Dusty Man

Burning Man was a success. Much fun was had, hugs were given, and surprisingly, most of the drugs were untaken. It was quieter than normal for me, I think because I was with my girlfriend. Women have a moderating effect on men. Men tend to behave better when women are around, especially if the woman is allowing the man to place his penis inside her various pleasure orifices and deposit into them several spoonfuls of milky manjuice. The week went by as fast as it did slow. For the first time ever, I got normal levels of rest and avoided partying every night. I'm not sure how I feel about my newfound sense of restraint and responsibility. For me, Burning Man has always been a place of frenzied indulgence, dancing, and sleepless nights. With this increased mindfulness and progressive forethought, I felt out of my element, soft, uncertain, susceptible to a sort of vulnerability I was not very comfortable with. In the hearts of all men there is the need to protect those we love. As a boy I felt it for my sister, my mother and my brother, even my father. This masculine quality - this aggression begotten by fear - begs us to fight against unseen evils and protect from harm those we hold dear. During my first night of sleep in the desert I woke up from an anxiety dream in which I had been deliberately drugged and rendered useless, conscious enough to recognize my helplessness, but completely immobilized as I watched two men drag away my unconscious girlfriend. I'll leave it to your imagination what they intended to do to her. Nightmarish thoughts like these swam around like sharks in my unconscious mind, and each time I gave them attention, each time I thought I saw the sharp protrusion of a fin cutting against the surface of the water, I was squeezing a drop of blood into the murky depths. Anxiety sometimes functions like quicksand. You'll find that the more you struggle against it, the more you become ensnared. One night, just before sundown, I'd taken a hit of pure MDMA and felt absolutely nothing. No euphoria, no happy buoyancy, no release. I couldn't relax. My worry had diminished somewhat, but that was all. I was reminded that the mind is an incredibly powerful thing. For it to be able to completely nullify the desired effects of the substance and literally suppress the chemical process I'd forced upon it was staggering to me. Could fire decide not to flare when gasoline is poured on it? I knew it would be an interesting Burn.

Sunday night, the first night Holly and I went out together, we came across a parade of brightly glowing art cars. I'd never seen so many of them in a straight line before. It seemed ALL of the cars were there. And they were. It was a DMV check-in. We circled around and marveled at the spectacle, picking out the cars we wanted to ride on later in the week and taking lots of bad photos to document the experience. We didn't know it yet, but we were on our way to becoming full-fledged photo journalists. From there we bounced from one art installation to the next until we happened upon an FDA-certified-organic, scented art installation that everyone is bound to explore at least once: the portapotties. For some reason, while standing outside the stinking sewage pods, I was struck by a great outpouring of love and affection for my lady. I kissed her and told her how happy I was to be here with her, how surreal it all felt. We hugged and then laughed before peddling off madly into the night. Soon, the first storm of many unleashed itself and spun out around us, blotting out the light, blocking all but 3-feet of visibility. Everything was imbued with a vast smallness; nothing could be seen anywhere, everywhere. The wind became so oppressive that it was hard to ride against it. We had to wait. Dust swirled around us, beating itself to pieces against our bikes and bodies. I'd wrapped a scarf around my mouth and secured my goggles over my eyes but somehow the sand still found me. Eventually, by leveraging my keen sense of direction, and 6 years of experience with these types of situations, I got us home.

There was one night when Paul got himself deep into a K-hole. What an A-hole! He'd been drinking in the sun all day and then decided to do a massive bump or two of ketamine. Quickly, he discovered this was a no-no. As I was walking toward the cooler for a cold beer, I saw him spill out from the doggydoor of his yurt. I mused at how he'd just exited through the anus of his desert dwelling. "I'm floored," he yelled/slurred as he rolled onto his back. Indeed, he was. Though he couldn't stand, he seemed happy enough. I sat with him for a time, with my hand on his heart, and we talked about the time-tested ways to survive a K-hole: wait. Soon, jealous of his position, I decided to join him, and asked for the K. One bump, two bumps, three bumps and no more. Unfortunately I never quite fell as deeply into the hole as he did, but I did achieve some pleasantly floaty dreaminess as I lay staring up at the stars. By the time things had worn off for me, Paul had clawed himself up out from the bottom of his psychedelic well.

Holly and I made several attempts at eating mushrooms, but each time we took them they seemed to sedate us to the point of exhaustion. One night, after a long day, once we tired of cycling, we crawled inertially toward an empty hammock somewhere on the 8:00 side and climbed into it with all the grace and poise of a pair of blind porpoises. Cradled and rocking calmly in the arms of the desert wind, we fell asleep to the sound of thumping base, clinking bike chains, and hissing swells of fire. Soon the temperature dropped and the cold claimed our tired toes. Slowly we escaped our frosty cocoon and staggered toward our bikes to travel back to camp.

