the man in burning man – photos+words

The more I asked what Burning Man was like, the more evasive my roommates became. Every discussion culminated with Michael bending his head forward exasperatedly. “Just buy your ticket and GO. Then you’ll get it.”

So I did.

First night we spent in an underground earthship in Cedar Edge. The trip took 17 hours. There were four of us: two beekeepers honey magnets from Longmont, a fifty year old software engineer in a tie-dye tank top + John Locke’s hippie twin, and me, a Burner Virgin with no expectations of what the next nine days would bring.  We arrived at the gates at 2.30, watching the sunrise blank out the stars as the line moved along. I met up with my camp early on, running into them at Center Camp. Amazing.

First some definitions:

<Black Rock City or BRC> The official name of the land area that holds the festival.
<The Playa> The open space of BRC. Where the Man, the Temple, and art installations live and art cars roam.
<Esplanade> Burning Man is composed of rings, like a giant C. Esplanade is the inner most ring, full of theme caps and sound systems.

Playa dust is magnetized with luck and divine occurence. Manifestation is built right into the alkaline sand. Wish for something and it will come your way. Pancakes and chai tea in the morning, goths in steampunk sidecars, talk ofthe paradigm shift in 2012, a ride back to Boulder. Anything. It will happen.

We camped at 4.30 and J. Next to the veggie disco, the suck ‘n fuck saloon, and the hammock hangout. A guy stood at our intersection during morning bathroom runs, yelling at people on a bullhorn to watch out for the invisible children. “Just killed another one! Please look out! The road is littered with the invisible carcasses of all the invisible children you keep running over. Have a great day!”

Burning Man is more than just a party, even if the event is entirely drug inspired. How can I put this? An alien organism of creations, a psychedelic freak show of fire. The Disneyland Main Street parade on a triple dose of acid that grows more chaotic every day. Always circusy, sometimes sinister,  both spiritual and hallucinatory. There are no words equipped to describe what it’s like to stand frozen in the middle of the playa, spinning 360 degrees, overwhelmed by the lights and fury, the sight of gigantic polar bears, two story steampunk haunted mansions, and dubstep magic carpet rides. (These are the art cars, better named mutant vehicles).

It’s impossible and dishonorable to articulate the synthetic pandemonium, exploding brilliance, 30 foot mindfuck sculptures, the crisscrossing of bike lights against the backdrop of firedom. I’m in the middle of the fucking desert, fucking Nevada, fucking NOWHERE, wondering what portal I just stepped into, and how I can stay here forever.

Even with the frenetics there are those moments where you find yourself completely alone and zapped away from the chaos around you. Riding along in the dirt trails left by others, onto to the the next episode. Dust storms and scraping winds stripping replace masks. The lone venture outward (and thus inward) sinks in gently. The playa is mine – to protect, cherish, and explore.

Then the sun goes down. Flamethrowers light up the sky like vintage artillery. Sound systems come alive to celebrate the lull in heat, the heavy bass telling you what’s up as it shakes the cartilage in your knees. Momentum builds as Black Rock residents come together. Thursday night we raged past dawn, and the streets were empty, silent. It’s as everyone operated on the same schedule.

The night of the man. Our crew dressed all in white. I had been wearing the same clothes for about three days by then, living off of body wipes, Bloody Marys and Clif Bars.  The dust storms were brutal that day; I jumped on the Veggie Disco art car, cruising around the playa in a dust mask and goggles, and even WE had to hold still during a blaring white out. You can’t see 6 feet in front of you. It was bad. But U2 and Michael Jackson held it down. Anyways.

Our crew hunkered down in the blue bus. Levi, Joe, Andrew, KJ, Brooke, Lyndsey, Me. Sanjeev was playing drums by then, shedding past lives by the firedancers. It was like being in Baghdad with a bunch of exhausted, wheezing, playful kids, ready for some fun. The dust soon died down. The bombscare was over. Justice was playing on Drew’s iPod. Camelbaks filled, food packed, glowsticks broken. Goggles on. Let’s get walking.

