WoMan Burning

By Bridget Phetasy
Published 09.25.11
Captains Blog

Rites of Passage

Bridget Phetasy

View all articles by Bridget Phetasy

"Jesus Would Fucking LOVE Burning Man."
~Sick Beats

August 31, 2011

JRR Tolkien said “Not all who wander are lost.” I’m leaving LA tomorrow. Indefinitely. I know in my heart, soul and body that this is absolutely the right thing to do. Burning Man tickets have fallen in my lap. Gifted to me by the heavens above. The theme this year: Rites of Passage. (I just got chills as I wrote that). I feel like I am embarking on a quest I’ve prepared for my whole life, I’ve been yearning for, striving for, moving towards. It all leads up to this moment. I was baptized in the clear, indigo waters of Crater Lake. Now I head into the FIRE. The scorching hot desert in Nevada. Black Rock City. I’m excited and nervous. I’m taking a huge financial risk, but at this point I don’t really care. Trying to stay in the flow of things no matter what the price.

All breathtaking photos provided by the wonderfully talented
Bonnie Hawthorne unless otherwise noted. Hire her now.

Trying to explain what Burning Man is like is like trying to explain what menstruation is like to a man—or I imagine, what it’s like to have a baby to someone who has never given birth. It’s one of those things in life that you can only experience to fully understand and appreciate.

I never thought I would ever step foot in the mythical place that becomes known as Black Rock City to the attendees, volunteers and workers (this year over 50,000) for several weeks before, during and after Burning Man. I’m not going to get into the history of the event—this is not an objective, journalistic report about Burning Man—although its beginnings are quite fascinating if you’re interested in knowing more about how it all began. I have no interest in that kind of who/what/when/where writing and find it terribly boring. This is Phetasy, a completely subjective look at the world through my eyes—and as we all know here in my world, it’s all about me.

Photo by "The Captain"

Regardless of what you think about it, Burning Man is a global, cultural phenomenon that grows in scale every year. If you live on the West Coast, you inevitably have friends, family or employers who are rabid “Burners” and can’t shut the fuck up about it all year long.

For the past 10 years, my conversations with people about Burning Man go something like this:

Burner: Have you been to Burning Man?
Me: No.
Burner: Oh my God, REALLY????   You totally strike me as the type of person who would go every year!!!
Me: I’m offended. Do I look like a dirty hippie to you?
Burner: It’s not like that, come to this party with me—it’s a Regional Burn. They have them throughout the year in preparation.

CUT TO: Downtown LA. Late night. A party in some random warehouse. Everyone on some form of ecstasy, acid, mushrooms, designer drugs or all of the above. Lots of scantily-clad females “hooping” and foreign-looking men with faux-hawks blowing fire. A DJ bumps never-ending sick beats. People dressed in costumes do weird acrobatics. Others work on large-scale art projects. Everyone gets progressively more naked and burns shit in oil drums.   It’s like being at the hipster circus. I’m not that impressed or inclined to ever attend a large-scale version of anything resembling that scene.

Or they go like this:

Burner: Have you been to Burning Man?
Me: No.
Burner: Oh my God, REALLY???
I roll my eyes. Here we go…
Burner: It’s like, crazy.   Everyone is SO amazingly nice. There’s no money or brands or anything, so you just trade for everything. But it’s like, weird how whatever you need, appears. One year, I was totally craving a grilled cheese and suddenly my neighbor came by—with two grilled cheese sandwiches!!! It’s like, manifestation on crack.
Me: It definitely sounds like something is on crack.

The truth is, talking about Burning Man makes it trite. In fact—even writing about the experience somehow takes away from what it really is. It’s impossible to describe. The location, the costumes, the art, the music, the over-stimulation, the heat, the Glo...

The best thing I can think to do is transcribe some of my journal entries from while I was there. It's as close as I can get to writing about the experience without wanting to puke at what a gay hippie I sound like--but even these journal entries push my inner Cartman to the brink.

September 2, 2011

Burning Man. There really are no words to describe this experience; its controlled anarchy-madness-mania-hedonism-power-light-love-healing-freedom. I don’t know how or why I was lucky enough to be blessed with this experience, but there is nothing like it on Planet Earth. I can see why National Geographic says its one of the Top 10 things you must do before you die. The weather today was gorgeous. The desert is flat and dry and harsh, a color palette like no other. I can see how it would turn on a dime from gorgeous to fierce. The sound of a balloon deflates.

September Something, 2011

I’m not eager to return to “DEFAULT” as the world outside the Playa is known (they have a whole slingo of their own--Burner speak). I’m not sure the Baby Car will be there, my phone will probably be shut off or hell, someone may be dead—the whole world could be imploding and I would have no clue. It’s been 3 blessed days of complete cut off. No cell phones. No TV. No internet. Just dust, heat, freezing cold at night, the blessed transitions in between, MOOP, dancing, biking, art, clearing, grieving, celebrating. Burning Man is beautiful. It truly IS manifestation on crack; it’s as if the universe, without interference, is able to give you whatever you may need or want as you utter the words. I guess the term they use to describe returning to default is “DECOMPRESSION”. Funny, I feel like THIS has been decompression. Free of contact with the outside world, I just have to be present in the moment. There is nothing but where I AM. Burners call it “HOME”. It’s home because you are able to return to your roots here, your soul, your essence. I feel like I am emerging from a cocoon I’ve been in for years. Or maybe, Burning Man is my cocoon, from which I will emerge a new woman, with new beginnings on a new path of my choosing.

Burning Man is truly beautiful. You just get lost in it and have no choice but to offer yourself to whatever presents itself (other than the plethora of drugs that has come my way. I have magically and miraculously managed to stay sober. Although I must admit it has been very, VERY challenging). I don’t have any concept of what day or time it is. Asking a friend to find out what time it is, is basically asking them to get lost. I hear a lot of "Mmmm, it's about three fingers past sunrise..." It’s my 3rd day here. The Temple burns tonight. The temple is my absolute favorite part of Burning Man. The heart of the whole happening. It’s the place where people write messages to their loved, their lost. I’ve never experienced so many men just crying it out in one place. Very healing.

September Labor Day, 2011

I feel as if I’ve been in the sweltering, sexy, dust bowl for an eternity. I don’t think it’s possible to leave Burning Man the same person you were when you came. You are exposed to so much yet at the same time, you’re forced to tap into what is necessary in life; stripped away from the conveniences, the niceties, the comforts of our daily experience as we’ve always known it. Burning Man brings out the survivor in you.

Exodus begins today and apparently it’s 7 hours of traffic Hell getting out of the vortex of shifting labyrinths that is Burning Man. I will miss so much about this place: the desert, the old man brushing his teeth in a tutu, the open sky, the freedom, the challenges, the surprises. The first couple of days I wasn’t sure I would be able to deal with the scene (particularly the non-stop techno beats in the background) for more than 2 days, but now I can see why people come for a full week. Seeing Black Rock City as it has cleared out and just the playa remains was worth waiting for entirely. The Temple Burn was a spiritual experience. I walked naked around the ashes of dreams, fears, grief and lost love, my rite of passage—skin tingling in the heat, nipples hard and wet between the legs—aroused from an overwhelming sense of tapping into the primal.