Burning Man: A Little Personal Background

Before I go any further in talking about my current relationship with Burning Man, such as it is, I should offer a little background about that relationship’s past. Back in 2011 I created a blog here on Free Refills to write about Burning Man and Burner culture. I published a couple of pieces that August, right before I went to Burning Man for the so-far final time, that explained my rather complicated relationship with Burning Man and the culture it spawned. Rather than repeat myself, I’ll point you to those pieces now.

Why I’m Writing This Blog
My Relationship with Burning Man

A few observations:

  1. You notice how I haven’t published anything on Transformed since those two pieces? If you’re a little bit clever, you can probably draw a few conclusions about my experience at Burning Man that year and something of my relationship with the culture since then.

  2. The hypothesis in Why I’m Writing This Blog, that we’re “on the precipice of a monumental political crisis and a commensurate countercultural uprising” strikes me as depressingly ridiculous now. I don’t know that Americans have any kind of positive political revolution left in them. As a nation, we’re basically spoiled children, either demanding entertainment or petulantly fighting over our toys.

    I do stick by my assertion that capitalism and the socio-political structures that support it are beginning to die. For evidence I would point to the paralysis and vituperativeness of our government, its profound inability to do anything in the face of the serious long-term issues that loom before us. From that perspective, I suppose you could assert that the U.S. is in fact in political crisis and has been for some time.

    The old system isn’t working. But as far as I can tell, we’re a long way from figuring out what’s going to replace it.

  3. Having watched the petty infighting and dysfunction of the Burner community in Colorado, and the complacency of the culture nationwide, the idea that Burning Man or some segment of Burner culture is going to lead a movement (in the sense of the term as I grew up with it) is a pretty desperate case of wishful thinking. If Burners truly had a revolutionary bent to their thinking, they would have started by overthrowing their corporate overlords in the Burning Man LLC.1

    That some Burners have revolutionary proclivities is true enough, but they’re operating in a different sphere from what I intended in those pieces I wrote in 2011. For examples: Larry Page and Sergey Brin, the founders of Google, first went to Burning Man in 1998. They’ve certainly led a revolution, but to what greater end and to exactly whose benefit isn’t entirely clear.

1 The corporate structure of Burning Man is actually a little more complicated than it was back in 2011, but discussion of that is for a different piece. For our purposes right now, how I describe it in My Relationship with Burning Man is sufficiently close to the truth that it’ll suffice for now.

Burning Man Impends

Burning Man 2015 impends. This year, for the first time since 2011, I’ve been feeling the call to go. Over the past few weeks, that feeling has gotten more intense.

In response, I contemplated a plan to get me there. The plan was built around the assertion that I have something to offer Black Rock City, that I have a gift to bring. (And I do.) Bringing the idea to fruition in the two weeks between now and the start of Burning Man would be pretty unlikely, which isn’t in itself a reason not to try.

But a couple of personal interactions this past weekend told me I’d be wise to wait another year, that another year’s growth would give me a much better foundation for a return to the playa. I could also then build on the idea (which I will detail in the days ahead) with a much higher likelihood of success.

As the plan relates a lot to what I’m doing with Free Refills and where I intend to take it from here, I’m going to spend the next couple of weeks here exploring the idea, especially in the context of where Burning Man has taken me in my life and where I hope it’ll take me from here, and perhaps vice versa as well, that is, exploring Burning Man in the context of the idea.

In doing so I want to be laying down the groundwork for some broader work, in Free Refills and elsewhere, that I intend to start bringing to fruition in the weeks ahead.

In Which I Quietly Drop a Hint

This summer, behind the scenes here at Free Refills, there’s been a lot of contemplation and a fair amount of zero-drafting about where we’re headed.

A certain something popped up in a zero-draft a few weeks back and it’s been whispering to me ever since. I’ve given it a bit of polish so now it can whisper to you:

It doesn’t really matter if it’s fiction or non-fiction. The question you are asking is, Is what I say true?

