|
I almost didn't go because I have been traveling and partying so much.
But unbelievably, my fifth Burningman was my best yet. Burningman
is an annual week-long festival in the Black Rock Desert, 110 miles
north of Reno Nevada. It's a combination of pagan harvest festival;
thirty-thousand person rave party; costume, sculpture, and performance
art extravaganza; and social experiment in radical self-expression.
The playa, as the dry lake-bed is more affectionately known, is
completely flat for miles and devoid of plants, rocks, and anything
other than dust, wind, and blistering sun. From this canvas a city of
imagination springs forth, blazes for a week, and then vanishes
without a trace. Everyone is a participant; there are no spectators.
Burningman's most distinguishing aspect is its lack of commerce: there
is no vending on site. Instead people share what they have, be it
water, jewelry, stories, music, or affection. It is a celebration of
excess, and it will exceed all your expectations. If our civilization
here on earth is like a slime-mold, a swarming colony of amoebae, then
Burningman is the fruiting
body, the spore-pod, the finest creation of the community lifted
up on a stalk for all to see, to catch the wind, to live. I camped with Lura Beaumont at the Blyss Abyss at 120 degrees and Bowsprit, home of the Rhythm Society. The centerpiece of our camp was a giant pink lotus blossom that we built, consecrated, inhabited, and no we didn't burn it, we carefully packed it away and took it home for next year. Yes, I will be back next year. For sure. |