Art cars surrounded the 40 foot man in a ring of sounds. Heavy on the trance, cutting up it up with the glitch. The boost starts to rise up, as torches set the pyre ablaze. The flames are slow and steady, and it looks like it will take some time. No one there is ready for what happens next. Red and blue and orange and yellow sparks of light explode into the sky, straight up out of the sockets of the man. It was the most amazing pyrotechnics show any of us have ever seen.

The cataclysmic energy seeps up into the sky. The passion is tremendous with the breaking open of the heavens and everything we know instantly shatters as the man bursts into an overwhelming ball of fire none of us can take it our hearts explode further and further, smashed into the fabric of the man in all of us. We are growing, we are dying, we are nothing, we are growing, we are growing, and we are everything all at once.

This is now. This is life. This is living. Breathe this all in. THIS IS HAPPENING ALL THE TIME.
You are not dreaming any of this.  None of it. You are the main character and this is your movie. How will yours play out?

To Friends of Soren (by Dave Gordon)

Reprinted via Dave Gordon from FB. friend, copywriter, man of wisdom.

To Friends of Soren

(This was the speech I gave at Soren Hellner’s memorial. I hope it brings you some comfort in this sad time.)

————–

I hate spicy food. And whenever Soren and I would go to get Mexican food or Indian food or really any type of food (it could have been McDonalds) he would he ask for it to be spicy.

Say we were at a Thai restaurant, the waiter would laugh when Soren asked for it to be really spicy. Soren would convince the waiter that he used to live in Thailand and that he could handle it.

When it finally came, the smell of it would make my eyes water, but Soren would dive into it.

Then he would try and convince me to have some “Try it, it’s good for you.” He’d say with a mischievous smile.

It’s good for me? How exactly would searing my stomach lining be good for me? Maybe you’re suggesting that these toxins that you drench your noodles in will somehow condition my body better to fight off infections?

But, looking back, I don’t think that’s what he meant. I really think he was teaching me about trying something new and different and to welcome the unknown.

This is how Soren lived his life and it is one of the many lessons he taught me over the two years I was blessed to call him a friend. But it wasn’t the most important. You’ll have to wait for that.

Another lesson he taught me was to be passionate about the things he loved. Among other things, he was so very passionate about FCKopenhagen, his football team (soccer to us silly Americans). He even would carry around 2 computers on the days when they had games just so he could watch it while working. And when they won, he would smile for hours, so happy for his beloved FCK.

But, conversely, he also taught me how to take life a little less seriously. When I was stressed out, trying to get everything finished for class, he would calmly laugh and say “One game”. That, of course meant foosball. And yes, I’ll admit it, he was better than me. And every game he won, he’d smile and say “Good game, Gordo”.

He also taught me a lot about Denmark. I always thought the Vikings were from Norway. “Nope” he’d smile about his proud heritage. The Vikings ruled most of Europe at one time… but then they gave it away for some vodka or something he’d joke. So maybe that’s where he got it?

And clearly, he taught me how to dress. Some people may not realize this, but whenever the opportunity arose, whether it was someone’s birthday, a going away party, someone’s graduation, it didn’t even have to be his, he’d wear a suit. He’d walk through the crowd at the party, smiling and saying he just felt like wearing the suit.

Strangely enough, Soren also taught me how to dance. Stick one hand up in the air and put on the biggest smile you could. I think it was because he didn’t like dancing. Because whenever he got uncomfortable, he would smile and laugh. This is something I’ll always remember, instead of running away from something that bothered him; he would welcome it with that trademark and unmatched smile.

That, I think was the very most important lesson Soren taught me. To always smile. Whether you are in a new environment or new situation, smile. If you’re meeting someone new or you’re nervous about a presentation, smile. Even if you’re scared or sometimes a bit sad, smile even wider. Because that’s really what Soren was all about and why I’ll miss him so much – his everlasting optimism and his great smiling heart.

