I never knew - referral logs can actually be kinda fun. I never look at mine, but for some reason I had the urge to do so today, and I found all kinds of entertaining stuff.

For one - these guys are moving to Bend and are planning on shooting a movie here. Yeah! They liked my Burning Man pics and linked to them. So guys, if you read this - gimme a holler when you're in town and let's go have coffee.

Two - Sam, the storyteller has written a pseudo-Harry-Potter story after getting inspired by one of my pics. Odd, but kinda cool.

Anyway - I can't find the referral logs for this site, so I'm dead-ended with this post. Yeah, I know. You really wanted to hear more about Burning Man.

Patience, grasshoppers.

So BendFilm was a huge success this year - and from my very own personal perspective - an ungodly amount of fun. Never mind that I have a red line on my neck from dragging my heavy camera (with the flash mounted) around for 12 hours every day. But hey.

And despite late-night parties and severe exhaustion, I still managed to post pics on my Emerald Bay Photo blog of all 3 days (duplicated mostly, but not entirely, on the BendFilm site as well):

Day 1
Day 2
Day 3 - Awards

Of course topic #1 amongst festival-goers was: "What did you see?" and "What did you think of it?" I didn't see much, but I saw some. So I will try and answer this one here (in chronological order):

Day 1:
Short: Estes Avenue: Brilliant. Paul Cotter's piece about a typical Sunday morning in a Chicago neighborhood is poignant and leaves a mental impression on everyone who sees it. And I'm not just saying that because Paul is a total babe (the British accent helps too) ...

Short: In the Morning: True. Raw. Unforgettable. Graphic. The 2nd best short I have seen during the festival. Rent it. See it. And don't ever forget about the injustice.

Short: 9: Insanely cool. Animation and storytelling at its very best. I wanna watch it again.

Feature: Duane Hopwood: Depressing. Sure, it's a well-crafted movie about the perils of alcoholism and how it can affect people's lives - but nonetheless - depressing. David Schwimmer was good, Jeanine Garafolo didn't have enough screen time to really make an impression. Next.

Day 2:
Short: A Higher Agency: Fucking brilliant. The best short I've ever seen. I *AM* going to see this one again. And again.

Documentary: The Eskimo and The Whale: I was really looking forward to this one because the female director is local, spent 3 years in the freezing cold to film this, and quite simply kicks ass. Yet as with every feature-length film I've seen at this festival, it was a bit disappointing. It was simply too long. And it lacked a certain dynamic. In short - it suffered from "documentary-syndrome", or the inability of the editor/director to distance himself enough from the project to objectively determine if this film is going to put the audience to sleep or not.

Short: City of Mermaids: Oddly entertaining. It confirms that Florida indeed is a strange, strange place ...

Mock Feature: CSA: Confederate States of America: Great idea. Well executed. Lots of effort and money thrown at it (no wonder - Spike Lee was its backer). And yet - too freakin' long. Too heavy on the whole history part. The mock commercials were hilarious though.

Day 3:
Documentary: Laundry & Tosca: Outstanding! I wanted this movie to be longer. Much longer. And I cried. Who didn't? Really. It spoke to the heart. And that voice! That mesmerizing, unearthly beautiful voice of Marcia Whitehead. This filmmaker was so close to the subject matter, that she suffered from the reverse of the "documentary-syndrome" - the ability of the editor/director to care for the project so deeply that we can feel her every emotion because she translates it right onto the screen.

So overall - the shorts ruled, the features were uhmmm... soso. At least I didn't see anything I could say I didn't like. They were all good in their own way. My only regret? Not having gotten my lazy ass out of bed on Saturday to see The Real Dirt on Farmer John at 9am. I hear the movie ruled - and Taggart, well, he is just an awesome guy.

But I shouldn't despair - after all, the BendFilm office harbors all of the movies on DVD so I'll be able to go check them out later. Or sooner.

For those of you waiting for further coverage of Burning Man - you're gonna have to wait a wee bit longer, I'm afraid. While my Swiss house guests have finally left to commence their adventures in California, I'm

A) totally backed up with editing and digitally finishing of a variety of client projects

B) committed entirely to shooting the BendFilm festival this Thursday through Saturday for Katie Merritt

C) busy trying to stay sane

So forgive me if I haven't snapped to it like I said I would. But don't worry, folks - you *will* hear more about that festival in the desert (yes, I know you're just about dying with suspense, Jake ...) ;-)

[This is a continuation of Part 1, published yesterday]

7pm: Golden evening light blankets the playa. It's that magic time of day when photographing becomes a real pleasure. And here at Burning Man, there is never a shortage of subjects. This year's topic is Psyche, so it seems only appropriate that a very large, very purple half-head sticks out of the playa.



