It’s all in the comma. A pause. A self-awareness. A narcissistic pleasure of inhaling the echo of one’s voice. Except it’s not – when everything is everywhere and anything is possible; when art, drugs, music, dancing, love, bitterness, crazy costumes, fire – when all of it crescendos into a roaring cacophonous kaleidoscope, then it becomes uniform white noise. A tabula rasa. Specs of dust in a dust storm painting your vision. And then it’s you, in a cloud, alone with your thoughts. This was my burn.
I’ve had several people ask me “What is Burningman?” I can’t speak for others, but to me it’s about two things: 1) extreme respect for individuality and 2) self-awareness.
I am waking up. No. I am being awakened. Rudely. By a man with a megaphone in the middle of a square, next to camp that generously provided couches and pillows… the very couches and pillows upon which I am but one of many burners. The sun is baking, but it’s early. Too early. Too early for this. And he is yelling. As if the megaphone isn’t loud enough. And it goes something like this (crass, read at your own risk):
Got back to SF this morning. Re-entering default after my second burn is more challenging than I thought it would be. I apologize to anyone expecting to hear from me for delays – it has been an incredibly overwhelming few days. The burn has pushed, challenged, and built me in ways I did not expect (as is usually the case). In the meantime, a piece of advice from Samantha, a virgin burner brought to the burn by her son. Paraphrasing:
“Focus on exhaling. It’s easy. You’ll have to inhale later anyway to match the exhale, so no need to worry about it.”