Love Burn 2020: Intimate Snapshots

Astonished that
Such a big creature
Has such a gentle touch
Rhythmically caressing my
Toes as I walk on
The beach.

It is Saturday night. I am at Love Burn 2020, a regional Burning Man event on the beach of southern Florida. I am here with my friend Dennis, a lanky affable engineer by day, transformed into a colorful prancing hip-wiggling party-goer this particular weekend. We have brought our giant rideable giraffe to this event and we are giving the burners rides round and round the main encampment, which has been crammed full of activities and experiences for the enjoyment of the crowd. Dennis and I are staying at the Camp Connection theme camp, a group of people who offer to the community a 30-foot-diameter geodesic dome that serves as a venue for contact improv dance classes and other intimate events. We are waiting for the evening festivities to begin: fire spinners followed by fireworks followed by the burning of a 30-foot-tall wooden effigy. People push past us wearing all kinds of costumes: adults in pajama onesies, women in fishnet stockings, men in tutus, and a few people who are completely naked. Loud throbbing music surrounds us on all sides, but our giraffe has its own powerful sound system and Dennis cranks it up to create our own little dance party around the giraffe. I begin to dance, slowly at first, waving my arms and spinning to Dennis’ ethereal playlist.

A thirty-something woman joins me in my dance. She stands uncomfortably close to me, directly in front of me, and stares deeply into my eyes. She smiles a broad sincere smile. She describes for me her intense appreciation of this particular moment. I concur. She tells me she feels she has travelled through many lifetimes to get to this particular moment. I tell her she seems to me to have ancient wisdom in her eyes. She tells me she likes to sing, and she starts to sing right then and there, a kind of scat singing to the flowing music, her voice rising and falling and tripping along to the melody. I fill in some low notes. She tells me that her boyfriend doesn’t like to sing, but he sometimes hums when he is playing music. He joins us, and hums a little bit with us. He describes to me a friend of his who is interested in mushrooms, and hunts for them in forests of Maine and supplies them to restaurants in the cities there. He asked this friend of his what he knows about “special” varieties of mushrooms and the friend showed him a secret laboratory in the basement of his house, temperature and humidity controlled, immaculate and white, where he is developing his own strains of psychedelic mushrooms.

The boyfriend says he is not on mushrooms right now, he has taken a drug called ketamine. He says that after he left the army he had severe PTSD. He was anxious a lot and over-reacted to loud noises. He said the ketamine really helped with that, whereas the mushrooms are more for self-exploration, for connecting with the mushroom essence, an entity which can tell you things about yourself and about the Universe. He asks me if I have tried ketamine and he pulls out a small baggie and offers me some. I say I am flattered by his generosity. I tell him that I am already permanently tripping myself by natural causes because of a strange event that had occurred to me three years ago. I briefly described the event, which he and his girlfriend seem to understand. They thank me, and they say that I have a warm energy, that they enjoy. We hug and part.

I dance some more. A middle-aged woman from my camp (Camp Connection) greets me and engages me. She moves quickly from pleasantries to a direct question. She asks me which of the five types of love I most appreciate, and, as I come to understand, she is offering to share with me the one that I choose. She lists the five types: touch, quality time together, statements of affirmation, gifts, and domestic sharing. I say that I most like touch. She asks if I would like to touch her. I say yes and I take her hand and stroke it lovingly. She has beautiful hands. Her skin is soft and her fingers are slightly tapered and her knuckles are dimples rather than wrinkles. We continue talking as we stroke each others’ hands. She says her name is Deborah and that she is in a three-way adult relationship with my friend Sandra, who I had spent some time with Friday afternoon, and a man named Karl who was also with Camp Connection. Karl has a daughter named Mona, perhaps nine years old (by a third woman I understood) and Karl, Mona, Deborah and Sandra are a cozy little family together. I really like them and I tell Deborah that I appreciate her loving attention. We hug and then she sits down with her family to wait for the fireworks. I continue dancing, perhaps now with extra care knowing that they are nearby witnessing me.

Another woman from our Camp Connection comes by. Her name is Bridget and she goes by the burner name Bridge. She is about my age, mid-fifties, with wizened yet playful eyes. We had met the previous morning in the kitchen of Camp Connection scrounging up some coffee together. And then she had led a workshop in the big dome on the topic of theatrical improv, with exercises from Ruth Zaporah’s Action Theater: The Improvisation of Presence. She led a group of nine of us through various exercises involving movement and making noises and expressing random words and phrases. She tailored the exercises to cohere the group and lead us to an open frame of mind which we capitalized upon at the end of the workshop by each drawing a tarot card and using that random act to divine leadings in our own lives. Her workshop was masterfully done and I appreciated her skillful facilitation. Before the workshop began I had helped her set up the space and as we swept the dome’s floor we had talked intimately about our life’s issues, in particular discussing the concept of “twin flames,” how we both felt we had found our soul mates, but “were not allowed to love them”.

