Burning Man 2004: SEEING THE VAULT OF HEAVEN

SEEING THE VAULT OF HEAVEN


Leaving Black Rock City (BRC) is so bittersweet for me. After 13 days and 12 nights in the desert, I was ready to get home, to my cats, my soft bed, a hot shower, and food from a refrigerator instead of a cooler. It seemed to take forever to leave the city I call home for one week a year. My car moved in slow motion. Maybe it was the 10 MPH speed limit in BRC. Maybe it was my mind wanting to hold onto each little memory knowing that would be its only fuel to go on for another year.

Two guys relaxing in the shade of one camp I passed waved farewell to me. I waved back and smiled, but a lump formed in my throat and I had to hold back the urge to tear up. A topless woman in another camp was oblivious to me as I passed by. She was breaking camp and busy sorting through a week’s worth of camping needs. Most spots were now empty, the event had been closed for 24 hours and most people had already left. Now it was my turn. And I couldn’t help but feel sad.

The mountains surrounded me, as if I were in a huge bowl with a dusty, flat bottom. And I was like a small raisin, worn and withered from the city life I had endured in the desert; wrinkled from the dry air and the hot sun. I said goodbye to those mountains, but they were busy doing mountain things and paid me little attention. There was a breeze blowing the flags atop the center camp. The very flags I had helped cut just weeks prior to the event. They glistened in the bright noonish sun.

As I drove down the 2-lane highway towards I-80 to Reno, I kept thinking about my time at Burning Man and the art and the lights the music and smells. But most of all, I couldn’t stop thinking about the lights; blinking, flashing, steady, neon, laser, and in all the colors. An image hit my mind then; a random, odd image, from nowhere at all. It was from a Greek tragedy I was creating. I would be the story of the man who blinded himself after the beauty, the colors and lights he had seen all week. It was like nothing could compare. Only at another burn would I see things as lovely as what I’d seen in the desert. So what else could I do but blind myself?

Then suddenly I thought about Helen Keller. I thought about the scene where she first discovered water, that there was a word for the sensation she felt as the water poured around her hands. I wondered how she dreamt, if she saw faces, colors, lights. Poor Helen Keller could never appreciate Burning Man the way about 35,000 people had in the last week.

And I was waiting for someone to help me understand what I had been through. I was Helen. Burning Man was the water. I could feel it. I could appreciate it. I could drink from it. I was aware. But I have yet to fully understand what it means.


One of the first people I met this year was a Canadian who called himself Fluid. There was another guy hanging out with us who wanted a ‘playa name’ and was thinking of going by Lover Boy. Someone mentioned that people must live up to their playa names. I asked him, “If I see you across the street and yell, ‘hey, Lover Boy!’, you’ll be fine with that?” He thought about it for a moment and said yes. I was trying to play on any possible homophobic fears he might have. He had none. And that’s the way most people think in Black Rock City.

I’d read someone’s post recently who wondered why we give ourselves playa names. To me it makes sense. We go to a place to be people we cannot be in the real world. (Try going into a bank and hugging your teller hello!) Why not give ourselves a fresh identity marker as well? Why not join the creative flow that Burning Man is all about and get creative with our names. After all, we were given our names. Here is a chance for us to choose one that truly represents who we are for one week out of the year.

I’d arrived Thursday night, 3 days before the official opening of the Burn. Working in the Burning Man Headquarters on a volunteer basis throughout the year, I was to be on the list that would allow me to enter the city and help ready it for its citizens. However, when I arrived, I was told that I was not on the list and would have to spend the night in the parking lot until the morning, when it could then be settled. I joined the growing group of people who were not on the list and made the best of it. It was a very cold night and we started out huddled around a burn barrel near the ticket office for warmth.

I was so close, but still not home. Only feet away from being within the city I love so much.

Drinks were passed around and we started bonding, while watching the lucky line of cars approach, be checked off the list and let in. Every now and then a car would be turned around and would join our group. Not on the list. We started calling ourselves Waiting Man. Someone called it Purgatory. And when a car was turned around, we would all, in unison and quite robotic-like, state, “Not on the list.”

A girl nearby walked around passing out donuts to some of the volunteers. Fluid wondered if she would come near us to hand some our way. I stated, “Not on the list.” We erupted in laughter as we joked that we’d need to be on a list for everything this year. Can we use the porta potty? Not on the list! Can I ride on your art car? Not on the list! Do you need help with your art project? Not on the list! Soon, we were asked to leave the burn barrel and return to the parking lot, where our cars and campers were. Once again, not on the list!

