baudot

It's raining coals. A hundred yards away, a beautiful, fragile temple sends a pillar of flame six stories into the heavens. The wind is blowing this way, spinning, vortexes of smoke and embers off the the pyre. Most of the crowd has scattered from this leeward side of the temple. I'm clad shoulders to toes in a leather trenchcoat, and have four pounds of steel and glass camera in front of my face. I have the luxury of staying.

A ring of people watch in silence. For the last week, they have filled the temple with photos, notes, messages to people who will never read them. 50,000 people live in this Brigadoon, this town whose last day is tomorrow. Already the town has half withered away, a leaf preparing to cast off with the next breeze. The Man burnt yesterday. Those who came only to party have already gone. Those who stayed to break down elaborate camps, or those with something to mourn remain the final day, and watch The Temple burn.

Welcome to Burning Man.

Welcome home.

"It's my senior year," I tell people. Four years I've been coming here. I can try to tell you about it, but I'm going to need your understanding if you get there and find that my descriptions falls short of the thing itself. This is because Burning Man is notoriously difficult to explain.

"Describing Burning Man to someone who's never been is like describing sight to a blind person. If you've never been, no explanation is possible. If you have, none is needed."

"Burning Man is like an art museum, crossed with Mardi Gras, crossed with a rave, crossed with a hippie gathering, crossed with a survivalist's meet up, crossed with..." started my friend Lynn Carmichael. He was back from his first burn in 2005, and still glowing.

He mentioned some of the ten principles of the festival, notably the one about being a participant, not a spectator. He mentioned some of the sayings that Burners say, notably "Safety Third." People joke about what first and second are without coming to agreement. He mentioned the contract on the back of each ticket, starting with the disclaimer that Burning Man is not responsible for death or maiming you may experience during the event.

(Deathguild - Thunderdome)

"It's kind of like Woodstock...." Aunt Nancy would explain to her friends, after I'd done my best to explain it to her. I think what she meant to say by this was that it was about the art, or the music, or the love, or the creativity. It could be about the drugs, if that was what you were looking for. Or it could be about the bands. You could find an open microphone and just jam out, if you liked, or stay up all night dancing. All this is true. Whatever you're looking for, it will find you there. Countless classes and opportunities are scattered over the playa. I've enjoyed a seminar in ancient viking board games, a seminar on lockpicking from MIT students passing along that traditional hobby, and seminars on knotwort. I've met the man who just discovered the oldest standing storm system in our solar system, on Saturn. One of this year's highlights was a camp of homebrewers of sodas, beers, and ciders. Like all else in Black Rock City, these were given away - both the drinks and the lore - with nothing asked in return.

This is a place to have peak experiences. The first two days, your body is adjusting to the heat of the day, the chill of the night, the dry air, the alkaline dust on the breeze. Dehydration and breakdowns are common. "Don't bring anything to the playa you can't afford to lose or have broken. This applies to your romantic relationships, too," states Burner wisdom.

But the roller coaster goes both ways. Invariably at some point during the festival, I find myself on top of some creaking, swaying, many-story sculpture. Previously, it was to firedancing atop my camp's scaffolding, alongside Miss Germany. This year it was atop the burn column of The Temple to continue a conversation with this lass. She'd flown out from Austria to see what we were up to out in the desert.

"It's like a cult that you join for one week, and then you get your life back," I would explain to people after I'd been there for my first time. You get there, and from the moment you make it to the gate, you are bathed in love and acceptance.

Perhaps you are greeted at the gate by an individual of ambiguous gender, in a pink bunny suit, who hugs you the moment you step out of your car and tells you, "Welcome Home!" Or perhaps it is a lass in a latex twist on an SS uniform, who is just as cheerful and welcoming. Every few blocks down the street one gets hugged, sometimes by old friends, sometimes by strangers.

In the end, to me, Burning Man is a festival of possibility. It's a place to be reminded, or to learn, what one person or a small team can do in a between years, just because they want to.