Incidentially, the four creators of the large head have dressed up and painted half their heads purple for a photo shoot. They pose for their photographer, but are quickly swarmed by a number of other shutter bugs. I can tell who is press by the green tag on their cameras, and feel a sudden guilt about belonging to their guild.

These people act like paparazzi. Without regard for their subjects or anybody else around them, they muscle their way in to get the shot. You can tell they are not here for the Burning Man experience - they are here to do a job, to get the shot, and then go home again. Quite a few of them have taken the effort to dress in a way that allows them to blend into the crowd, but I highly suspect it wasn't for the love of playing dress up... One woman bystander shakes her head, leans over to me, and comments: "You can't take a shot out here on the playa without having a photographer in the picture." Sadly, I have to agree with her.



8pm: Upon my return to camp, I find my campmate Sarah pacing around the rental mini-van, visibly distressed. "Aaron locked the keys in the car!" she exclaims angrily. "I have to take the bus to Gerlach tomorrow, get a locksmith to come out here, and pay 700 bucks for it! That's what everybody, including the rangers, are telling me." (and since it's a rental car, we couldn't get a second key made earlier.) I'm bummed, but somehow sense that all that won't be necessary. The Playa Will Provide, Gryff told me earlier. I believe it.

A neighbor suddenly shows up with a piece of strong wire. He tries to slide it down the driver's side door and lift the handle, but without luck. Shortly after, yet another neighbor shows up with a crowbar. As it turns out, the guy is a locksmith in the outside world. He doesn't have any tools with him except that crowbar. But it's enough. We pry the door open a bit, he slides the wire down and after a bit of negotiating, is able to push the unlock button. The car is open again.
Hurray. So Gryff was right all along...

Re-energized, I head back out on the playa. At night, Black Rock city comes alive, and with it, there seems to be an overall emergence of color and light in the most psychedelic variations. Glowsticks and L-Wire are the preferred attire for humans - but also the playa art comes alive with sounds and colorful illumination, some static, some pulsating.





I curse my decision to drag my regular Bogen/Manfrotto tripod with me. As it turns out, the thing is far too big and heavy, and it's impossible to strap it on to the back of my bike. So I'm left shooting hand-held, and with the insane flurry of movement and light here, the night becomes a frustration photography-wise. So I end up experimenting with zooming the lens during long exposures, which is actually kind of fun and results in stuff like this:



11pm: It's getting damn cold, so I head back to camp - where I find a new neighbor:
Sham, yet another Canadian. He's a Burn-Virgin like me - but he came here all alone, camping inside his U-Haul trailer. Sham doesn't waste any time however, and immediate starts working on his buzz. As an Iraq-War veteran, he seems rather unconcerned about what the desert does to you when you ingest large amounts of alcohol (namely totally dehydrate you). I feed him noodle soup before he heads out into the night to find his own and unique Burning Man adventure.



To be continued with Day 3 ...

As I wake up, I notice that it's still outside. Barely a breeze. What a change from the wild weather of Day 1! I'm excited about the prospect of seeing the city today through something else besides orange ski goggles and a wall of white dust. The sky is an electric blue and the morning sun seeps into my tent, warming my frozen skin with her golden rays. Last night was damn cold. I'm grateful I brought my bad-ass North Face sleeping bag.

Like a bee hive, with the first rays of sunshine, the city awakes. The camp to the right of me resounds with the deep thump of some rave tune and the loud hum of its ancient generator. I'm temporarily annoyed at the utter selfishness of someone blasting music at 6.30am. But - this is Burning Man, and techno music has become an integral part of its flavor. So I file it away under "The Right To Self-Expression" and move on.

The rest of my camp is still asleep as I set up our shower. It's hard to get the rope over the top of the 12-foot tall tripod to pull up the sun shower bag, but tying a shoe to the end of the rope gives it enough weight and leverage to hit the target. They say that necessity is the mother of invention, and I believe that this is nowhere more true than out here in Black Rock desert.

