Wednesday, August 29th

Another hot day is cooking itself up on the playa. There's a threat of rain in the air.



I get up late, hang out, shoot the breeze with my neighbors, but am in general not terribly motivated to do anything or go anywhere. It just seems to be kind of a calm, relaxed day. Also, Renee is moving into her friend's RV today, about a block away, as was the plan all along - so I'm a bit bummed.

Bone Tree, by Dana Albany

After a while, I decide that time's a wastin' and head out to go see some art before the heat of the day really descends.

Guardian of Eden, by Kate Raudenbush

Overall, there seems to be a disappointing number of art installations on the playa this year. And what's out there isn't particularly interesting. At least not in comparison to the last two years. Sure, there are a few cool ones. There is the Big Rig Jig, for one.

Big Rig Jib, by Mike Ross

They are still tinkering around with it (and it's *Wednesday*) - but when it's done, it will be quite an astonishing feat of metal sculpturing and engineering. Mostly also, because people can actually crawl around inside of it.

Homouroboros, by Peter Hudson

Then there is the Monkey Zoetrope. This one's cool, because the art installation only activates when a bunch of participants do exactly the right things, together - yet nobody knows what they have to be. There are bikes to tread on however, and drums to beat, and after some experimenting, the installation suddenly comes to life. If you grab one of the masks and look through them, you get an optical illusion of a monkey, slinging himself from branch to branch, while a green snake comes out of its mouth.... cool.



Also - the Tree House is neat:

Steampunk Treehouse, by Sean Orlando

Overall though, it seems like the Black Rock Arts Foundation has poured a major part of its grant money into one single, gargantuan project - Crude Awakening by artist Dan Das Mann who has contributed his signature metal sculptures to the playa in years past. This installation however consists of six (!) huge metal lace sculptures, worshipping a true-to-life-sized oil derrick. A poignant statement about man's slavish dependence on oil, for sure ...



As the day heats up, I find myself seeking cooling in the shade of the Temple. David Best's effort this year is stunning - a Japanese-style structure, made of delicate and intricate wooden cut-outs.

Temple of Forgiveness, by David Best and Tim Dawson

After gathering my thoughts, I follow my fellow citizens example and leave messages in the Temple for a few people from my past and present.





Random note in the Temple ...

Biking back to my camp, I think about the public perception that Burning Man is just all about art, drugs, sex, raves, faux-fur and glow sticks. If only they could spend some time at the Temple - I'm pretty sure they would change their opinion ... [And dammit, Halcyon - you made me cry again...]

The remainder of the day and night I spend between the Chill Dome, Spike's, and biking around on the playa. There is still no new Man.

Tuesday, August 28th

It's inescapable. The news of The Man's untimely burn last night has swept, rippled and gushed through Black Rock like a tsunami. Not in the least because the tall wooden statue, clad in green neon, is usually visible from almost every vantage point in the city. This morning however, he resembles more a black, charred and crispy imitation of his former self.



Media Mecca is packed when I arrive, and they even have a news ticker set up, announcing that The Man burned for a whole 23 minutes, and Paul David Addis, a San Francisco-based artist, has been arrested in connection with the arson. Thanks to the city's (unreliable and weak, but nonetheless existing) WiFi network, bloggers and journalists are busy leaking the news into the Default World. There is Brian Doherty in a corner, feverishly tapping away at his laptop for Wired, and I run into my AP buddy Brad, who is crying into his beer because he slept through the entire ordeal. I comfort him by telling him that while I was there, I didn't have my camera with me. So - which is worse, exactly?

As for myself (and because enough people have asked my opinion already): I'm all for anarchy, folks. But I still feel the arsonist is an asshole and his action was a giant "fuck you" to all Black Rock citizens. Mostly because hardly any of the almost 50,000 attendants got to see the Green Technology exhibit in the pavilion below The Man, as it had to close during the rebuild. Many people had poured months of hard work, brain power and tons of money into those exhibits - not to mention the poor DPW workers who now had to spend days in the heat, rebuilding The Man. I for one would have loved to see the exhibits and learn from them - but I never got the chance. So not cool.



