Temple of Honor |
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| The Temple of Honor BURNING MAN 2003 Black Rock City, Nevada |
Driving down the two-lane gravel road, headed towards Black Rock City, I can see from my rearview mirror the last drops of civilization wither in the blistering sun. It will be a week before I will see another gas station, restaurant, or grocery store. Once a lakebed rich in life form, this ancient four hundred square mile terrain now embodies only dust, sand and sun. Windstorms whip the harsh elements of the playa, creating a constant changing tide; an evolving canvas dipped in muted shades of coral, amber, and gray. But for one week out of the year, thirty thousand people from all over the world journey here to participate in an experimental community; a radical exploration that challenges your creative expression and self-reliance. The result of this experiment is Burning Man. I cannot say for certain why I am here. I am privy to the emotional and physical challenges and yet I arrive reckless, my tank drained to the point of reserve. I have never been attracted to the austerity of the desert, preferring the soothing gesture of the oceans sway; and its been quite sometime since I've craved laughter, instead recoiling in restless isolation. Truth be told, I'm not sure I signed up with the intention of achieving, wondering instead if, exposed to such harshness, I would simply perish, dejectedly dissolve into the barrenness of this region. If I don't hurry, I won't get my tent pitched before night fall, I think. I have never pitched a tent before nor have I gone a day without electricity or indoor plumbing. Sandwiched between thousands of happy campers, I am the only one not smiling. Warily I greet the outbreak of eccentric apparitions that now surround me. It is clear that I am not the norm here. Feeling lost and dejected, I walk in silence, alone with my thoughts and thousands of miles from home. It is the first time I remember feeling like a social outcast. I visualize my indifference flashing with the intensity of an emergency vehicles rooftop mounted strobe light, warning onlookers of my obvious nonconformity. Did Kerry feel this way, I wonder? In his writings he described himself as an ogre - trapped in a world ruled by insecurity, living with the never-ending fear that someone would discover the bruises buried deep inside. Under a veil of sweltering dust, I begin my journey through the streets of Buring Man. Hard work and creative minds transform self-pitched tents and you-hauled trailers into hedonistic theme camps brimming with gaiety. Masquerading in elaborate costumes, participants pedal foot powered, festively decorated carts and bikes. The exchange of money is replaced with the bartering of gifts. We have each brought our own food, water and shelter, for there are no vendors or plush accommodations here. At journeys end we will leave no trace. The world we built leaves with us, its existence imprinted forever in our minds. On day two, with my flask full of water and my skin slatered in sunscreen, I jump on my bike and head to the farthest point of the playa. Wind-pitched sand stings my skin and my mind races on. Faster and faster I pedal, envisioning what would happen if I never came back. Would the clean up crew simply donate my belongings, return the rented SUV and notify my family |
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| Lofty pillars, balancing two lanterns each, line that pathway that leads to the Temple of Honor. It is undoubtdly the most spectacular structure at Burning Man. Distinguished for its architectural magnificence and aesthetic beauty; it stands as artist David Best's proudest creation. A massive fortress constructed of calm swelling domes, spears and cones, resting on a square wood casing; forming an immage similar to that of the Taj Mahal. Intricate black and white mystical illustrations illuminated the temple, accentuating its grandeur and holiness. |
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| Temple at Dusk |