My left-side neighbors Gryff and Toddler (Gryff had been the one who jumped out at our car yesterday and made us camp next to them) gleefully announce at breakfast that they are getting married today. Gryff is delighted when he finds out that he has a photographer for his wedding (me), and as a 4-time Burner, he leans in to pass on one of Burning Man's most treasured wisdoms - four simple words: The Playa Will Provide. "With enough faith," he entrusts me, "you can get anything out here. Your heart's deepest desire, or your life's most pressing need." I cannot grasp yet how very true this will become for me only hours later.

With the wedding scheduled for 4pm, I have time to explore my surroundings and take care of business. I decide to ditch the bike for a while and go around on foot instead. You see so much less of the city by way of foot, but what you see is on a much more intimate basis. I stop frequently to chat with random strangers - something I would be hard-pressed to do in the outside world. But in a city where there is no commerce, no advertisement, and nobody judges you, a smile, a hug or a few minutes of time spent with someone is your currency. It's in ample supply, easily spent and often returned many-fold.

Center Camp - the lofty heart of the city, the place to buy coffee and ice (the only sanctioned commerce by the Burning Man organizers) and get your fix of people-watching. It's a whirling, twirling, spinning universe of people, always in motion. Some 70-year old man, sitting on a cooler, smiles and offers me a cup of Franzia blush wine. I gratefully accept. The cheap alcohol is cold and refreshing, and leaves me with a nice smooth buzz.



I move on to Media Mecca, to check in with the Burning Man PR folks. They make me sign a lengthy legal agreement that any picture I take becomes their property and bla, bla, bla. Uh-huh. They give me a green tag for my camera to signal to folks not wanting to be or accidentially photographed that I'm Press, and that Media Mecca will mediate in any arising disputes. Fine.



4pm. Gay wedding at the "Temple Whore". Gryff and Toddler are dressed in matching white t-shirts and boxers. The Master of Ceremonies is a tall man with striking blue eyes, adorned with a costume-grade Egyptian pharaho's headdress, a blue speedo and a white sheer night gown. The wedding guests are a 10-strong motley crue of wildly dressed and tattooed Canadians, who later turn out to be our neighbors.



Admittedly, I've never been to a gay wedding before. I have no clue what to expect. As it turns out though, it's quite possibly the most touching, spiritual and uplifting ceremony I've ever been to. The wedding guest join hands in a circle and pass their energy on to the grooms. The blessings spoken tell of love and overcoming the obstacles of a committed relationship in the face of adversity. I find myself wishing that conventional weddings could be this sincere.



6pm: I ride my bike out to the playa. The vast open space outside the city is mind-blowing. Liberating. All-encompassing. Soul-scorching. Once you've seen and experienced a space this large, this open, you are permanently branded by it. This is a solid space too - not like the sea which is ever-changing, alive, and at times violent. The playa is firm and grounding. It anchors your body, while liberating your soul. And I have an epiphany: Anything is possible. There are no limits. No restrictions. Life is what you make it.




Here, in this very place, the doors of perception are truly cleansed, and everything does appear as it is: infinite. William Blake was right. He would have totally dug Burning Man.

[Given the length of this post, I've decided to break it into two parts. Part 2 will follow in the next few days.]

Part 2 of Day 2

Ok - I was *going to* publish my Burning Man journal on a daily basis, sprinkled with images from the event - but on Thursday night this car pulls up to my house, and out jumps an old Swiss friend of mine and her boyfriend!

I've known her since I was 18, and she had announced to me a few weeks back that she was *thinking about* visiting, but I never heard back from her with a date, so I figured she'd changed her plans. But no - she opted to "surprise" me.

So needless to say I'll be busy over the next few days, and since I'm on deadline with an article for Bend Living and a few photo shoots, updates on the Burning Man topic will be random at best.

Oh, and since *nobody* commented here or over on the Emerald Bay blog about the Burning Man entry, I'm just assuming that nobody is interested anyway, and hence nobody will be truly annoyed that I'm not updating my blog, and nobody reads my blog anyway, so ...bla bla bla...

Like a vision, like a mirage, clad in wind and dust, the city of Black Rock emerges out of the vast white plain. Seething. Throbbing. Pulsating with life.

