1998
The conditions of my existence that first year were complicated, but in the end it all came down to this: I was alone, and I had no shade. Alone, at least, in my own mind. I knew people there, but I felt, as I always felt, that with them I was only a thief, stealing time and care and friendship that they were too kind not to give me. Technically, I had come with two friends. But they were unhappy, they were hot, they were miserable, actually. So they left. I decided to stay, I had another ride home. But they took my bike, and our pathetic tarp had never stood up to the desert to begin with. It was hot that year. Hotter than any year since, as far as I can tell. In the mornings, I got up at 7:30, when the tent became unbearably hot. I ate a Clif Bar. I went out looking for shade.
I did know people. And I went to their camps. I felt alone, awkward. Everyone was there with a group. My being alone was proof of what I knew: I had no friends. Which was a secret, a secret I had to hide, lest people know, how inadequate I was. What was more: I was a spectator. It grieved me deeply. It was another secret to be hidden. Indeed, I did not even know what it meant to participate. To me, it seemed like one whole theme park. To participate was to go on the rides. But I couldn’t go alone. So I didn’t do even that. I just wandered, and watched, and imposed on people (people I now know loved me), imposed on them to give me shade, from that terrible, brutal, impossibly painful sun.
And every morning I awoke, wanting desperately to leave.Saturday night. The Man still burned on Sunday. A girl sitting on the ground, smoking. I took a breath. It was an old ploy, but I used it anyway: Can I bum a cigarette? She rolled her eyes a little bit. But she gave it to me. I started talking to her. Eventually she said: I seem to be attracting people who feel uncomfortable here. I thought to myself: she must not know. She must not suspect. I was simply persistent. I watched the Opera, with her and her friends. They told me where they were camped. I went to bed.
I wandered for shade the next day. I watched each hour pass and thanked god that I would not have to see 12:00, 1:00, 2:00 again on the playa. I went to the cigarette girl’s camp. She was there, they all were there. They were kind. They seemed actually to like me. We went to the burn together. I was electrified. I could not say why, but when I saw the arms go up, something inside me was also lifted. There were drums, there was a circle. I lost the cigarette girl in the crowd. I could not find her. I was exhausted. I went to my camp.
I assumed that was it for me, for this year. And I would come back the next and do it right. I had to get something I had left at the cigarette girl’s camp. And when I got there, they were there. I was ecstatic. They had come for tequila. We walked out again into the night.
It was hard, staying up that night. I was tired. We danced, we sat by fires, we spoke with many people. It was more determination than joy. But these people had accepted me. It did not seem that I would have to wait until next year, to make it good. It could be good right now.
The sun rose. I told my ride: I have found some others, they will take me. I rode home with the cigarette girl and her friends. I was hungry, dirty, tired beyond anything I had known in a long time. But I had been through something. I had.
1999
I found some friends. I was not there alone, I had a camp. Small. I did not really know the people. But at least formally, I had a group, I had a camp of people to go back to, I had shade. It was not as hot. I rode around with John. We did things. Together. I went on the rides. Which means: I looked at the camera obscura. I swung on the swings. I did the things people had brought for people to do. The things I felt so desperately I could not do alone.
And yet, I was jealous. Jealous of all the other people, all the other people who were not constrained. I felt so utterly wrong there. I felt so out of place, so awkward, so unsure. It did not feel like home. It did not feel like the event belonged to me. I felt outside, I felt that the others, the others who had been coming for years, they owned this place, they created it, they knew it. I could not be free. I could only reflect, on every thought that passed through my head.
We drove out Monday morning. I had slept and eaten, taken a shower, been with friends. It had been so much easier. And so much less intense.2000
For the first time: real friends. Not just people I knew. Scattered, yes, not a real camp. But that did not matter in the least. My brother, friends from home, even acquaintances. That was a triumph.
But. I still felt awkward. To the extreme. And everyone else seemed blown over, split wide open, to the extreme. Having an experience that was transcendent, overwhelming. While I was just uncomfortable. While I was just in my usual state, of looking at something, and perceiving the beauty, perceiving the possibility, but not feeling it. I was dimly aware of a vortex to which everyone else seemed to have abandoned themselves. Leaving everything daily behind. But I still felt mostly myself. Empty. Constrained. Protective. Unfulfilled.
I smoked pot, the first time on the playa, and was immediately plunged into terror. After it passed, it was just another reason to envy everyone else, whose constitutions could handle that, the drugs, the lack of inhibitions and rules. I spent many hours crying to my brother, my friends: why why why am I like this? I was up in the early morning, wandering the playa, out by myself in the night, touching the sleeves of strangers as they passed me, without their noticing, the only contact I could effect. I wanted it to be different, so terribly, terribly badly.