Friday, I did make it on the list and was allowed to enter BRC. I made my way to 8:25 and Esplanade, the plot of land allotted to the Lost Penguins, the group I would be camping with. I staked out a claim within our camp and parked my camper. I set up my canopy, a table, a shower, some chairs and put the bicycle spoke lights on my bike so I’d be seen at night. The sun was touching the mountain top and the people in the camp across the street from me started to howl and cheer as most citizens do each evening. The same is done for sun rise. And again for the moon rise and moon set. I howled as well and then went back to what I had been doing. It was quite normal here.

On Saturday, people from my camp began arriving. I’d only met one or two of them so with each arrival came the introductions and elations as we realized who each other was from the internet list we’d all been a part of for some time prior to arriving. Soon the camp was set and the city was open for business. There was about 40 of us with the Lost Penguins, from all over the world; Australia, the UK, Canada, Brazil, then Mass, VA, Texas, Florida, Missouri, Colorado, Oregon, and San Diego, LA and the bay area. We’d come from all over but in BRC, we would be one.

With a camp on the Esplanade, I was afforded a grand view of the city each night. I could see across to 230, over to Center Camp at 600, and out to the Temple, beyond 1200. Each night, the city would come to life. I loved the lights of the camps. I loved the lights on the people. They came in the form of glow-sticks, EL wire, blinky lights, head lamps and laser pointers. Art cars floated by all lit up as well. Music filled the air; the thump-thump of techno, the beats of rock, and even the drone of rap. People left their camps in search of parties, dances, couches to lounge on, cars to ride on, swings to swing from, and dreams to live in a city that truly never sleeps and one that never judges.

Burning Man is full of utter randomness. One misses so much so easily in this city. Each experience is a gift. The girl met at a party. The guy enjoying art next to you. The song played on an art car that passes by. The gift given by a stranger. Coming across someone who is giving out hotdogs, snow cones, mojitos, necklaces, blended coffee drinks, or wine and chocolate.

Black Rock City encompasses five square miles of desert space. With this year’s theme being “The Vault of Heaven”, the man, glowing at night in blue neon, stood atop a dome. This dome represented an observatory and corresponded to the location of the sun within our city. The concentric streets that orbit the man were named after our solar system’s heavenly bodies, from Mercury out to Sedna.

As in years past, artist David Best built a temple. Usually located at the 12 o’clock position in our city, this year it was located far out in the playa, to correspond with the arcing edge of our star system. Made of wood with walkways and terraces above the playa floor, it was one quarter mile long. Each year the temple becomes a repository of memories, dedicated mostly to loved ones who have departed. Notes to lovers, mothers, friends and even pets; photos, trinkets, medals won in war, art and poems are all left on the temple walls. On Sunday night, it would all be set afire. Fire seems to be the main reason we attend. But the primary fire is the man.

The man, which was burned on Saturday night, is the center of our little universe, as the sun is, as far as Earth is concerned. This being my fourth year to attend, I decided to stay at camp, on the Esplanade, and soak up the energy from the back of the crowd. In past years, I’ve enjoyed almost a front-row view, surrounded by the throngs of people who come like moths to a flame to celebrate the burn as if it were a new year, and it really is- for us. But this year, I wanted to see it from a distance.

When the arms were raised and the fire spinners started, it looked like it was going to be a grand burn. There were more fire spinners than I could count from my elevated seat on the edge of town. But the rush of energy was somewhat of a let down. I only heard the crowd erupt a few times; when the fireworks began, and when the man fell. And because of his place atop the observatory dome, he fell much quicker this year, also somewhat of a letdown.

All week long I enjoyed meeting the people of our city. Always extending to me a hand to shake, I would push it aside, saying, “That’s the blacktop, this is the playa,” as I would open my arms to embrace my new friend in a hug. I met so many people who were enjoying their first burn, virgins, as they are known. I commented to a friend of mine who works at HQ about the number of virgins, and how it seemed almost half of my campmates were virgins. She told me the estimate was that as many as 40% of the population were first-timers. That seemed like such a high number. And it may justify why I felt the energy was low during the burning of the man.

And conversely, that may be why the energy at the temple burn seemed higher than usual. The temple burn is typically rather solemn and much more subdued than the man burn. After all, the temple holds such strong feelings for so many who have deposited their remembrances to those who have passed on, their dreams for what may come, and their regrets for what might have been.

But I loved watching the burn through the eyes of the virgins. It often took me back to my first burn in 2001. But better yet is reading what the virgins, who are virgins no more, are writing about it, now that they are home. What they say is that they miss the hugs, the freedom to do and say and be without judgment. They miss the community, as BRC is full of people who choose to be there and be a part of the culture, not just a spectator. They are going through withdrawal. I recall telling them that after the burn, they would be forever changed. They would find art in places they never looked before. They would help people in new ways. They would give gifts without reason throughout the year. They will express themselves in new ways and find new ways to love. It’s the city’s gift to us, I guess.