“Fuck it!” she cried. “I can love whoever I damn well please and no one can stop me!” I appreciated her guidance and her vehemence. Now that she had approached me at the immanent onset of the fireworks I wanted to show her my appreciation and with her consent I give her a big heartfelt hug. However something seemed amiss and she turns sideways as I hug her and I feel some awkwardness. She seems lonely but when I ask her if she wants company she can not answer directly. We can’t seem to connect and after she leaves I feel sad. I continue to dance.

Just then we hear a loud boom and a salvo of fireworks shoots into the sky and erupts into a sky-wide chandelier of glitter and pop. I climb our giraffe’s ladder to get a better view and as more fireworks shoot skyward I have a flashback to the moment of my awakening. My body tenses up as the fireworks trigger in me that intense feeling of eruption and realization that had so changed my life three years ago. My hands tense and form the mudra, fingers straight out. My mouth opens wide in a position of great release and my breath comes out in short gasps and my whole body shudders as if I am receiving electro-shock therapy. Dennis, nearby, senses my distress and climbs partway up the ladder and puts his arm around me. “I love you, man,” he tells me. Then the drumbeats grow louder and we hear a loud roar and the burning man effigy before us that is the namesake of burning man events bursts into a fireball. As a lion leaps onto its fleeing prey and brings it down into the dust, the fireball leaps onto the effigy. The wind sweeps the flames higher and higher and they threaten to engulf the crowd. Fire safety people move forward to quell the flames to a manageable size. The lion tears at flesh and consumes the effigy and the crowd roars in appreciation of the spectacle.

After ten minutes or so the fire has devoured the effigy and it collapses inwardly upon itself into a heap of glowing embers. The barriers are removed and the crowd surges forward as jackals come to rend meat from bone after the lion has had his fill. The intensity exhausts me and I need a break. I step down from the ladder and go to find some water to refill our water bottle. I wander crowed streets, and then I refill at a handwashing station by the porta-potties next to a man wearing a garishly LED-lit generalissimo hat and a jacket that is covered with plastic medals and gold chains. He is a large round hairy man with thick black stubble advancing inexorably from his neck and chin. He appears to be washing his hands over and over again obsessively. He looks up when I start to fill my water bottle and tells me with grave concern that the water from the handwashing station is not potable. He asks me what time it is. I looked at my phone and see the time change from 11:11 to 11:12. I tell him it is just after 11. “AM or PM?” he asks. I say it is just after 11 at night. “Really? It’s night time already?” He seems surprised at this. We strike up a conversation about the nature of reality. “Is all of this really real?” he asks me, gesturing broadly with a sweep of his arm.

“No,” I reply, “but we have to behave as if it is. In reality our Universe is based on meaning rather than objects,” I tell him. He seems to understand. I love talking with tripping people. They get it, if only for the weekend. He tells me that he has a gift for me. He rummages around in his pockets and produces a small lapel pin in the shape of the state of Minnesota with the Love Burn logo embossed on top. He tells me his burner name is “Nice,” and that he has come to the event with his sixteen-year-old son who is elsewhere at the moment serving as a ranger. I am pleased that he has someone in his party who will be responsible for him. I express my gratitude and we hug and we part.

I feel great respect for the people at this event, who come from all walks of life to step outside of their comfort zones; to explore inner landscapes of the mind; to explore radical ways of interacting with each other; to explore community; to think about what is good and true and just; to dream what is possible and then put their ideas into practice.

I find a camp serving hot dogs and I get one for myself and one for Dennis. There is no charge for the food; everything is free at burning man events. Participants bring food, drinks, and entertainment for each other as gifts. I return to Dennis and the giraffe and we continue to give rides. The crowd is lively and people chat excitedly as they wait to ride. “You should bring this art car to Central Park!” one man tells us. He is new to burning man events and he is very impressed by the gifting ethic of the event. He is from New York City. “Everyone there is motivated by greed. People just want something from you. They don’t care about you. There is no authenticity,” he opines. The idea that people could share gifts with each other without expectation of compensation is a revelation to him. “People in the city need to experience this!” he says. “This could change everything!”