So while we are here today, mourning and missing such a beautiful person and my best friend, we should try and smile. It’s what Soren would want. And it’s good for you.

Depressions from the Sea

On Tuesday, Ed McMahon went off in search of the stars
Farah Fawcett waved a red kiss goodbye
And the King of Pop popped some pills for his one big last Thrill
And yet none of these struck me with any significance
Until currents of water pulled my friend under
When that light washed out, and fairness was torn asunder.

Soren. My friend.  Some things I won’t forget:
Your love of techno, Belgian beer, and tight pants.
How you turned your head sideways for every Facebook photo.
How you smiled at those you knew – and at those you didn’t.

I remember a long day in December.
It was raining outside so I decided to bother you.
“Do Danish people eat Danishes? Isn’t that like cannibalism?”
I thought I was being clever.
You took it seriously.
I never thought I’d spent an entire afternoon discussing pastries.

Soren I can see you now
Walking slowly, lighting up the streets in Paris
Or standing tall across the ocean
Teaching the penguins how to fly
In a world full by brands, yours was the best.
I’d buy a million of you if you came in smaller packages.

When all seems fleeting
We suffer and wonder how.
How we can sustain ourselves through the morning.
But somehow, from somewhere, we gain the strength to move forward.
To move beyond moments like this one.
Where each breath comes easier than the one before,
where laughter fills the space where before there was only black.
What’s strange and painful,
bittersweet and lovely
is that this will happen to us
without us noticing at all.

Soren Hellner (1979-2009)

Royal Grounds

Cafés are making a comeback.
My second home
an office
a place to sit
alongside desperate Melrose screenwriters
overworked med students
and a crow of Israeli mothers –
a Hebrew gang in pink jumpsuits
absorbing caffeine and the cappuccino gossip.
A blonde sits in a square table to my left,
her face weighted down with eye makeup.
Green gray sludge takes control of her eyelids
and ruins her job interview.

The manager has just given me the look:
‘You gonna buy something or what?”
I reach inside my pockets and jingle keys
My eyes scan the coffee menu
For a well-deserved minute
Until they give up
Now I’ll sit back down
to steal more wi-fi
and eavesdrop
on your conversation.

Thread Count

When the rain gets heavy we stay under covers
Looking to ride out the day under cotton

Your small face and palms resting on my chest
Prying for answers to questions too afraid to ask
The green rug cluttered with socks, burnt matches, earrings

A clumsy trail of sex and bitter arguments
Your jeans keep the chair warm, heels hidden behind the door
Don’t forget to take them with you when you leave

In the morning we are thirsty and crave carbs
French toast and coffee, head back to bed
We are without shirts on top of one another
And then
Why don’t you write songs about me?
The voice is yours – small, defiant, inquisitive.
The stillness of the moment
broken
like the pelting of thick rain on cheap glass.

My eyes are distracted by the spider chandelier.
Bulbs out
a tug of chest hair.
Am I not inspirational enough for you?
My hands dig fast fast through her hair now
pull her head towards mine, kiss hard, let go…
It would be one of the last few times-
The words come when they want to.

In a few months she will wake up to me and leave.
And it will take months, months
To put this all into words.

Stories in 4 Words

I’ve been kicking myself in the head recently, feeling frustrated with the level of my work.  I write ads that sound like ads. My headlines sounds like sleazy sales pitches – there’s no story. The nice part is that I’m no longer in denial, and being conscious of my weakness only toughens my self-editing filter for crap. Still. It takes work to boil down words into something interesting. Focusing on a specific product, like Floss or the San Diego Zoo, complicates things only further.

So I came up with an exercise that yielded a lot of interesting lines.

The challenge is to write a 4 word story – something that conjures up a visual image, a story, a beginning, a middle, and maybe an end. Here are the results. If any of these make you laugh or think, then do a shoulder dance and go eat some chocolate. Write your own in the comments, should you get inspired.