Now that I’m home people ask me how my burn was. It’s a hard question to answer. People who have never been just don’t understand what Burning Man is. Some people think it’s created for and by druggies. One person I met recently thought it was a Pagan ritual. My aunt once wrote me to ask that I not include her in my mailings about the event, saying it was the people who attend Burning Man who are mostly responsible for the problems we have in our world. My grandmother wrote to say she just doesn’t understand my going to it, that it’s full immoral people.

I told my aunt that in my opinion, if the world were full of burners, it would be a better place to live. Burners just seem to care more than others; about people, the planet, feelings, and love. I told my grandmother that BRC encompasses every sort of being, just like any city of 35 thousand people. Even if you get a religious convention together of that many people, there would be immorality going on. But then I realized that it all depends on one’s perception of what is immoral. Are people walking around in the nude immoral? Yes, if you’re like my grandmother, no if you’re like me. Burning Man is certainly not for everyone. But I am constantly amazed at who is interested in going, has been, or goes on a regular basis. They are young and old. They are spiritual and atheist. They are rich and poor. They are educated and not. They are gay and straight and even in between (or maybe mostly?).

Burning Man takes place in an environment that is harsh and real, yet creative and beautiful. Burners come to celebrate radical self-expression and to participate in a community in ways never seen outside our desert city. Burners have a strong sense of community and inclusion. We love almost unconditionally.

I’m not so sure exactly what it is that makes so many of us go to the lengths we do to attend the burn. The money, the time, the energy; it’s astounding. And everyone takes home something a little different each year. Each person’s burn is different from the next persons. With so much to do, so much to see, it is impossible to see it all in the short week we are allowed to live in our home in the desert. And with each person’s personal quest in BRC being different, it’s only expected that the answer to the question, “How was your burn?” will be different for each person who is asked. In many cases, what you take into Black Rock City is what you will take out.

I go for the love and the chance to be someone I cannot be in the blacktop world. I go for the art to move me to tears. I go for the music and dancing. I go for the beauty I find in the people I meet. I go to be a part of the surrealism of being at an art festival in the middle of the desert, dressed like it might be Halloween, hugging people, giving gifts, receiving gifts, and being totally free. I go to connect with people I can’t normally connect with, and in ways I normally don’t. I go because for me, it may be the closest thing to heaven this side of death I’ve ever witnessed.

And this year I felt more disconnected from the event than in the past. Maybe because of the amount of physical pain I experienced early in the week after setting up camp. Perhaps because of more commitments to the large theme camp I was affiliated with (giving out chocolates and wine), I didn’t seem to have as much time to see the city. I didn’t explore the other theme camps like I have in the past. I didn’t see the playa art at night as much as last year. It seems the city always comes to me, but this year, I had to initiate the experiences more than in the past. Was it me? Was it the influx of first-timers? I don’t really care. Each year is a different experience at Burning Man. This year it was about the penguins I camped with and not so much about getting out and about. Or maybe I just didn’t need to do anything but hang out on the Esplanade and just watch the sea of lights.

One afternoon I sat in camp zoning out, hiding from the sun and the dust, as is the fashion for most of us. Thoughts drifted in and out of my head as they usually do, like waves on the ocean. The tide must have rolled in and suddenly my mind was alive with visions and words started forming. No, I was not on drugs. But I was high on life in the desert. The creativity that binds us in BRC was bringing me to life. I got up and darted to my camper to start writing. When I was done, I had this:

I had a dream that I was floating in the sea.
No, it was the desert.
There were sleeping giants, or were they dead?
Covered in rocks and small shrubs.
Perhaps they came here to die.
Perhaps they came to watch over me.

I was a part of something larger.
I could not see.
It surrounded me, encompassed me, it embraced me.
And in some ways it ate me up and spat me out.
But mostly it filled me. It filled me with love and a deep need to better understand things around me.
Politics. Mechanics. Science. Love.

I floated down to the dusty surface and met a woman who handed me a flower.
A man who embraced me.
A child, who gave me a drink, took my hand and led me through the night.
I found things I thought had died. I lost things I thought would always haunt me.
And I smiled. I tried to give back but felt I had nothing to equal that which I’d already received.
But I smiled…and they told me,
Brother, love is a gift.

I have a home in the desert. It’s called Black Rock City. It only exists for one week. It’s surreal. It’s real. It’s a dream. It’s beautiful, harsh, difficult and free. It’s full, it’s caring. It’s the real thing. I have a family I share my home with. And I long for the time I spend there with them in my home in the desert. And when I close my eyes at night, it’s all of this that I see.