After an hour or so I grow tired and I leave Dennis and the giraffe. The full moon comes out and lights my way back to our little tent on the beach. I enter our tent and lie down to sleep. As I drift off I recall how the previous day (was it Friday?) Dennis and I had set up the tent on the beach in the hot humid air. As we unpacked our bags we speculated on who among our burner friends we might run into. I asked Dennis who he thought was the most beautiful burner. He was unable to choose just one. But for me a candidate came instantly to mind: a young woman named Sandra who we had met first at the Playa del Fuego regional burning man event in Pennsylvania the previous spring. She was a campmate at Camp Connection there where we were staying. She was young, maybe in her mid-twenties, with a playful demeanor and freckles and a certain impulsiveness that was very attractive. I remember the first time I saw her. It was a very memorable experience. I remember that she came to the camp’s common area where several of us were lounging around. She was wearing a long draping poncho-like dress. “Hey everybody look at this!” she said as she spun around. As she spun the centrifugal force lifted her poncho to reveal that she was not wearing anything underneath. Those of us who witnessed her beautiful body collectively emitted a little gasp. Then she stopped spinning and the curtain dropped and she gave a little giggle and pranced off to delight others with her discovery.

The next time I saw Sandra was at the main Burning Man event in Nevada in the summer of 2019. Dennis and I had driven our giraffe out onto the playa and a line of people had formed (typically young women) who wanted to climb onto our giraffe and wiggle around a bit up there while someone took their photo. Sandra was in that line. She climbed onto our giraffe and while in the saddle she spun two poi, which are lighted balls on the end of short strings. She was topless and as she spun her poi her small pert breasts bobbed up and down. Witnessing this, I felt an erection quickly grow in my pants and harden to an alarming degree. The fabric of my pants became taught around my rigid central pole. I imagined this embarrassing little tent must be visible to those around me, and I thought I might need to retreat out of public view until it subsided. I looked over at Dennis and he seemed similarly transfixed by Sandra’s beauty.

So Dennis and I remembered these events together as we set up camp Friday morning, and we both agreed that Sandra was a prime candidate for the title of Most Beautiful Burner. Shortly after this conversation Dennis and I unpacked our our giraffe and started giving rides. Who should appear but Sandra herself, in the flesh! As usual she is topless and she is wearing a paisley-printed cloth around her waist. She jumps for joy to see us and she greets Dennis and me with heartfelt hugs. Then she turns to me in particular. She stares deeply and searchingly into my eyes. And then she says to me, very directly, “I want to play.”

My mouth becomes dry and I feel shaky. I recognize the arrival of one of those key moments in one’s life, instances during which the Universe gives you the very thing you were hoping for, a doorway to something beautiful and alive and exciting. And the Universe confronts you with the question “Do you have the courage to find out where this doorway leads?” And you know deep in your heart that if you don’t take what is offered, you will forever regret it; you will forever wonder “what if”. And you know that if you do enter that door, you will be thrust beyond your comfort zone, into uncharted territory.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s play!”

Sandra then indicates that she wants to give me lessons in the use of the poi. We are standing in front of a camp called Flow Lab, with lots of toys such as juggling balls and poi for passers-by to play with. I pick up some poi and she shows me how to swing them back and forth rhythmically. Dennis retreats at that point and leaves me alone with Sandra. Sandra makes lots of significant eye contact as she instructs me. I grow frightened by her intensity and I start trembling. So I tell her “Sandra you are so beautiful that I am afraid of you.” And she looks at me compassionately and she breathes deeply, as if to demonstrate how to relax, and she indicates that I should breath deeply as well. I do so, and I feel more comfortable around her.

The air seems charged with electric potential. I feel something significant is about to happen. I feel us entering into a sacred dance, spiraling in toward each other, testing, feeling, testing, not moving too quickly, nor too slowly, our intuitions on high alert, open to direct experience beyond convention, not allowing our egos to force an outcome borne out of preconception, but following instead the dictates of the moment.

And after we play with the poi a bit she lays down on the grass on her back and indicates that I should lie down next to her. A young man joins us on the grass. As she lies there I lean over and I tentatively take her hand and I ask if it is okay if I hold her hand and she says yes. I stroke her fingers gently and it feels good to caress her. I feel a power swelling in us that draws my hand toward her. I hold my hand over her right breast and as my hand hovers there inches above her breast I ask her if I can touch her there.

“Um…no,” she says. I withdraw my hand, and return to caressing her fingertips.

The young man who has joined us takes our free hands. As he does so, I feel our energy shift to include his presence. He has long hair and half-lidded eyes. He has a certain mystical intensity. He looks deeply into Sandra’s eyes, then mine, and describes how you can tell a lot about a person by the purity of their irises. Then we all close our eyes, and, holding hands, enjoy the simple bliss of the moment.

After a minute or two Sandra opens her eyes and looks around. She says “look at those people” and we all turn to see that a group of people next to us at Camp Flow Lab have also lain down together on the grass and are holding hands. Sandra looks at me and the young man and says proudly “I femme-manifested this moment!”

Then the young man produces some massage oil and (with Sandra’s permission) proceeds to massage her temples and jaw with it while I stroke her hand and arms. She said she enjoys the pressure of his weight on her chest and he begins to massage her chest, between her breasts. I felt the energy shift to exclude me, to be just between Sandra and the young man. I feel that I am no longer needed there and I bid them goodbye and I leave.

