a red and white checkered cloth bound about his waist, leading the crowd which encircled him in chants and gestures. Splayed hands and monkey calls, primitive story telling at its finest. A goal for this year is to take classes and get in on it in 2008.
We bought ice and trucked it home on our handlebars. Shortly after we unloaded our frozen haul, Kim came to camp.
Meeting Kim was like no other experience. I believe that the import will be lost on my readers, and I mean no offense, it is just that it was a very personal revelation. I will say, that on a soul level, looking into his eyes amounted to looking into a well polished mirror.
Later that night, we all ate mushrooms.
Erin and I were in our tent when Pete came in with a broad smile and two pieces of peanut butter and jelly on pita. Inside the tiny sandwich was the golden ticket. Erin and Dayna, whom were never affected, left to visit our friends at Spontaneous Combustion while Dan, Pete, Val, and myself stayed behind and let the magic go to work on us.
It hit Pete the hardest.
He and Val went to their tent to chill and Dan strolled around camp, a barrel of grins. I climbed the highest peak of the scaffolding in a long black velvet jacket and bowler hat. I lit a cigarette and contemplated the view.
The wind felt good on my face.
8. the return of the white
The next morning Dream came to see us, accompanied by Kim. Dream is the leader of Lucent Dossier and everytime I see her, I imagine a bird of paradise with eyes that burn like candlelight. Describing her is like trying to describe Erin, and we haven't the words in our language for it.
Dream wanted Erin to perform later that evening, however this was our date night and Erin didn't wish to break it. Hug, kiss, and they were gone into the sifting tides of dust and noise.
A bit later, Erin and I were in our tent speaking softly and laughing when the wind became a hammer and set down to do some serious work. It was the worst yet.
Dan, Dayna, and Val climbed into our tent and Dan passed out. Where was Pete? I had a feeling he may have been at the Golden Café, as he had made fast friends just by being himself. At one point during the week, Lucifer invited him to his house in L.A for lobster. Now how many of us can say that?
The five of us shared a meal of brie, poultry, cheddar, pita, chocolates, and red wine. We followed it by passing my pipe which was filled with cherry-vanilla tobacco. All the while, the white-out screamed and plundered through the camps and out across the open waste.
For the next hour, it knew no peace.
And even though we were in the tent, sheltered from the brunt of it, playa still floated around and dusted everything. It is fine and silky, like talc.
Then with a final and vibrant shudder, it died.
We came out into the sunlight and set off for the art installations which were waiting for us in the desert.
We rode hard and played for hours, racing about and snapping pictures of everything, and as we moved towards the inner track of the city, the white-out returned and we were caught out in the open.
Visibility becomes a matter of a few feet. Particle is whipped against you like a gale of hungry gnats. Even through your mask, every breath coats your teeth and your tongue. Take a picture.
Plodding against the wind, our group journeyed to the nearest structure we could make out. What glorious luck, it was a wooden two-story Irish saloon called, Paddy's Mirage. Out of the elements and into a full on party where we drank ice cold Guinness, swaped stories, and laughed like maniacs.
We stayed put for quite a while, even after the storm blew itself out. Then finally headed home where we ran into Josh.
I realize that everytime I give a description of the people I meet, they are glowing and lovey. I know this. But know that when you are at this place, these are the sort of people who show up. If they would have been assholes, awkward, or without impression, I would unflinchingly report it.
Let's get back to Josh.
Josh is my age and has a mind like a high performance race car. While everyone at the festival is dressed in costumes, stylized gear, or nothing at all; Josh is wearing a white t-shirt, Adidas jacket, jeans, and tennis shoes. His comfort level and awareness of himself is nothing less than admirable. As if he didn't show up to the Burn, but that the Burn showed up to him, and that boy can dance like a motherfucker.
That night we all went to Thunderdome. Thats right, Thunderdome. Two men enter - one man leaves.
Kim and I climbed the dome, which afforded us the best view. First was a scrappy young man, thin and wiry. His wild red hair, sharp goatee, and wild wood energy made me think of Loki, blood brother of Odin. His opponent was a sturdy man with a barrel chest and slow, violent overhand swings. They weilded 'swords' wrapped in foam. Both men were in harnesses that stretched upwards into the domes grid.
Loki had crazy, Robin Goodfellow zeal, but in the end, could not match the pounding assault of his foe. None of the girls could take their eyes off of the Puck, so really, who won that match?
Next at bat was a thick kid in his early twenties, who went to town on a guy in a scary and distorted clown mask. The clown had his ass handed to him, as if the kid got brave and began working out some sort of childhood trama.