THINGS I WON’T FORGET ABOUT BURNING MAN 2004
1. Someone asking, “What is the sex life of an olive?”
2. Getting my Bex hug on the playa.
3. Hearing Nick call my name, the first penguin I met on the playa, Friday night.
4. Make out Monday and Warrior being one of my make outs.
5. Knowing Miga the minute I saw her.
6. Hot pizza on the playa.
7. Nudey’s Sunday morning greeting to me.
8. Drinking bloody Mary’s with Nick at the Lamplighter camp until the sun was up.
9. Sleeping until 1:30pm, a record for me.
10. Getting hugged on the Esplanade every day wearing my penguin costume.
11. Seeing the zoetrope made by a friend of Watley’s.
12. Missing the heat and dust storm in the air conditioned coolness of Thurston’s RV.
13. If I said it once I said it a hundred times, “Man, I love this city!”
14. Listening to classical piano being played in our lounge.
15. The Asian who kissed my neck and drove me crazy.
16. Running after the water truck and falling on my ass, sliding five feet in the mud, in front of my camp.
17. Having beautiful girls stop me to read my shirt. (OK, guys, too.)
18. Bacon for breakfast.
19. The lap dance girl who misted me with the mister coming from her crotch.
20. Gargoyle’s gargoyle suit.
21. Diego’s adjusting my neck, Koyote’s massage and Shahdi’s foot massage.
22. All the penguin gifts that kept showing up for me.
23. The “virgin girls”, my original camp-mates, waking me Sunday morning.
24. Reading my poem on open mic day that I’d only written minutes before.
25. The white house on the playa and my art tour.
26. Hugs from my fellow penguins.
27. My dustiest year and the coldest night (Thursday, my first night on the playa).
28. Singing “Dreams” on stage. (Sorry penguins)
29. My walk around the Esplanade the first Sunday Night with camp mates.
30. Watching the temple burn from atop “Pricilla”, or whatever her name was this year.
31. Drinking Crown Royal with Zach and Marshall, the guys camped at 7:30 and “his anus”.
32. The hug from Spaced at the temple just when I needed one.
33. The cock asking me if he could kiss my pecker (the rooster wanted to kiss my penguin mask).
34. Getting hugged from behind.
35. The spankings at the Penguin’s Erotic Ice Bar Party.
36. Trying to find medical help when one of our penguins had a heat stroke.
37. “Is Nick around? Oh, I see his coat. Wait…is that him? It’s past noon and he’s still passed out?!”
38. All the penguins singing John Lennon’s “Imagine” around Zorba’s art piece.
39. Asking the guy passed out on the trampoline if he was going to go to Burning Man.
40. Having my underwear stolen. While I was wearing them!
41. Oral sex Tuesday in the kitchen.
42. Giving Jason the playa name of Milf, then seeing him the following day and he answered to it.
43. Talking with DNA at the burn barrel late one night.
44. All the beautiful girls I camped with.
45. The great energy of Ember and Koyote.
46. The people I met at the Wonder Lounge party on Monday.
47. Working at the Gerlach office Friday.
48. Saving Homer Simpson from getting stolen from camp.
49. Hearing that Termeh was afraid I’d be corrupted by the sex-themed camp I was next to.
50. Assuring her I could never be corrupted after 4 years on the playa. If it hasn’t happened yet, it won’t.
51. Watching the sunrise from the temple on Sunday.
52. Covering up the naked girl passed out in the tent so she wouldn’t freeze.
53. Fish-tailing my camper, thinking, ’this is how it’s going to end.’
54. Burger night.
55. Getting a tour of the black hole.
56. Old friends coming to the Lost Penguin to find me.
57. Have I mentioned the hugs?
58. Threesome Thursday.
59. “Not on the list”.
60. Finding people who missed their pets as much as I did.
61. Falling in love with my camp-mates.
62. Hanging out with Waffle and Panty-free.
63. “Get in touch with your inner penguin.”
64. Playing Grab-ass in the Flight to Mars fun house maze.
65. All the times I had to tell people, “Random drug tests.”
66. Choking back tears when the penguins left.
67. My Monday night on the playa alone, watching the stars, Milky Way, and burns.
68. Talking with Joe, from NYC, during the temple burn.
69. “Have you hugged a penguin today?”
 

 

Be sure to read from my second and third burns by going to:
www.penguins2002burn.blogspot.com
and
www.penguins2003burn.blogspot.com.
Enjoy. –Penguin ( write me at: authorpenguinscott@gmail.com) 

www.penguinscott.com