My week in the desert was the best week of my life. It's the only thing I can really say when people ask me how I liked it. It's hard to explain; sure, the constant partying and never ending dance parties are hard to beat anywhere else in the world; the endless laughs and endless free drinks are hard to come by in real life; the fun dressing up, the spirit of exploration, the willingness to accept and try what you don't know, the sexy air that floats above the playa and simultaneously the complete satisfaction of not needing sex or intimacy are remembered with complete longing. But the despair I feel is from losing the best part of the playa: my people.
Some of them were old friends and some completely new, but each night (and day) I couldn't get myself to go to bed because the thought of leaving their sides for mere hours was unthinkable. We did together what can be done no where else in the world. And you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who can do it better than us.
It had nothing to do with the drugs or the dancing, it had to do with the love. I could dance next to a stranger at the same amazing show at Robot Heart and I wouldn't move like that. I could electrocute myself holding conductors with someone else, but it wouldn't feel like that.
With anybody else I could paint my face neon and put lipstick on boys and wear crop tops and sequins and animal prints and explore pirate ships and explore DJs and climb structures and lie beneath streamers of wind and rain and watch lightening storms and watch buildings burn and have 90s music sing-a-longs and give hugs and kisses and drink one hundo mutombo bottles of champagne and whiskey and wear necklaces/drink from flasks of painted gold and nap during lunch on the dusty pillows and take five million delicious photos and stop in my tracks to tear it up at a mobile dance party and slowly each morning, as the light pokes out from the horizon, I could make my way by foot or by bike or by art car, to find BowRain standing true, a beacon for us all, to come together and pop bottle after bottle of bubbly, as the night turns to day and the hats and coats are shed, as the sunglasses are donned and the beats melt away; I could do this with anyone.
But I only want to do it with you.
And now that I am home and I examine my life, despite my good job and my loving circle of friends, I don't really feel whole. Coming home alone is a lonely place. I imagine the transition is a bit easier if you are in a relationship because right now I feel like there is a part of me that I discovered in Black Rock City that no one in my "real world" knows. I guess that's what we Burners do; once a year we let ourselves out and then for 51 weeks we play make believe. Perceptions of Burning Man are kind of backward — people tend to think of it as a fantasy when really, after coming back, it's this world that feels fake. I guess that's why we greet each other "Welcome Home" when we set foot again on the playa.
I know these feelings of loss will fade and soon I will be back to my slave-to-the-man, technology-obsessed, priorities-off self, but I hope I can hang on to this feeling a little longer. The loneliness is tough but it makes me yearn for more; it makes me believe that there is more to life than what I've got, which is what I was hoping to discover when I left. I don't yet know what it is I want to change or seek but what I do know is that in the long search for love I've been on, true friendship is a pretty fucking great alternative.
Romance is hard. Sex and jealousy and obligation make dating stressful and painful. I've always been a people person and thus, the value I place on my life is measured by my relationships. Right now, friendships are the notches on my belt. My Portland friends are incredible and I don't mean to discredit my love for them or what they mean to me. Any of them could join me at the burn and I would feel for them just what I feel for these others. The difference now is that my Mutombos have seen me at my very best — and I'm pretty sure they all loved me. I loved me on the playa. And for 353 days, I will count down with the rest of ya'll the days until I'm that person again.
So I leave you with a lyric, from the dopest of bands (which I will defend to the death to all you naysayers), who made their appearance on the playa in the form of our very own 90s mashup sing-a-long- "doo doo doo, doo da doo doo." This is how I feel today and yesterday and probably forever more after every burn.
I've never been so alone and I've never been so alive.
- Third Eye BlindCheers to my Mutombos! I'll see you at home.
Iggy