But as I rode on the playa the last night, under the clearest of skies and stars, I felt something, dimly, that I had never felt before: I was sad to go. I was sad to go, sad to see it all end, and a small part of me began to believe I might belong here.
2001
I decided to have a project. Decided the effort was worth it. In the past, I had felt so much ambivalence, about even being on the playa, it didn’t make sense to pour time and resources into it ahead of time. But somehow, I decided to get off the fence, and I worked all summer. I had a real camp, even: six whole people that I knew, all camped in the same place, with shade and a stove and chairs and the whole everything.
But the real amazement was when I arrived. I did not feel awkward. I did not feel like I didn’t belong. I felt comfortable, relaxed, even. Actually, I felt like I was a constituent. Before I had felt on the outside. Perhaps it was that I had now been four times. I now felt that I had somehow a right to be here, finally. But also something in me must have changed. Somehow I must have felt that I did not need anyone’s permission to be there. I was different. It is not instant for everyone, this feeling of belonging, of being home. It took me a long time.
I rode in Critical Tits. I read my writing at the spoken word stage. I went from camp to camp and offered my services, what I’d worked so long on, my ritual alchemical transformations. I participated, and it was better than hanging back. Though hanging back had had its own kind of joy, the joy of privacy, of freedom, of self-definition. But I was legitimate, legitimate, legitimate. It was worth the effort. I finally had Burning Man figured out.
It wasn’t the mind-blowing, that I had wanted at first. But it seemed like perhaps that was not really me, in the end, that I was not like the people who had that. But I felt I had achieved something. I felt it could only keep getting better.
2002
My life had changed. I had become a hermit. I had become disillusioned, something of a misanthrope. No one was good enough for me. My life and my work had become interconnected, all my projects were interlocking, mutually dependent, mutually necessary. I didn’t want to take away from that, with an isolated project for Burning Man. So I did nothing, until only the week before, when I realized I must do something, or I would be lost out there.
I worked feverishly. I poured myself into writing poems, and carving them into rubber, hundreds of tiny letters, one at a time. And I got the ink, and I got the roller, and I found a way to carry it all with me, and it was meant to be printed on people’s bodies. And the poems were interlocking, too, they were mutually dependent, with the rest of my work, with the rest of my life.
And I was excited. I was so excited. Because I thought Burning Man could only keep getting better. I thought each year would be better than the last.
But when I arrived, everything went south. My project didn’t work. The ink dried too quickly, the poems wouldn’t print on the curves of bodies. It had all been put together too quickly, too thoughtlessly. I tried so many ways to think to salvage it, anxious and in agony. That was the spirit of Burning Man, improvisation, flexibility, letting things go, finding a way, letting go of control. Each of which I was terrible at. Finally, I just buried it. I put it back in the box, I stepped away. Or it would have consumed me.
And then I was unmoored. I was drifting, and I did not know why I was here, or whether I should be here at all. I could not talk to anyone in my camp. R. was unreachable, he had been slipping deeper and deeper into a drugged oblivion, it was like looking at him from so far away, and I could not even make out the features of his face. D, was trapped in her own terrors and uncertainties, would come to me over and over and be desperate for comfort, cried snot and bled all over me repeatedly, did not actually see me the entire week. She complained that our group was fractured, that people didn’t know each other, that there was no unity. I knew everyone, and before she said it, I had felt: these people are connected through me. I am the hub of the wheel, and that feels so good. But after she complained, I started to believe her. Which happened with her all the time. The boundary between us was too thin, she could poison me with a word, make me become her.
Only on the last day. I went out to the temple. It was silent, there was someone playing guitar. People were crying. And I looked at a man, and he looked at me. And we embraced, and I held to him, he was the only one I had been able to reach out to, and I wanted to hold longer, I wanted not to let go. But eventually we stood back, and we looked in each other’s eyes, and nothing needed to be said.
And after that I knew: I do still belong here.2003
I wanted to make the poetry project work. I wanted to have a real project at Burning Man, for once. I worked all summer. I redesigned everything. I recarved all the little letters, fixed the ink problem, fixed the printing problem, got everything set and ready to go. It had been a hard summer. I had been lonely. My life was still in trouble, but I could see the light at the end. I wanted Burning Man so badly. I had a good group, I had a good project, I wanted to redeem the disaster that had been 2002.