After a long Friday of sightseeing and chance friend encounters, at night me and my baby partied. We danced to Random Rab in a desert storm that cleared just long enough to watch a beautiful pink, purple and orange sunset. As we opened our hearts to one another on the long ride home, we were accosted by a British man who begged us to join him for the last night of a psychedelic planetarium projection experience. We explained that we needed to return to our camp, which was just down the block, so that we could change into matching bunny outfits. He could tell by the size of our pupils that we'd be back. Hurriedly we changed and raced back to the giant geodesic dome. Once we were inside, we joined dozens of other psychonauts and got horizontal. The movie was a series of animated shorts that made use of dynamically changing perspectives, colors and sounds, all of which created the sensation of floating through space, or riding in the back of a flatbed track through the streets of San Francisco with only the silhouettes of skyscrapers as your guide. The whole sequence was very much like what I'd imagine a DMT trip to be like; fractals, geometric patterning, warping and bending of distances. After the movie ended we went back to camp and filled our pocket apothecaries with illicit delights. We exhausted all the art on the deep playa while cuddling on luminous mushrooms and giant gramophones. We made friends with a bunch of burners who joined us for a chat beneath a darkened graveyard trellis festooned with wine leaves and wrapped vines. We managed to catch a friend's DJ set at Robot Heart and then watch the sunrise at the trash fence. Requisitely we drifted in and out of sleep while we lay wrapped in one another on the cracked floor of the playa as the soft, gentle warmth of the sun washed over us from above the mountains. The whole night we only made one mistake: we stood in the longest soup line in the world, while our drugs were wearing off. It felt like hours...because it was. Holly had had enough. "I can't take this," she said as her face twisted and contorted through all forms of unveiled antipathy. I assured her we'd get through it, but her energy was powerfully fierce and I felt it cutting at my own. "Talk," she demanded. I tried to think of topics but my brain had become a knotted ball of melted asbestos. "I've got nothing, babe. I'm a zombie. Why don't you introduce a topic? My inquiry was met with baleful, glaring silence. For a moment, I thought she might slap my teeth off, or beat me with a sock full of batteries. It's hard, when you're on drugs, and someone in your company - the only one in your company - isn't having a good time. It's very easy to feel all their dissatisfaction and irritation and believe it's being directed at you. In fact, some of it probably is. Misdirected energies are sharp and subversive on comedowns. We got through it, though, and she even volunteered to pay for my dentist bill! The hot soup was enormously nourishing and necessary and it got us through the night.

Sunday night is a significant night at Burning Man. It's the night The Temple burns; the spiritual centerpiece of the experience. This event is in stark contrast to the event of the previous night, where wild ruckus, riotous dancing and scantily-clad screaming set the scene. Sunday the dust smells somehow more somber. Just before sunset people make a slow pilgrimage toward the wooden structure. There is a palpable sense of ending. Once the sun is down, the necessary preparations take place and the burn begins in silence. A faint kindling, subtle popping, signs of smoke. The inside of the building brightens and the flames leap up and out. Sounds of crackling continue, swirls of smoke create little dust devils, thin tornadoes that twist outward toward the crowd. The fire surges until you can feel it on your face. Briefly, the darkness is illuminated as the entire temple is consumed in fire. It roars as the flames devour it, licking the surface of the wood and turning it black. Sometimes prevailing winds may change direction and sweep up ashen cinders and glowing embers, raining them slowly down like burning snow. As the fire came down on us people started to panic and scatter, raising their hands to protect their faces and heads as they ran. I didn't move. I lost Holly. After a few minutes I turned to see if she'd inched back up, but there was no sign of her. I missed her. Once the burn ended I looked for her by our bikes but couldn't find her there. Circling a small perimeter didn't bring her any closer, so I went back to the bikes. I found her crying. She told me she was afraid and lost and alone. I wiped the tears from her eyes and kissed her. The fire had burned holes through her coat. But, luckily, she hadn't been burned. She looked beautiful; her tired, wet eyes, the way her body sought refuge as it collapsed into mine, the dusty, tangles of hair which hung from her head and framed her face, the soft, powdery sheen the wind and sand had painted on her cheeks. I didn't want to lose her again.

We left Monday morning at 8:00AM. I'd forgotten about the unpleasantness of departure from this place, and the sickening pace of it. Leaving Burning Man is the penultimate trial, one of the final rites of passage. It only takes driving into standstill traffic at 10mph, and then pulsing ahead at breakneck speeds of 0mph - once every hour - to remind one of the luxury and the liberty speed affords. It took us 6 hours to exit, which isn't bad, considering it took some more than 9 hours. Our total travel time home was around 14 hours, by the end of which I was completely zombified. I think a fistful of ketamine would have kept me more alert than my spent sobriety.