Lastly, we witnessed a scene that made the heart soar. Into the dome stepped two guys who were dressed, and had the framework, of Daniel and Johnny, from the last bout in Karate Kid.
Best fight of the night, and when it was done, Dragon Dojo took the belt.
We rode around for hours on the moon-lit playa, taking in the people and the art. The colored light and the pushing beats. While everyone else made their way home, Erin and I split off to be by ourselves and wound up in the presence of an early century, upright piano. It sat on a wheeled cart and resting on the corners were small lamps, which shone dimly on the man seated before it.
His name was Brandy and he played rag-time melodies that bore a close resemblance to Tom Waits crossed with Randy Newman.
The cracked and dry desert became the greatest ballroom in the world, the moon a spot-light, and the stars strung themselves to become hundreds of gossamer chandeliers.
We danced like gypsies, pushed about like thin leaves on the edge of autumn.
Out here in the illuminated waste, time has no meaning. Urged by a sense of weariness, we kissed the piano man and set out for home with the lollipops he gave us. The sound of piano songs in our ears and the stars caught in our hair.
9. her name is sashimi
With no alarm clocks and your only focus of responsibility being to let go of having a focus of responsibility, you wake up whenever feels appropiate. Before showers had commenced, a young man with blonde hair and a smile made for banishing evil arrived into our camp. Jonathan is a dear friend of Erin's and exudes spirit the way one might imagine Jesus had in better times. He is exciting to be with and brought us little statues of meditating figures that he had made from plaster and then painted. As I write this, I look forward to our future conversations.
After the 'morning' ritual, we found ourselves once again at the Golden Café. We visited a bit with our friend, Tomato, who would be playing in a few minutes. This was the afternoon that I gifted them with ice and received the bronze, which I hold in my hand at this moment.
I had a great conversation with a young, topless woman about her perfomance art and she told me the name of her company which I was to remember and look up. Fuck all if I haven't forgotten it.
From there we travelled to a bar, which lucky me, had a big jar of pipe tobacco, and I had my pipe. While having a good puff, a young man with blue hair gave me his drink, saying he'd had enough.
'Pretty drunk, eh?'
'Nope, I'm on acid.'
'Ahhh.'
'What's your name?'
'Blue. I'm your spirit guide.'
'Cool, I want people to call me that too.'
'It might get a bit confusing.'
'Ok, I'm just going to follow you around.'
'That's the point.'
'What should I do first?'
'Hmmm. I want you to make a solid connection with everyone you meet today.'
'Ok.'
And he did.
Back at camp, fate swapped us our blue-haired disciple for Josh, and we took off in search of the infamous Tuna Camp. It actually proved not too elusive.
The kids from Spontaneous Combustion led us, and while we sipped sake and waited for the dinner line to form, a man with the befitting name of Wild Bill, entertained us by being drunk and clever.
He also stamped the asses of our ladies to allow them free rein of the camp. The call for dinner was announced.
He who hesitates is last.
Erin and I were damn near the first in line and while I received a history lesson on Tuna Camp, Erin walked about with a plate of tuna sashimi, passing it out amongst those who waited for the feast to begin.
Jessica Bruder is the author of Burning Book, and her sumation is best-
'It began in 1998, when an Oregon fisherman showed up in the desert with 1,300 pounds of tuna loins. That was a bad year for fishermen in the Pacific Northwest; a global glut made tuna all but worthless. So 63-year-old "Cap'n" Jim Peterson from Coos Bay packed his entire catch in a U-Haul with ice and drove it out to Nevada. He figured he'd sell it to the revelers at Burning Man.
Jim had seen some pictures from the festival the year before. These were wild scenes, folks slathered from head to toe in mud, cavorting gleefully as if they'd never been in the middle of such a delightful mess. He figured all that running around must work up an appetite. Even mud-people have to eat. Maybe they would buy his tuna?
Jim drove 450 miles to Burning Man, only to learn that vending is against the rules there (and bad etiquette, too). So he started a marathon barbecue session. He served his tuna to everyone in sight. He ended up giving it all away.
Now, every year at Burning Man, Jim and his friends—nicknamed "The Tuna Guys"—bring hundreds of pounds of fish to cook and share with everyone. And it's not easy for them; they've had their share of misadventures. Their rattletrap pickups and Volkswagens always seem to break down on the long drive to the festival. And the Nevada health department has hounded them so much, their camp has practically become a seafood speakeasy.'
The hand-spun wasabi paste was incredible with the sashimi and grilled fish. The kim-chee had been made by a man who had an actual degree in fermentation. You can get a fucking degree in fermentation? I had seconds, which I would later regret.