On the way up. I was drinking coffee, a lot. I sat in the sun, a lot. Working on the truck, loading everything. And I started to feel nauseous. Sick. Hot, like my body couldn’t stop me from overheating. This had happened before. All I had needed was to lie down and drink some water. We had to move out, get on the road. I figured that I could just eat and drink, and that would be enough.
But I felt wrong. The whole way to the event. I was weak, and sick, and so, so hungry. No matter what I ate, or drank. Eventually my stomach was so full of water and food, I didn’t know what else I could do. In Empire it began to clear a bit. When I got to the playa, I sat in my tent, watching the headlights come in, forcing myself to eat more, for I was nauseous and hungry at the same time. I thought: everyone always says it, but this year, I think for the first time I feel it: I am home.
But then the morning, the sun. I went to the bathrooms and I was weak and shaking. I felt sure I would vomit, but I wanted to keep whatever liquid I could inside me. I lay down in the shade of the tent and tried to eat, but I was so queasy. I needed shade, but my camp was not here yet, and I was too weak to put up the structure. I went to the medical tent. Oh yes, they said, you are dehydrated. I lay on the bed all day. I was fragile and easy to trigger, the tears just spilling over. I wanted my therapist, I wanted my brother, I wanted a real friend. For awhile I began to feel better, with the eating and the drinking. But then it just stopped. I was still weak, and queasy, and terribly, terribly hungry, though I had never stopped eating. They sent me to the main tent. I had IV’s. It helped but I was still so weak. I knew. I knew at that time that I had to leave, I had to go home. I had been sick before, traveling, and had stayed far too long when I should have left.
D. came to my camp that night. She was camping somewhere else, but less consumed with herself this year. She held me while I lay sobbing in the tent. She was leaving early to go to a wedding, she drove me to Reno in the morning. I stayed the night in a hotel, to gain strength, and then flew home.
I wondered whether I had really left because I was afraid, because part of me was still uncomfortable at Burning Man, part of me was still overwhelmed. I wondered whether the illness wasn’t as bad as I had thought. The doctors did not know what was wrong with me. I was consumed with fear that I fled, that I had given up and walked away without courage. The truth was, Burning Man was still terrifying. It was still so hard to be out in the dust and the wind and the hot, with all those people, with no way to insulate myself from my feelings, all of my usual defenses stripped. My shit always came up at Burning Man. I felt that I had just succumbed.
But I was still sick, for two months. Nauseous and weak at the drop of a hat, unable to tolerate any sun or heat, needing to eat and drink continuously. The doctors could not figure it out, but I was convinced it was real. It was a mystery that would take years to unravel.
2004
I had continued to be sick, occasionally. I was sensitive to heat, to not drinking enough water, to the sun. The nausea and weakness would return, it would be hard to clear up if I couldn’t lie down in a cool place. But by the summer, I was doing better. I went to Thailand, it was hot, and I was fine. I thought it would be ok to go back to Burning Man.
I didn’t have a group, really. I was camped with one other guy, who I had never met. He was a friend of a friend. At first I was ok, the first night. I went out and saw many beautiful things. In the morning, I began working on my poetry project, getting things set up. And then suddenly, I had to sit down. I didn’t feel right. I was concerned, I was flooded with anxiety. I tried to keep talking to C., my campmate. I became more and more uncomfortable. I wanted to be alone, I wanted to deal with what was developing: more nausea, more weakness. I told him, I am going to the bathrooms. But really I went to the medical tent.
It didn’t take so long to make the decision this time. I wept again, and the doctors shuffled their feet and looked down. I rode in the ambulance, I went to the hospital in Reno. They said: we don’t know what’s wrong. I flew home again. C. didn’t get to my ride in time, and my things all came home in different cars, with different people who were all annoyed with me. I was so terribly embarrassed. I didn’t know what would become of me and Burning Man. But I felt that I could not make my decision to stop going based on a bad year. I needed to try again.
2005I decided to bring an RV. In many ways I hated the idea, but I knew it would give me a cool place to lie down, which was what I would need most. And of course, there could be cold drinks, and a bathroom and showers and chocolate. All of which would be comforting, and comfort was good too. I wasn’t too worried. I thought it would give me what I needed.
But my father and I were going on a bike tour, and that was my downfall. In my training, I pushed myself too hard. It was just so easy, to become dehydrated. And then, I didn’t take it seriously. I didn’t do the things I knew needed to be done, when the symptoms came. I was not well in time for the bike trip, it had to be cut short.
