(Continued from an earlier post)
In general, I preferred the days at Burning Man over the nights. During the day, the natural beauty of the desert sparkled, creating a picturesque frame for each person and scene. My friend and I tried to get reasonable sleep throughout the week and on Sunday, our last full day, we awoke at 10am. We woke to our 3rd RVmate packing everything up to leave, a day earlier than planned. We considered. But this wasn’t right! We had plans with new friends today, and we wanted to watch the Temple burn tonight! We hopped on our bikes to return the furry coats and headscarves we’d borrowed the night before, after the temperature had dropped drastically. This would give us time to think and plan—maybe we’d seen enough during our 4 days and could let it go? We’d had some full days already I guess…

Cruising on my bike, wind fresh in my face, I look around at the scene. The Man burned the night before, so today, I can distinguish the people for whom last night’s party has not yet ended. They mingle happily, sometimes obliviously, amidst the others. I witness a few meltdowns this morning as well; I watch as 2 dedicated people try to reason against frustration and alcohol and lack of sleep manifest in the form of their friend, who pounds her fist on a truck bed. Instead of anxiety, this scene sparks a funny realization of the variety of expression so appropriately related to “burning”. Your skin burns from the alkaline in the sand, your eyes burn from lack of sleep or the fine dust in the air; you may melt down from time to time; you slather on sunscreen in order not to burn; you are paralyzed in amazement as countless ideas are sparked in your consciousness, and of course, you can’t believe how hot and raw people look, a smoking sexiness everywhere.

The burlesquey, circusey style that epitomizes the Burner theme confused me until I experienced it for myself. I used to think the whole style contrived; I still think there’s something odd about dressing the part for something billed as nonconformist and intended to inspire creativity (and I count myself guilty for this by the way) but there are a couple things I learned about this. First, in any social gathering, any culture or society, there exist mutually-created social norms, rules and customs, and in this regard, Black Rock City is a city like any other. Secondly, I found that the style is not only functional, it also exposes the raw, wild west energy of the experience and its severe location. Exposes how, out of the dust, a fresh society throbs to life, burning the sky and then packing itself up and leaving town with the feathered flutter of a cast-off costume. And how, just beneath this pulsation, Bradbury’s ghost lingers about the nooks of the city, portending a coming death. It is an intense but brief encounter, far from whatever role you may be required to assume in your normal life, and there is something darkly sexy and dramatic about this.

Just as you accustom yourself to some feature of reality, it may change form completely. So, every day has its own quality, its own feel. Well, Sunday morning was—forgive me—absolutely Divine. The energy was crisp, quiet, clear. The thumping bass and choppy music was absent and I could hear bluesy tunes, a touch of reggae floating in the distance. It felt like a Sunday, clean and fresh, with a spaciousness that felt different from every other day that week. Out in the middle of the playa, silver ribbons of sand whipped up into the sky like angelic tendrils.

Still riding our bikes around the Esplanade, we float past gorgeous house music easing out of the Philadelphia Experiment camp, and tears start to fill my vision. That was it, my mind was made up. From then on, it was a matter of details. We set our intention and watched as what we needed—a trike to haul our suitcases back across the playa, a ride to our next destination, a place to sleep for the night—materialized before us. What else did we need? Now we were committed, and I felt no fear; once the decision was made, I was optimistic and useful. As everyone reminded us, we couldn’t be in a better place—we would have no problem finding what we needed. They were right ultimately, but not without a few bumps and not without a cost.

So, we collected our gear, traipsing back across the playa behind men in skirts schlepping our stuff on bikes. A mild dust storm kicked up, so we took cover in an art installation inside a metal camper. Colorful lights greeted us from chandelier-type clusters, sea-anemone objects which, if you got closer (and I’m sure that was the artist’s intention), you noticed were a huge variety of sex toys. They were absolutely gorgeous, beads and dildos of all sizes, lit from underneath. We stayed out the storm and promised to come back at night, when the installation was expanded and “even better”. (It was! Giant flowers of light grew out of bins placed around the camper’s opened doors, softening the night’s darkness.) After one more stop—this time to dance an Irish pirate jig in exchange for a rum snow cone—we reached the other side of the Playa and we were free! Our Sunday could begin…