We said our farewells and cruised home to change costumes for the evening.
And into the playa we went.
We played at the Steam Punk Tree house.
Pete and I got locked into a haunted composition on a beat to shit piano.
I learned to ride without touching the handle bars and bicycle ballet was in full effect. Pete had the most glorious crash in recorded history and before the dust around him could settle, he sprung into the air with all the energy of a young Baryshnikov.
We went to the Man, which was circled by artists visions of trees, and Dan and I rocked a huge, wooden seesaw.
We went everywhere and then went home. The sun had just set as we emerged from the desert and the sky was a muralists dream of an ocean on fire.
That night we drank tea brewed from mushrooms of the magical variety.
Before mine could get a serious hold on me I became ill in the rank arms of a portapotty. Too much rich tuna on an otherwise poor stomach.
But it turned out well and I felt loads better. Erin and I rode to the striped tent of Cirque Berzerk, in the Red-Nose District, to watch John perfom with his Stilt Circus. But we had missed most of it, due to my previous misadventure.
Erin and I sat by a fire outside and rode a mellow wave while we waited for her favorite DJs, Lorin and Freq Nasty to take the stage. Once they did, we danced the whole night, until the sky lightened with the grey touches of dawn.
10. the Green Man
The makings of the day are somewhat gone to me now. I do know that it was surely amazing and written in the recesses of my memory to be discovered at a later time.
Actually, I do remember the double rainbow of unequaled strength and beauty. I have never seen one so apparent or vivid.
The night found us quickly and everyone in camp piled onto Terry and Noelle's Volcano Art Car and drove to the Man.
What can I say, the place was packed. The entire city had turned out including all of the art cars which peppered the crowd and provided amazing views for the spectacle about to begin. Erin and I danced for a bit and wandered through the crowd. Then it began.
The dancers and flame magicians from the Fire Conclave encircle the Man.
Fireworks erupt, which light the sky and some 45, 000 faces. The arms of the Man rise into the air, followed by the collective cry from the citizens of Black Rock City.
Boom! A mushroom cloud/pillar of fire engulfs the Man, his legs are catching fire and slowly spreading up and over his body.
Perfect tornadoes of smoke and ash swell, then fly forward from his center.
It is the death of the past and the birth of a new year.
Burning Man.
One family, at home.
The shoulders weakened and the arms came off first. Then, as he must, he collapsed on himself in an inferno and the roar of the crowd became a solid wall, a house, a ship, a cathedral, a universe, and then nothing at all.
The six of us locked hands and plunged like a threaded needle into the thick cloud of people around the raging fire that was once the Man.
We wove our way to the very heart of it and danced around the fire. In heat that redefined the meaning of the word.
I am laughing and cheering, sweating and crying, I am flying and dancing in a rite created when the existence of our species was still new. I am alive.
Erin and I slipped away from our people and walked along the avenue which led to (or away from) the ritual. The blue painted lamps of the lamplighter poles swayed in the cool, deliberate breeze of the night.
Along the path home to fetch our bottle of champagne, we met a man who created a towering, fluorescent Preying Mantis which he could strap himself into and walk about with. He fed us an astronauts Saturday special, Tang and vodka.
At his recommendation, we searched out a crash landed space capsule which housed an animatronic chimpanzee who taught us among many other things, that we smelled like his ass. That monkey will always have a special place in my heart.
Once we had the champagne in our possesion, we scoured the playa for a place to be alone (haha) and to just be with each other. Eventually, we found refuge on a padded bench which faced the esplanade, at the entrance to Illumination Camp.
We shared the bottle to the halfway point, speaking quietly and reflecting on our experiences and the lessons we had learned.
I marveled at those that I had met and the people who had come together to create a community which is open, savage, good natured, expressive, encouraging, artistic, fun, wild, loving, and which nourishes uniqueness. A place where people are considerate and kind, where serendipity, irony, revelation, and synchronicity are the mainstay and just around every corner. Everyone shows compassion to the enviroment. An environment in which they must not only survive, but organically find countless ways flourish. These are the keys to unlocking the death trap which holds the outside world by it's throat. I reflect upon all of the people I know who are not here, but would enjoy this experience and gain everything from it.
A common greeting is, welcome home, and I understand why.
Erin reminds me that we have probably seen a little less than 10% of what Burning Man has to offer. I laugh.
Shrine once called it acclerated personal growth, and he is correct.
We layed down on the bench and I removed my jacket to drape over us. Cuddled this way, we fell into a deep sleep.