• Covered in Sharpie. Everywhere.
• Fuck you. You’re grounded.
• She’s still sinking, Sir.
• They also took your dog.
• Your ACL is destroyed.
• The plumber didn’t answer.
• My God loves you.
• I’ve got till noon.
• Let me touch it.
• It’s fucked. You’re fucked.
• Not Guilty. Jesus Christ.
• Your dad looks high.
• The rabbi molested me.
• She just stopped breathing.
• We’re moving back in.
• Killed by Disco.
• I’m pregnant. You’re thirteen.
• Did you swallow it?
• Don’t invite the Canadians.
• The drugs started working.
• I’m keeping the penthouse.
• She removed everything. Everything.

This will sound completely pathetic

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been through this much consistent rain. We’re facing the worst drought EVER. I get it. But tomorrow, or perhaps just for a few hours, I’d love to see the sun cut through the gray antimatter above my head. I’d like to avoid that panging odor of San Francisco concrete shitwater permeating through my mass transit commute. When it rains, all the MUNI busses remind me of muddy ice-skating rinks, minus the smiling parents and children.

My brother Gil and I took figure skating lessons for about a month at this place in Van Nuys. I was about 11, he was 9, and we were already too cool for school. We didn’t really make friends in our group, and my dad didn’t care. We spent most of our time racing each other and crashing into walls.  It was winterland during the summertime. Our boots were green and brown and laced up to the ankles. We rocked the house.

I’ve never been that great at sports. Well not all sports. Just those which require balance. Or coordination. I don’t get soccer, nor do I understand people’s obsession with it. Ninety minutes to watch a bunch of overpaid guys run around on a field, back and forth, sweating like rabid puppies? Because it’s very likely that that game will finish 0-1, and I’ll more stimulation and gratification to stay interested. In that span amount of time, I could do laundry, make espresso, and learn about the weekly Torah portion, and Facebook stalk your sister.

Basketball I can roll; running is life; I get nervous when I play baseball but still enjoy it; chess is not a sport but something I’ll get into whenever there’s a table lying around and the Scrabble board is missing. But ice skating was fun. It was fun because I was good at it. The boy who can’t balance himself on anything can suddenly glide on a huge block of ice. His 145-pound frame resting on nothing but a millimeter wide sliver of metal. If that makes sense to you, then explain it to me.

Not being good at something, I naturally have little interest in keeping up. I go through moments where not following sports becomes something of a handicap. Here’s how it usually goes down:

“Hey, did you guys hear about the next Laker trade?”

(1) Reference something about the sport and sound intelligent. Ask question, and mention that you’re asking a question. Extra points if you make a false or made up metaphor. “My question is, who’re they getting that’ll play down low? Bynum is a junk bond trader and that cupcake knows it.

(2) Look vaguely interested in the topic, and mumble something agreeable. “Yeah, I mean, I’m just saying, what an opportunity to take the advantage.”

(3) If all else fails, my go to strategy is to sound so ignorant of the topic being referenced, the joke will deflect your very ineptitude. “How many points is a super touchdown?” In San Francisco, there’s some law of diminishing returns here, and this has not worked as well as I would have hoped.

So ice skating and Apples to Apples remain my hobby of choice. I haven’t gone ice skating since senior year of college, and it’s possible that drinking a bit beforehand contributed to a hairline fracture of the elbow. It had to. I will accept no other argument. Ice skating is the one thing I’m good at, and nothing will take that away.

But why am I holding onto that nostalgic memory of success? That one when you were young, you were king or queen for only a moment of something. It’s nice how that moment remains even crystal clear today. You still remember raising your arms when you were 12, better at something than everyone else. For a second, you simply owned. And it never goes away. We were absolutely convinced we would be dancers, painters, sport newscasters, travel writers, photographers, architects, car mechanics, pasty chefs and bookstore owners. Then we grow up. We grow out of our dreams, or let our dreams outgrow us. There’s no moral arc here – life moves and we can choose to move with it. We go through phases where we can accept change with a sense of realistic optimism, or devastating panic that the party’s crashing on us. But as you move, keep track of those times on the rink. No matter what, it will never disappear. It stays cold forever.