Otherwise though - business goes on as usual. Black Rock's citizens don't seem to be too concerned that this will impact the event much - and they are certainly not going to let this dampen their spirit or fun. While strolling around Center Camp and picking up snippets of random conversations, I get the sense that they have faith that The Man will be resurrected in time for the Saturday Burn - and that's really all that matters.



After swinging by the Crispy Man and taking a few shots, I return to the city, stopping off by the BRC Post Office on my way. I bribe a grumpy postal worker into sending out a postcard, and he persuades me to play postal delivery girl for a few pieces of mail. Hey, why not? Right? "Don't give up your mail without demanding a bribe or in the very least harassing the recipient", he advises me with a sly grin. "Oh, and don't deliver mail to Spike's before dusk - those guys don't appear before nightfall anyway ..." Hahaha. Tell me something I don't know...



My first mail delivery goes to the Necklace Factory. To get his envelope, the nice Southern man there bribes me with a dust mask, a battery-powered mini fan, and a candle in the shape of a corn cobb. Uhmmm... thanks? Second stop is Silk City. They offer me either some playa bling - or a copy of Shel Silverman's 'Where the Sidewalk Ends'. Renee gets all excited when she sees the book and urges me to go for that. I do - and indeed... good choice. Funny stuff.



It's simmering hot this afternoon, with absolutely no breeze. So napping in the tent is not an option. Luckily, there is relief in sight. There is a silver Chill Dome at Conexus, only about half a block away from my camp - with a swamp cooler, blowing cold air across the pillow-and-mattress-covered floor. Hurray! I lay down amidst a bunch of people, and nap for a few hours, until the worst of the heat is over.

I decide tonight to strike out on my own. First stop is Spike's, where I deliver my mail, and hang out for a while. As every year though, The Temple magically draws me to it. And as much as I try and stay away from it (because I know how much it affects me), I can't resist it. So I sit by the Temple, read the words of grief and remembrance people have written on its columns and surfaces, and think about the people in my life I love and miss. Those I wish were still with me, and those I wish could be here with me right now. And when I can't stand it anymore, I bike out into the deep playa to be alone...

Monday, August 27th:

As I crawl out of my tent this morning, the weather is calm and beautiful. No wind or dust in the air. But with the clarity, a sense of inevitable afternoon heat is already building. This is going to be a *very hot* day ...With all the new arrivals since last night, the noise and activity level has risen to new heights too, and the city seems truly alive for the first time - like an ant hill whose inhabitants have quite suddenly returned from a long absence abroad...

I contemplate going to Center Camp for coffee, but before I can gather myself enough to make the trek, my lovely neighbor Ben shows up with a pot of coffee. Did I mention that the playa has a random and magical way of providing just what you want or need at any given moment?

Renee, Ben, Dave and myself decide to go explore the playa a bit with our bikes. At least one rumor has come true: the playa is *soft* this year. Large sand pits dot the normally solid lake bed. If you bike into one a bit too fast, you have to be prepared to either face-plant or get stuck in the sand, having to get off your bike and walk out of the pit. It makes biking on the playa hugely more hazardous than in years past - and it's certainly a big consideration in relation to biking at night or in an ... ehmmm ... let's call it "inebriated state" ...



After getting stuck a few times, Renee however consults her extensive mountain biking knowledge and teaches me to shift my weight away from my handlebars when biking into a pit, and to go *slow*... Indeed, this makes rolling through the sand a lot easier - and it turns out to be the possibly single-most useful bit of playa info someone has passed on to me this year.



Ben - after getting inspired and taking welding classes following his first burn - is proudly showing off his awesome metal art installation on the playa, right on the way from Center Camp to the Man. This is what I love about Burning Man. It sparks creativity in people in the most unusual ways ...



