“How was Burning Man??”
This is an imperfectly rational question
about something so perfectly irrational.
Something so perfectly imperfect. Like us.
Something so perfectly imperfect. Like us.
The response to this inquiry will likely be as dusty as the cracked and
crusty face of the mouth to which you addressed your question. But there’s a
glow underneath the exhaustion, and it’s not just a sunburn.
If you were simply being polite in your asking, then I’ll
kindly pat you on the shoulder and nudge you in a direction away from myself. But if you are truly curious, then the posts I compose in and around this one are some snapshots from this 1 of 70,000-ish people who participated in this year's Radical Ritual of Burning Man. Thanks for asking, and thanks for listening to my experience entering into and exodusing from the dust...
...from dust to dust...
Like the way it all ended, I can only start with the dust. The dust is how we enter the burn –
literally by crossing a line in the sand, rolling around in it, and frantically waving frisky sand angels facing up and down. Getting dirty, getting
dusty. This our common denominator and equalizer that is both metaphor for the earth that birthed us, and literal reminder that our uniquely colourful beauty always comes with a side of
slightly mucked-up.
The dust gets in your janky, skanky, and ranky bits. Proudly
the dust is in places for you to discover in one another, or at least for certain in the dusty porta-pottys. Like dust bunnies in a dust mine.
The dust gets in your tent. The dust is in your laughter, kisses, and tears. The dust gets on the spout of your margarita slushy glass and the dust coats your eyelashes. The dust swirls around and the dust settles. The dust is soft, dry, dependably there. We walk, dance, eat, sleep, breathe, think dust.
Dust becomes known. Dust becomes home. Dust to dust we become.
The dust gets in your tent. The dust is in your laughter, kisses, and tears. The dust gets on the spout of your margarita slushy glass and the dust coats your eyelashes. The dust swirls around and the dust settles. The dust is soft, dry, dependably there. We walk, dance, eat, sleep, breathe, think dust.
Dust becomes known. Dust becomes home. Dust to dust we become.
Dust is the foundation for everything else you will be told about Burning man. It is
just always there, remember that. In all the stories I spin for you, the images that come to your mind's eye will be a bit hazy because well, you weren't there, and also they are simply coated in the gloriously unshakable dust. Metaphors of us.
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