You feel the truth, so what you are seeking is that feeling. In the truth’s glow you cannot lie; in it there is only truth.

(Though sometimes the truth can be a bit…complicated.)

August, 1992

Graduation was behind us, and the next milestone approached: I was a few days away from leaving for college. James and Robin, both headed school in California, still had about a month of summer left, but we all together needed one last hoorah.

We decided to go camping. We met one night at Swenson’s and, over ice cream, made a list of what to bring and who would bring it. James said he’d bring spices. I wrote it down on my little pad in big letters: SPICES.

We took food and water for a couple of days, sleeping bags, a CD player to plug into the tape deck. James did not bring spices, that lazy bastard. We packed everything into my parents’ VW camper and drove up to Jemez Falls, stopping in Bernalillo at the KFC on the way to pick up our first night’s dinner. It thunderstormed like hell that night. We listened to the first Smashing Pumpkins album, Pearl Jam’s Ten, some Pink Floyd. We talked late into the night.

Because we were so excellent at camping, we’d also brought with us a couple of sets of golf clubs. (James played lefty, so one set wouldn’t do.) The next day we took little whiffle golf balls and played on the forest floor. “Okay, next hole,” one of us would announce. “That stump between the two big Ponderosas. Par four.” The fairways were rather bare, but we adjudged it an enjoyable course.

(These are the things you may not always remember, but you will never, ever forget.)

A Vision, Perhaps

Madrid, Spain, August 1994

I’d been in Madrid for all of five minutes when I glanced up the sidewalk and saw her. She was some indeterminate Older Than Me, perhaps in her late twenties. Her dark hair was cut in a chin-length bob, and she wore a short white dress with black polka dots. She was tall; it was a long way from the ground to the hem of her dress and her legs demanded a certain attention.

She walked arm in arm with a much older gentleman. Their conversation was amiable and animated. I wondered what their relationship was–their physical closeness struck me as reflecting an intimacy not particularly familial, but I also recognized I was seeing a Spanish scene with American eyes.

They walked past and were gone.

She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

I said to myself, I think I’m gonna like it here.

…Which Reminds Me of A Story

San Francisco, CA, 1996

I was locking my bike outside the San Francisco public library when from within the building a woman emerged. She drew the eye.

Fashionable boots encased compelling legs. A fashionable skirt hugged well-proportioned hips. A fashionable blouse delineated the upper half of a smart hourglass. Atop it all, a full-face helmet, the visor already down.

A bike messenger stood astride his fixie nearby, and I watched him watch her as she walked over, mounted her scooter, and rode away.

“Think so, do ya?” I asked him.

“Oh, I know so,” he replied. “Everyone’s hotter on two wheels.”

The Perils of Love

A few days ago I spoke of the personal growth I’ve been so fortunate to experience over the past year. One of the things I’ve had to confront in myself is a tendency (from way back) to get involved in exciting, passionate relationships that ultimately drain my energy.

With that in mind, I’d like to mention that my Tottenham Hotspur begin their 2015-16 Premier League campaign against Manchester United tomorrow.

Lovewhip

Roadtrip Vignettes, Part 13: Ketchum, ID

I was driving north through Ketchum on my way out of town. I happened to glance left at a stoplight and caught a glimpse between the buildings of many, many people a few blocks over in what had to be a town park. “Gotta be a summer concert, right?” I said to myself. “I better investigate.”

I got there just as the M.C. was introducing the headlining band. “From Boston, Massachusetts,” he said, “Lovewhip!” (I thought, “Boston? What are you doing all the way out here?)

They were a three piece, bass, drums and singer/guitarist (male, male and female, respectively). They wore silly glam wigs and shiny 80’s-style clothing and played disco-inflected electro-pop. They were pretty solid and a lot of fun. The singer played a pretty good guitar and shook her hips fetchingly in time to the music.