We stop to do the Hokey-Pokey with about 20 other people (who knew shaking your bootie, your knee, your hips and your elbow could be this much fun?). And Renee and I check in at Media Mecca to get our camera and media tags - where I meet Brad, an Associated Press photographer from Carson City. Little do I know that in the coming days, Brad will teach me a valuable lesson about what it means to be a working photographer on the playa ...

Back at camp, we discover that a slew of new neighbors have arrived. There are Derek and Morgan, a lovely couple from LA, who I supply with just the right tools to get their bikes comfortable. And then there are Cy and Jen, friends from Sidney, Australia, camping with Mike and Rosie, a young couple from Manchester, England. It takes me a while, but eventually I figure out that Mike and Cy are actually brothers - and Burning Man is their excuse to meet, hang out, and have a good time. All of our neighbors have turned out to be utterly awesome, and I'm grateful beyond words for that...



The rising full moon signals that this is going to be no ordinary night. As a matter of fact, it's the night of the full lunar eclipse. Renee and I decide to start off the evening with a visit to Spike's Vampire Bar - the playa's most deliciously dark, subversive and seductive club. I've waited a full year to be able to walk into that dimly-lit half-dome again, order a cup of "blood" at the bar, plant myself in a plastic chair, put my platform boots up on a coffin and kick back, while listening to Depeche Mode, Kidney Thieves, Massive Attack and other tunes. Awesome.

Aside from the cool atmosphere and the gorgeous ladies, one of Spike's attractions is that one always connects with the most interesting people. I meet EvilTed, Spike staffer and special effects guy from LA (he contributed the awesome, life-like 'playa virgin', suspended over the bar and source of all 'blood'), and Chris, one of Spike's founders. We have so much fun, that as 2.30am rolls around, Renee and I have to forcefully tear ourselves away and walk out onto the darkened playa, so as not to miss the lunar eclipse.

We sit on the Flaming Lotus Girls stage and watch the moon turn from its full silver disc, to something that looks like it had a bite taken out of, to a mysterious red. And no sooner than the eclipse is complete, quiet cries start to ripple through the crowd - "Look! The Man is ON FIRE!" Yeah. Uh-huh. Right. Suuuuure. The Man is on fire. Another playa joke. Right?

But no. Really. He is on fire! He's fucking *burning*! And it's only *Monday*!

HOLY CRAP.

Renee and I follow the crowd by briskly walking over to the Man. Now there are lights, sirens, fire engines. He burns very slowly, almost as if he's resisting. We stand in silent wonder amidst the few hundred onlookers. It's 3am - most people are either asleep or at the Eclipse Party, far away at the trash fence, so the crowd is relatively small. Large beams of water extinguish the fire, dumping huge amounts of water on him. He almost looks as if he's drowning. But really - what's the point? He was born to burn ...

People whisper: "How could this happen? Sabotage? A prank by The Org? An electrical fire, perhaps?" Contrary to most news reports though, I don't hear a single "Let him burn!" cry (but... don't we already know we can't trust the mainstream media?) I curse my decision momentarily not to have brought my camera. But - oh, well. So it goes...

And such is Burning Man. Always full of surprises. ADD is in the very dust you breath.

Sunday, August 26th

Renee and I get up late after our first night sleeping on the playa, putter around camp for most of the morning, set up the (new and improved) shower, and just let the playa mood permeate our beings.



Where else in the world does virtually every single passerbyer wave or smile at you? Some people wandering by say hello or welcome, some get off their bikes to give spontaneous hugs, and yet others take a rest at our camp for a casual chat, to give updates on the weather or exchange playa gossip. It's a tradition at Burning Man to put out prank rumors, and the city is usually awash with them. The challenge (and fun) is always to figure out exactly what is true and what isn't...

