Burning Man

Hi Friends, I also posted this on fortysomething, since long ago I asked them for advice. Sorry for the redundancy.

At least as many words have been written as alkali particles riding the wind; as many photos taken as total playa residents, times 10,000, yet I want to add my words because it’s just that special to me.

In the last couple of weeks I’ve watched so many Burning Man videos with urgency, excitement and a permanent smile stretching my facial muscles. Now I find myself backing away from others’ experiences - I believe it now, I was there and want to look at and think about my own.

I’m attempting my wrap-up piece, although the much repeated and very sensible three week mark hasn’t passed yet. And I in no way believe this is the end of what I’ll write, it’s just for now. I want to preserve both my fleeting and lasting impressions and like a prehistoric short-lived dragonfly, retain my perceptions, of now, in ancient amber.

By this time, you probably know about the dust angels, ringing the bell, fire and the surreal dark streets that become so familiar you ache for them when it’s over. You know men wear skirts and women wear pasties or more and less. You know you need a lot of water and ride your bike everywhere. You know how gorgeous and other worldly the Black Rock Desert is.

By now you know there are never ending street performances, dances, art structures, surreal vehicles, parties, new people to meet and meditations. You know the day is fantastic and the nights are magical. There is time with friends and time alone, music, connections, glances, greetings, sharing, hugs, kisses, laughter and tears. Hours both race by and linger on the tongue like pear vodka.

 

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