A varied crowd took to the dancefloor. I saw little kids and their parents, groups of teenagers, a rather weathered and willowy dreadlocked blond woman, a middle-aged woman and what I took to be her elderly father. Ketchum is the beautiful people, but that didn’t prevent (or maybe it encouraged) a couple of plastic-surgery disasters. Deep tans were weirdly prevalent. The cutest puppy in the world lay in the grass at the edge of the dancefloor. And diversity? You betcha. I saw over six people of color.

After the band was done, I went up to their merch table and chatted with the singer a little. Her name was Erin. “I enjoyed your music,” I told her, “and I like your guitar playing. Pretty into that slapback delay, huh?”

“Like the Edge,” she admitted. She enjoyed talking about music and so we did for a while.

I asked how long they had been touring (weeks) and how many weeks left (several) and how the hell they’d gotten booked for Ketchum Alive, of all places. “We have a booking agent,” she said. They had just finished playing three shows in Utah, had two more shows in Idaho, and would be in Denver in a week. “Denver?” I said. “Maybe I’ll come see you. I’ll be home by then.”

And I did. The band was thrilled to hear that I’d made an effort to see them twice. Erin still did that thing with her hips. And I got to make a fun connection between my adventures on the road and my life at home.

Here’s one of their songs. You can listen to more of their music on Soundcloud. You should. It’s fun.

I Can’t Drive 65

Roadtrip Vignettes, Part 12

I hadn’t driven in Utah since 2011, and at some point since I’d last visited, they’d changed the speed limit along I-70 to 80 mph. The number looked weird to me when I first saw the signs. 80. I’ve driven in 75 mph zones for years, but there was something about 80, the literal roundness of the numbers, that seemed like we’d crossed into entirely new territory.

I’m not a speed demon. Partly it’s that I got conditioned to really, really dislike seeing those flashing lights in the rearview–a couple of big fines when I really didn’t have any money to lose will do that to a guy. But I also was taught moderation at an impressionable age by my father. I remember coming back in our VW camper from a camping trip somewhere when I was little kid, maybe six or seven years old. My dad was driving and I was sitting next to him on a foldout stool between the front seats.1 I remember asking him why he was going 60 when all the signs said, “Speed Limit 55.” (That feels like a million years ago now, doesn’t it, the federal 55 speed limit.) He told me that 5 mph over the limit was okay. So I’ve basically taken that attitude ever since. Experience bears it out: 5 mph over is a speed that’s not likely to attract the attention of the police. (I’ll concede, though, that that attitude might reflect a certain white privilege. I’m unlikely to ever get pulled over for Driving While Black.)

So anyway, 80. 80 felt like a new territory. And I thought about it for a little bit as I crossed into Utah on the first day of my trip, and for the first time in my life outside a heavily patrolled construction zone, I brought my car’s speed to exactly the speed limit and set the cruise control there. 80 is fast enough.

In Utah, both I-70 and I-84 now have 80 mph speed limits. So does I-84 in Idaho. It didn’t take me long to get comfortable, not with the speed itself (like I said, I drive 80 in a 75), but rather the sense that not even the most ornery state patrolman could find a reason to pull me over for speeding.

And then I got to the Oregon state line. The speed limit dropped to 65 mph and stayed there, and I had to reason that being a radical anomaly in the speedy West meant they keep their Highway Patrol on Income Earning Duty, and so I grumblingly kept myself to a what-felt-like-crawling 70 mph, and cursed the sanctimonious assholes who apparently set the speed limits in Oregon.

(And really, Oregon, for at least the eastern part of your state, there’s really no excuse. There’s no one out there. Like Utah, southern Idaho, Nevada, and eastern Washington, it’s low-population desert with occasional mountain ranges. You guys are jerks.)

1 Yup, you read that right. “Between the seats.” Attitudes toward seat belts have changed a lot since the early ’80s, haven’t they?