We spend a sweltering afternoon volunteering at 'Media Mecca', contributing our muscle to a pool of volunteers who hang lights, put up signs and flags, and in general pretty up the place. Who would have thought that my handiness with a screw-gun would actually bear fruit some day? On the playa even? It feels good to do something utterly selfless for once, without even the remotest chance of any retribution of any kind from anybody - except maybe a smile and a hug. And the satisfaction of being able to stand back, admire the product of an afternoon of sweating, and say "I did that!".

Another way of rewarding yourself on the playa comes in the form of something wet and cold - cocktails! Back at camp, Renee and I kick back with a refreshing vodka tonic, and get ready for the night. Hmmm... what to wear? I know! Tonight, it will be my blue sequined flame pants, a fur jacket, and my 5-inch Demonia platform boots. Yes. This is the height I was born to be. The universe only forgot to give me those last 5 inches ...

As the sun sinks behind the Western mountains, another Burning Man tradition makes itself heard: a loud singing "whoooohoooo!" arises out of the city, as its citizens turn towards the vanishing golden orb, raise their arms and bid it goodbye, ready to embrace the night. Burning Man a pagan event? Naaahhh ...

We head over to Jocko's, a friend of Renee's we ran into earlier at Playa Info, for some more cocktails. Jocko's tent is a shelter of the most wondrous kind - a desert tent he had special-ordered from India. Tall, round and cozy, this lush canvas tent is like the presidential suite of playa dwellings - despite the relatively modest footprint, it is big enough to accommodate a double-tall queen mattress, a costume rack, a bench, a chair, and a small table. The amazing thing is though that it is also dust-proof enough to host a laptop without dust cover. Note to self: Look into one of these for next year's burn ...

In Jocko's tent, I meet Peter, a gentle older man of luminous intellect and wit. Peter tells me about the challenges of designing, engineering and building one of the most spectacular art pieces on the playa last year: the Conexus Cathedral. He speaks of calculating arch tension and wind resistance, and having to drive huge anchors into the playa to make sure the structure didn't come tumbling down onto the heads of any burners ... I'm intrigued - but suddenly it's 11.30pm and time to bike out to the Greeter's Gate to watch the masses pour in for the midnight opening!



A seemingly endless string of shimmering, twinkling lights stretches across the darkness - in what turns out to be miles upon miles of cars. They are patiently creeping along in a neat line, eager to be admitted to the city. Thundering disco music pulses through the night, fueling the wild, howling party that is Greeter's Gate. People are everywhere - dancing, jumping, skipping and hopping through the dust in utter chaos, briefly illuminated in strobe-fashion by random car light beams.



Fire-spewing art cars rock the night with sudden, random heat. There is a girl in a floor-length pink faux-fur coat. A bunny-girl dashes past me. Santa is passing out event programs with a smile and a booming voice. Members of camp Apokaliptika, dressed in old war uniforms and donning oven-mitten-betipped faux (?) rifles, seem to be in charge of the impromptu bar. A guy in a pope hat and wearing tiny gloves on his ears hits me up in his British accent.



Renee and I dance and skip around for a while, I try and take some shots of the chaos, but eventually we get sucked into helping out as greeters. It's great fun to see the astonished, wide-eyed faces of first-year attendees, knowing that truly - "they've ain't seen nothin' yet...". Neighbor Dave even harasses a group of virgins into making dust angels ... Returning burners instantly reconnect with the mood of excitement and enthusiasm at the gate though and drive off, waving, hooting and yelling out their car windows...



Finally, Renee and I are too cold and tired to go on. We bike back to the city and our camp, falling asleep to a concerto of roaring engines, hammers pounding rebar into the ground, and a new layer of music, penetrating the night.

Saturday, August 25th:

After months of preparations and anticipation, it's finally that time again. I rub the sleep out of my eyes at 5am and grab a cup of coffee, ready to slide behind the steering wheel of my rental minivan and hit the road to that dusty, scorching hot and windy place in the Nevada desert called "Black Rock City" - a huge, temporary city, arising out of an ancient dry lake bed once a year, for one week only, to become that mystical event ... Burning Man. This will be my third consecutive pilgrimage in just as many years.