And then, I just did not recover. It was off and on, all summer. But soon I began to get worse, instead of better. One day, I found myself in bed. I did not dare go outside in the sun and heat. It was like the months I had been sick, right at the beginning. Only now I was not getting better, but worse. I drank so much water. Liters and liters, just packing it in as quickly as I could. I was frantic. I called my friend who was a nurse. She had ideas, but it seemed so far away that anyone would know. I imagined myself, ill and housebound, for ever and ever. Leaving Burning Man was nothing; this was destroying my life.
Eventually, it was too much. I was in a full-blown panic attack. My therapist was out of town. I had to go to the ER. But something in me also lifted its head. I have reached the end of this approach to this problem, I thought. I have reached the end, and something new must take its place.
I went to the bathroom and vomited. And admitted to myself that I was probably nauseous because I’d drunk too much water. I had to consider what people had been saying: that it was anxiety, anxiety at the root of it all. It didn’t explain everything, but I had to give it a chance. Because I couldn’t let this take over my life. I had to find a way to be well.
I went to the ER. And slowly, I calmed down. My symptoms were bad for a few days, but they cleared up, so much faster than they had before. I just kept telling myself: there is nothing to fear but fear itself.
I had hoped to get better before Burning Man. But I was still fragile, by the end of the summer. My body and heart and mind had been through a lot. It would still take time to undo what my fear had done to my body. I sold my ticket, standing out in the street in front of my building, to someone happy and eager. I felt the greasy cash in my hand, and wished it were the ticket. But I knew it was the right thing. I knew I had seen to the other side, and I would be able to come back.
2006I drove by myself, rented a car, so that I could get myself and all my things home on my own. So no one would be dependent on me, and I would not be dependent on anyone else. The worry was never far from the back of my mind, as I made the drive out. But it was tolerable. Ultimately I believed the worst was behind me. The ride was beautiful, with the radio and my beautiful solitude. I was ready.
I arrived at the gate at dusk. And it was just after a terrible dust storm, and the gate had been closed for a long time. The line was backed up out to the highway. And as soon as I stopped moving, a terrible cloud moved over me. I was gasping for breath. And then it was just panic. As long as I had been able to keep moving, I’d been all right. But stopped, I was defenseless. Every fiber of my body was screaming for me to go home. What had I been thinking? It was a fucking desert, and I was still not good in the heat. It was going to be too much. And I didn’t want to surrender the ticket, if I was going to have to go back home. I didn’t want to have to leave again.
I pulled over and went to the bathrooms. My bowels were rebelling, emptying themselves with a vengeance. But I pulled myself together, somehow. Somehow, I convinced myself that it didn’t make sense, to come all this way, and not at least try. Not at least go in and see.
I was a sheet, going through the gate and the greeters. They knew I was not quite all right. I was certain it had all been a terrible mistake, but the ticket was torn. I heard the thumping of the music and I hate that music, I hate it so much and it all seemed like some horrific joke, that I thought this was for me, that I thought I could come back. But I went in, and I found a spot, and I set up my tent and my shelter, and I went to sleep.
I was up so early with fear. But the day was downright mild. In fact it was beautiful. I began to believe I might make it. The rest of my camp arrived. I was nervous, but beginning to trust my body. Still, the anxiety would wash over me, off and on. A few hours clear, a few hours of terror. I would wake up early in the morning, and just lie in bed, thinking I should sleep, but awash with panic. But on the third day, halfway through, I looked at myself and I said: no more. I am not going to let this happen. I deserve not to feel so afraid. I just kept moving. As long as I was moving, I was all right.
The man burned, and I was there. For the first time in four years. My friends and my brother held me and shook me. I thought: even if I have to go home now, I think I made it.
On Sunday night I had to force myself into bed. I did not want to go, I wanted to stay and keep riding around, even through the decay that the playa was becoming. I had won this back, against myself. I had overcome myself, in order to save this.
Epilogue: 2007I’m back again. This time with a wonderful group, everyone new except me. In fact, this is the tenth event since my first, and I am still here. Some things I have resolved for myself. I am not alone here. I have my camp, and I also love to go out on my own. I am not awkward. I feel that this place is mine, that I have a right to be here. I am more at peace with the issue of not having my mind blown. Mind-blowing is not easy for me. It is the hardest thing, in fact. I have realized that I do not come to Burning Man to have my mind blown, but to be in contact with the possibility that that could happen. To have a chance to take small and tentative steps towards what might be possible. I come to have myself stripped, to lose my defenses, so that I can confront what lies underneath. As my brother and I agreed last year, although most people come to Burning Man to feel good, I come to Burning Man to feel bad. It stirs things up in me, it frightens me, it confuses me. And in all of that, it gives me an opportunity to try, again, to overcome myself. Just a little bit more.