We awoke a couple of hours later and gave the rest of our champagne to a young couple who were layed out on a near by lawn chair and then rode home to our bed.
11. letting go
Officially, it is the last day. The sun was well into it's afternoon march when we made ready and rode to the Temple for Orion's memorial.
Once there, we all seperated and I walked through the Temple writing my messages and reading those of others. This had become a sacred place of emotion and I had never felt a structure so alive. The place had become solemn and powerful. Dayna retrieved me and brought me to the others who sat just outside the Temple.
John from Clue Camp and his female companion played on a guitar and sang a very moving piece, while Orion's friends remembered him to themselves. I did not know him but through these people. From everything that I have heard and all that I observed, he must have been an amazing and unique young man.
Hours passed.
We returned home, ate lunch and then pushed our bikes to the Golden Café. This was to be last our visit.
We meant to have one drink then wander off through the areas we hadn't yet seen, the two of us.
Pete and Valarie were at the Café when we arrived and before we could get the first round off, Lucifer leapt onto a chair and delivered a sermon.
He thanked those that needed it, ruminated on the past, present, and future of the camp, and asked for volunteers to help with the preparation of the café's final dinner. For those who did, he would crack a hundred year old bottle of true Absinthe from his private collection.
Before I could even think about it, I felt a sudden jerk of my shoulder and looked up to see my hand in the air. So was Erin's, and so were Pete and Val's.
On the menu was a seafood chowder of scallions, garlic, leeks, rosemary, asparagus, onions, salmon, mahi, shrimp, scallops, and lox – stirred into a delicate cream base and served on a bed of wild grain black rice, topped with grilled basil and thyme.
Val and Pete chopped vegetables which I grilled, Erin was in charge of an entire battalion of prep cooks, all the while, cutting the seafood. The entire kitchen was in the thrall of a chef called Fishmonger.
Tracers came and tracers went.
The meal had been created with love and when it was done, was dished into bowls and sent out from the kitchen tent
to the Café. We savoured our meal, bid farewell, and raced to the Temple in time to see that the crowds around it had grown thick as anything.
A hush fell upon the playa, and the Temple was lit.
46, 000 people said their prayers.
Afterwards, we attended the tea ceremony at Shrine's Tasseograph. A wonderful elixer of Shrine's own brew of hot chai and ginseng served in actual china cups, which were served by Shrine and presided over by Adrianna. It is one of the sterling and more eloquent memories of the entire week.
We hung out with Kim and Dream for a while, then returned for one final night of sleeping in our tent.
12. Exodus
The camp rose early, had coffee, and started to take everything apart. It came down much more quickly then it went up, as is usually the case.
I had a beat to shit copy of Hemingway's, A Farewell to Arms, in which I had everyone write their contact information. I was a bit overcome with sadness, especially when saying goodbye to my friend Travis, an amazing soul who has lived in Portland and now lives in Monterey. One week is just not long enough to spend with these people.
And before we knew it, we were packed and in the van.
Black Rock City radio predicted a 3 hour wait for leaving the desert. Due to an RV breakdown, it was actually 5 and a half, which gave us time to listen to two Mitch Hedberg cds and reflect. Pete and Val were in their car behind us and I started feeling restless and thirsty. I climbed out, got Pete, and we went in search of beer.
Logic told us that other people in their vehicles were only an arms length away from a frosty beverage, and that with a smile and humble request, we were sure to walk away winners.
The first man we saw gave us a cold can of V8 and a warm, unopened jug of cranberry juice. I downed the V8 and shortly after, we traded the juice for two, kinda cold bottles of canadian beer.
Victory.
Walking through the stretch of parking lot that was Exodus, we came across an impromptu bar, nestled between two lanes of cars. A couple of guys were grilling hot dogs and handing out cold cans of beer.
Double victory.
Pete and I returned to our separate rides just in time for the line to begin crawling out onto the highway.
I rested my head on Erin's lap and closed my eyes.
Lying there, purely content, I began to slip away from the waking world, and towards the gates of horn and ivory, through which all dreamers must pass, and into the cusp.
I imagined coming back a few weeks later, once everything had disappeared, standing on the cracked and broken landscape of the playa, looking out at the sheer emptiness of it. That I would feel the wind through my hair and wonder if I had dreamed it all. That 46, 000 people had recently been there and created a community of countless possibilities that had lasted for an entire week. A week which would resonate and then call all of us home again next year.
In this vision, I climbed up onto the back of a baby hippopotamus and flew off towards the sun.
Blue Christian Winterhawk
Sept. 15 2007