My camp mate Renee and I take off just as the first light of day breaks. Six hours later, we arrive at the gates of the city, greeted by a massive wind and dust storm that enfolds the waiting line of cars in a blinding white-out (it appears the forecasters really weren't kidding ...). It's always amazing to me how quickly everything inside a car is penetrated by the dust, even with the windows tightly closed ... and I can almost hear the Playa Gods cackle their mischievous "Welcome back to Black Rock!"


Meet my camp mate Renee! No, the bandanna over her face isn't part of the costume. It looks clear right now, but trust me - it was dusty just a moment ago.

Officially, the event doesn't start until Monday morning, 12.01am. As working media however, Renee and I have obtained special permission from Burning Man LLC (also generally referred to as "the org") to enter the city earlier - partially due to our willingness to volunteer in helping build 'Media Mecca', a camp dedicated to tending to all attending professional journalists and photographers.

Thank goodness this isn't the first visit to Burning Man for either of us. At the greeter's gate, amongst others, we see a leathery naked guy with a long spindly beard, handing out event programs and greeting people. As I am still in my somewhat persnickety Default World mode, I quietly hope he'll ignore us and that we'll get another greeter - but of course he makes a bee-line straight for our car. "Any virgins aboard?" he smiles. We shake our heads in unison. If we had been indeed virgins (as first-year participants are called), we would have had to get out of the car, ring a ceremonial bell, and roll in the dust. And most likely we would have gotten a big ole' bear hug from the naked guy...

He leans into the car and hands us our programs - and I realize, it's time again to concurrently leave all preconceived notions, judgments, inhibitions and awkwardness towards non-clothed people at the gate, together with the naked greeter. I take a deep breath, and get over the fact that a naked old man is casually informing me that today has been the first dusty and windy day on the playa in a week...


Naked guy in a white-out - need I really say more?

We drive through the gate and ... we are HOME again. Despite being a viciously dry, hot and dusty place for most of the year, Black Rock City is called "home" by its citizens. It's where our true selves reside - and although we are on leave for 51 weeks of the year, we get to come here for 1 week out of the year to be ourselves, to express ourselves freely, to dwell without judgments or inhibitions amongst our fellow humans. It's so good to be home again. It feels as if no time at all has passed.

Renee and I find an open space on the coordinates of 3.45 and Freshwater, get out of the car, and acquaint ourselves with our new neighbors. Right away, we find we are in luck: Ben and Dave, two middle-aged high school friends from Modesto, CA, and Seattle, WA, kindly lend us a hand in setting up our camp, pounding rebar stakes into the ground and pulling up shades, cracking good-natured jokes all the while. This is indeed a good start.


Our camp - in all its glory

White-outs and high winds whip the playa until the late afternoon, but the yet sparsely-populated city is relaxed and quiet. We bike out to pay our respects to The Man, but he's still partially under construction, and the pavilion underneath is yet inaccessible (as is Center Camp, Arctica, and many of the other regular theme camps). After a small dinner and a well-deserved cocktail, Renee and I retire, and as late-evening winds tear at our tents, we fall asleep under the spell of utter exhaustion.

I'm still decompressing, folks.

But I *am* working on my first day Burning Man post, to be live ... uhmm... soon.

In the meantime - for all your pyros out there (you know who you are)... a shot of the Man burning last Saturday night:

That's right.

I'm back.

But I'm in my usual post-burn decompression depression funk.

Once that has subsided (and I get my image-processing computer back from Jake), an account of the happenings with pics shall follow.

Until then - you can amuse yourselves a bit with these blog entries in The Source from my camp mate and writer Renee Davidson. And if you look closely, you can even find a pic of me in there somewhere. Heh.

PS: to Keena - I got monkey shots for you, girl! :)