When Sunday morning arrives the mood of the Love Burn shifts. A certain gloominess hangs in the air and our inhibitions return. People arise painfully and shuffle towards coffee dispensers in their pajamas and less, and attempt to revive themselves with that liquid. That afternoon Dennis and I tour the event together, meeting our fellow burner artists and admiring their handiwork. We come across an encampment that features many large rusty steel sculptures. One is a large cock (as in male chicken) with two seats that can be ridden as a see-saw. We find the creator lounging nearby and we discuss the role of burner artist. He describes for us his struggles to keep his little band of creators together, and the strained and buckled personal relationships he has endured, and his battles with manic depression, and the financial debts he has incurred because he has followed his passion. Dennis and I feel forewarned.

We continue our tour. We duck inside a small enclosure and as we stand up inside we are surprised by the expansiveness of the interior. There are mirrors on all of the walls so that our presence is reflected into infinity. We encounter the artist inside. He is lying on his side on cushions on the floor with a woman in his arms. The woman strokes her breasts absentmindedly as Dennis and the artist greet each other. I feel that we are interrupting something, and get up to leave, but Dennis seems unperturbed. He strikes up a conversation with the artist and again we hear the themes of strained relationships and financial hardship that the artist has encountered in order to bring his passion to fruition. The enclosure has an illuminated tree branch at its center and Dennis and the artist reminisce about the giant tree that was assembled at Burning Man 2017, of which this branch is just one small part. The artist describes how the tree project required a small community of artists to collaborate for an extended period of time at great expense. He says that the project is “tens of thousands of dollars in debt” but that the project was an amazing success in terms of the immeasurable joy it has brought to its audience.

We leave the artist and his woman in the enclosure and we continue our tour. We come across an older artist who creates scultpures with a chainsaw. He is a southern gentleman and he greets us and offers us booze and feeds us crackers and dip. Again we hear themes of strained relationships and financial hardship. I meet one of his camp colleagues who has an interest in ebike technology. He has created, among other things, an amazing giant head sculpture with a cam-based mechanical control system that triggers various motions and gyrations. It is a mechanical masterpiece.

What drives these artists, I wonder, to create? What internal force compels them to pull themselves up, painfully, above the petty and mundane, and to create beauty in all its myriad form? Is this the same beauty made manifest by psychedelic drugs? Is this the same power, I wonder, that drew my hand toward Sandra’s breast? Beauty, truth, love. Are these not the currency of our existence? Are they not the measure of our worth?

As the sun dips below the horizon and the sky darkens Dennis and I return to our giraffe and fire up its generator. The giraffe lights up and draws in passers-by. We pull out his ladder and give people rides. We encounter Sandra one last time. She is sitting by herself next to a giant metal sculpture of a female form glowing with internal LED lights. I sit next to her and talk with her. She says she is feeling frustrated by her three-way family group: Deborah (the woman who asked me about the five types of love) and Karl (who has the nine-year-old daughter Mona). She sounds like a petulant teenager who has been refused her freedom. We talk about the difficulties of being in relationship. I tell her about the complexity of my own relationships and she seems understanding. We hug and we part.

I feel privileged to have met Sandra. As she leaves I wonder, what makes a person beautiful? Is it simply their physical appearance, and their manner, a perfect combination of form and movement? Or is it something internal to them, an aliveness, a burning inside, that emanates from them, and affects our perceptions, so that no matter their actual form, we are rendered speechless in their presence?

Dennis and I continue to give rides. However, I feel the energy of the event has shifted, has darkened, from the previous night. There is a bad moon hovering over us. A drunken woman climbs on top of our giraffe and as Dennis and I tour her around the event I am afraid that she will fall off. I beg Dennis to slow down. I feel a sprinkling as if it is raining and I realize that the drunk woman is standing up on top of the giraffe and waving her drink around and it is splashing onto me riding below. Dennis and I agree that we need to get her down and we need to stop giving rides and we need to put our giraffe away for the evening.

Monday morning arrives. Dennis and I rouse ourselves groggily. The event is over. We help Camp Connection break camp before we go. We begin to disassemble the big dome. When it comes time for a group effort to lower the dome, a campmate steps onto the beach and yells “Connection! Connection!” People from Camp Connection come running. They line the perimeter of the dome to lower it safely as we disassemble it. It feels good to labor together with our campmates. Finally the dome is down and packed up.

Dennis calls for a cab to take us to the airport. The cab arrives and we get in. I stare out the rear window and as the Love Burn recedes into the distance a series of snapshots plays in my mind of the experiences I had and the people I met. I feel gratitude toward them all, and I resolve to bring some of their boldness and joy back home with me.