It's 9 am, and I've just turned the car from the small town of Gerlach down the last stretch of bumpy road towards Burning Man. My ticket says: You voluntarily assume the risk of serious injury or death by attending this event. I'm happy to take the risk. I've been looking forward to this for months. No. Years.

Ira, a smiling man in his 60s from New Jersey, dressed from head to toe in a funky neon orange outfit with matching face paint, is my greeter. As is customary, and since I'm a "Burn Virgin" (meaning that this is my first time at Burning Man), he commands me to exit the car and either ring a large bell, or roll in the dust. But he strongly encourages me to do both. And with that, I've been baptized as the newest citizen of Black Rock City. I'm now part of the world's largest temporary community.



The first task of the day is obvious - finding a spot to camp. While due to Black Rock City's massive space that might not seem like a particular challenge, finding just the *right* spot however is. My two campmates Sarah and Aaron and I drive around for about half an hour, until some stranger in a sarong jumps out into the street, lunges through the driver's side window, and yells: "Welcome! Welcome, darlings!" We decide we found our spot.

Setting up camp however comes at a higher price. Ceaseless gusts of wind drive ultra-fine alkali dust (also known as "playa" dust) into our eyes, lungs and skin. Within minutes, we resemble flour-coated versions of ourselves. Scrambling for cover, we try to figure out a design for a camp that will shield us from wind, dust and heat.

The first two attempts fail miserably. The tarp we try to string between our two 12-foot tall lodgepole tripods and along the ground as a wind break behaves like a giant sail and rips the ropes right out of our fingers. Hoisting it up as a shade cover has the same cruel effect. I can sense the Playa Gods pointing at us and laughing hysterically.

Finally, on third try - success. Those two 10-ft "EZ-shade" canopies I brought along are set up in the blink of an eye, the candy-cane rebar driven into the hard playa turn into immovable anchors. But the tent is a setback again. My Ridgeway is too large to set up in these harsh conditions, and gets mercilessly blown around.

I curse this desert. I curse my decision to have come here. And I start to question if this trip was truly worth it. My eyes are burning, my lungs draw in more dust with every breath, my hands are raw from the alkali and hammering rebar into the ground. I have a strong desire to quit, to return to safety. What sado-masochistic bastard would come out here for the sake of - fun?, I ask myself. Goddamn Larry.



Moments later, I discover something unexpected. Something that seems to permeate the people of Black Rock City, is ingrained in their very fiber. The survivor in me. I'll be damned if I give into this wind and dust, I tell myself. If 38,000 other people can do it, so can I.

Hours later the wind subsides a bit. Enough to venture out on the bike, explore this mythical place I've heard of so much of. I'm happy to be here now. The city is vast, much bigger than I ever envisioned. I see the first open display of carefree nudity - three guys, jumping around on a trampoline, laughing and hollering like children. They seem completely oblivious to the fact that anywhere else in the world, people would have shielded their children's eyes from this sight, would have called on them to put their clothes back on, or at least would have shaken their heads and declared them insane. Here in Black Rock however, three naked guys jumping on a trampoline can be considered the most normal thing in the world - barely warranting a glance.

As night falls for the first time on the fully assembled city, the desert comes alive with music and light. A throbbing heartbeat unites its citizens, an almost unimaginable array of flashing lights in all colors, shapes and forms illuminate their smiling faces.

This night my sleep is deep, fueled by utter exhaustion. I dream of colors and faces in absurd constellations.

Part 2

Yes, folks - I'm back from Burning Man.



And since I know that everybody is going to ask me the same damn inevitable "So - how was it?" question, I've given this some thought on the 8-hour ride back, and will try to describe it here as best as I can. (Although it has to be noted that everybody's experience at Burning Man is wildly unique, and it is virtually impossible to describe with words exactly what the event is like if you haven't been there yourself.)

So, ok.

Think of the wildest, craziest, sexiest party you've ever been to.
Then think of the biggest, loudest, maddest amusement park you've ever been to.
Multiply that by a thousand.
Add 24-hour techno music.
Take a hit of acid.
No, wait.
Make that two hits.
Vigoriously shake.
Serve on a windy-and-dusty-as-hell 100-degree platter.
Enjoy.

And guess what? I'm not exaggerating.

Needless to say, this site will be saturated with images and writings from the event over the next few weeks (as will my other blog over at emeraldbayphoto.com), so stay tuned. Or if you voted for Bush in the last election, you might wanna tune out right now.