My nostrils are destroyed, cracked, eroded, and caked with clay. Each morning I'd perform my daily ritual of blowing chunks of stale booger paste and blood from my nose into a moist towelette before coughing up neon green and black mucus that had gotten into my throat and lungs via the process of post-nasal drip. These morning routines (and the boogers) were made harder and more painful if I'd taken any ketamine the night before. On the last night, after The Temple had burned, we stopped off at a little bar called Cirque Gitane. From the outside the camp looked like shit. It had a clownish, barnyard aesthetic that seemed as uninteresting as it did uninviting. Seamus had mentioned he'd gotten a glimpse of it earlier in the night and recommended we pop our heads in for a quick pint. I wondered if the place was full of midgets and monkeys wearing clown noses and performing lewd, bestial sex acts and I started getting excited. Naturally, we went in. As is often the case at Burning Man, the exterior betrayed the interior. It was ornate and finely decorated, with regal couches, Roman busts and bizarre statues, oil paintings and expensive-looking rustic tarps that resembled worn leather. The patrons of the place were warm and unpretentious despite their lavish surroundings, and suddenly I felt silly for the baseless and hasty judgement I made before entering. As we drank to our friends who couldn't join us this year, a woman came by and delivered us fresh ice cream. An invisible DJ played great downtempo classics by Etta James, Booker T, and some nameless, forgotten soul singers from times passed. Before we knew it, we were drunk; stoned, with bellies full of ice cream. I started farting and decided it was time to return to camp. Back at camp we found the rest of our friends and kept the drinks coming. We sat under glimmering stars, in cheap, dust-covered fold-up chairs placed halfway under the auspices of a fluttering EZ-Up. The sound of the wind as it rustled through the shade structure quieted us. Soft and distant music. Comfort. After a few group hugs, a bump of ketamine, a hit of salvia, and some nonsense conversation, I called it a night. I drifted away, blown on the breeze back toward my tent. There I found my lady, asleep, buried in her sleeping bag, a night light left on for me so that I could see. I kissed her when I got into bed, though she didn't wake. I fell asleep happy.

I feel like I should have some sagely advice or worthwhile wisdom to impart. Burning Man, while it is a magical place, seems to lose that magic over time. There are strong parallels between the experience and MDMA. Both are transformative, allow you to see the world in a different way, fill you full of love and make even the cheapest copper seem beautifully gilded. But, like so many other things, its potency is diminished through repetition. The same dose starts to provide less. A subtle emptiness makes itself known as you realize the effect isn't quite what it used to be. I'm not saying Burning Man has changed, or that it's worse now, but I think I've changed - I've taken from it what I needed. That's not to say it isn't fun to go see friends and party or see cool art while having near-total freedom for a week. I'd still encourage anyone who expresses any interest in the experience to go. And I don't mean to say I don't love the place. I do. What I'm realizing is that you get what you put in. It isn't enough to simply go - you have to be ready to let the place go to you. To peer into it without allowing it to peer back is a failing of sorts. The place requires vulnerability. At its core, it is an open invitation to feel; love, pain, fear, acceptance, compassion, despair, exhaustion, confusion, comfort, communion. Sometimes the timing is wrong, or the circumstances aren't quite right and you can't let yourself go; can't surrender to the experience; can't feel the love, even though you may want to. Often wanting is not enough. Everyone wants to be smart, wealthy, in good shape, to feel loved, but few of us want to expend the energy to get there. Fear, doubt, and uncertainty motivate hesitation. Maybe I was resistant to the experience. Have you ever tried to do a headstand? Even a safe one, against a wall? Conceptually you recognize all you need to do is push forward, kick your legs up, and let gravity do the rest. But it isn't that easy. The pose is unfamiliar and scary. It FEELS like you'll fall and hurt yourself. And because you instinctively want to protect your neck, you struggle. Once you break through that initial fear, though, the exercise becomes easier and easier. The therapeutic qualities of the inversion are more fully realized and the headstand becomes pleasant. But does this happen as a result of accepting fear, or by rejecting fear? I've been thinking a lot about acceptance and rejection lately, and how they seem to be at odds. Acceptance, to me, lacks that progressive, change-oriented nature of rejection. Acceptance allows, even encourages stagnation. It seems to debase you, and allows hardship to walk all over you. Rejection, on the other hand, is to make a stand against that which you object to, those things that insult your soul, and to take actions which serve to eliminate them. While acceptance may do something to ameliorate your perspective about the thing, it doesn't address that which ails you. It is akin to accepting a poor grade on a paper instead of employing the self-discipline and perseverance required to study and achieve an A. What if athletes just accepted the fact that they will likely never be olympic medalists? What if someone accepted the feeling that they were undeserving of love? Neither of them would ever meet their potential. Acceptance does have its place, though. It is useful for dealing with things that cannot be corrected or controlled; incurable illness, or the death of a loved one. Here, acceptance, if you can find it, affords you relief from suffering. It doesn't treat them symptom, it treats your feelings about the thing. There is great power in this, for sure. But imagine there were a wasp which was repeatedly stinging you, every hour, every day. Would you rather reject the wasp or accept it? The energy expenditure for sustained acceptance of pain begins to seem torturous, while the one-time solution of crushing the wasp and disabling the mechanism for pain seems a clear cure. Maybe there is a counter argument here. Maybe the wasp is a symbol not of the wasp, but of pain itself. If you were to kill the wasp, another would rise up to take its place. Or a fire ant, a tick, bedbugs. If you accepted the fact that you are going to get bit, and that it will hurt, perhaps you'd be better equipped to deal with the myriad pains sent to plague you. Maybe then they wouldn't plague you. Major nuisances might become minor inconveniences.

They might.

Or you could just buy bug spray. Or an apiarist's jacket.