I returned to the Black Rock Desert last week. There is something about that place that is beyond words. There is of course the art, the interesting people, and activities that make Burning Man what it is. But the desert itself, the playa, the landscape, the vastness of the blank canvas is what makes one feel as if he or she has left the earth. The dusty, cracked, and completely flat white soil and cold nights evoke a sense of what the moon might be like.
People return there every year for different reasons. For me, I really enjoy the human painting that spreads across miles of the desert in a cooperative, organized manner. Most of the people are coming to help paint it, not merely to come see it. Everyone is an artist there in his own way. Some people contribute to large art installations, while others decorate themselves and their belongings in such a way as to add to the overall visual experience. At times it appears to be an enormous petri dish with life forms at all levels, from tiny sand robots, to bikers, to giant animal machines, to even larger art cars carrying scores, to giant raves hosting hundreds. The occupants organize into small groups and large groups, often in response to some rumored stimulus like a parade, a popular DJ, or free sushi. There is a schedule of events, but people rarely heed it. Instead there is a collective wandering. The serendipity of experiences are part of the fun and memories.
It's a painting. It's a petri dish. It's a circus. It's a party. It's a city. It's at very least a spectacle.
It's also a lot of preparation, time, energy, and money to make it there. It is miraculous that people keep returning. I'm not sure I will. It is a common sentiment during the recovery period known as decompression. That time when we all return from the moon and re-enter the earth and wonder which place we like better.
This week, I'm choosing Earth. We'll see what I say in a few months when tickets go on sale again.
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