by Brad Listi
It’s also an experiment in social engineering, because we’re trying to find out what kind of society will foster culture, since we don’t seem to see enough of it outside our city.
It’s a rite of passage. It’s an opportunity for people to audition new ways of being, as irrational as that urge might be in a given instance. It’s kind of like stalking the gene pool for culture.
And it’s a ritual. Not only is it done every year, but ultimately, everyone in this city gathers, one great gathering in which everyone is present, and together we witness the sacrifice of the Burning Man.
And on top of that, it is, of course, an inspired party.
How do you spend your days here at the festival? How are you participating?
I give interviews. (Laughs.)
Is that the extent of what you do?
What we do here is a form of instant socialization. And really, the whole function of our city plan is to create a spontaneous phenomenon that no one can control, and that’s culture. No one ever planned culture. It’s a spontaneous, natural occurrence. It’s just that it happens in some social circumstances and not in others. In mass consumer society, it doesn’t happen much…increasingly less. You’re not going to see an outbreak of culture while you wait in line at a concession stand. So we’re trying to control only those forms of social structure that will foment this, at which point we quit trying to control it.
Why this location?
Well, we were looking for a place where we could burn things. And this environment being wholly denuded and virtually innocent of life, we were drawn to that. (To be technically accurate, there is a beetle that lives in some of the larger cracks, but we use a very small portion of this four-hundred-mile landscape.) Also, the Man was always meant to exist within a cosmic environment amid scales that magnify our sense of reality, scales that are larger than life. We came here to the Black Rock Desert and discovered a space so broad and empty and vast, it felt oceanic. Charmingly enough, it didn’t move and you could walk on it! (Laughs.) So this is a site-specific event.
The population of Black Rock City is almost entirely white. Do you have any thoughts as to why?
It’s because white people don’t have any culture left. They’re willing to travel six hundred miles, spend two thousand dollars on their theme camp, and camp in survival conditions in the middle of nowhere so they can connect with somebody else. If you’re living in a ghetto, true, you may be afraid to leave it for fear of prejudice, but you’re also connected to your aunts and your uncles and your cousins. What’s the big rage in pop culture right now? White kids consuming rap music. Why did the rap people invent that culture? Because they couldn’t afford mass entertainments and spectacles. They didn’t even have a sound system, so they had to make sounds with their mouths. They created culture. They started imitating one another, emulating one another, and they invented a whole new art form. Now it’s been ripped off, and it’s sold as a product and a commodity out of its cultural context to white kids who are glad to embrace something that smells of style and culture and belonging, that has some kind of authenticity to it. And let’s not kid ourselves. White people may be rich and we may be privileged, but we’re isolated…. The white folks are coming here because they need it the most.
Do you feel that Burning Man is a religious experience? Is it a spiritual experience? Is there a difference between those two things?
Yeah, there is. I think it’s the difference between faith and belief. I like to say that belief is faith commodified. Faith is an immediate experience. Belief is something that gets turned into dogma. Belief is something that gets controlled by all these intermediaries who say, “You can’t talk to God right now, but I’m in communication with Him, and I’ll get back to Him, and I’d like you to sign this contract.” And we’ve got nothing to do with that.
The people who found religions are mystics. The people who run religions are administrators. And they end up being run for political purposes. That’s merely my opinion.
Having said that, the fact of the matter is that many people do come here and respond with what you’re forced to clinically describe as “conversion experiences.” They change their entire lives. They’ll quit their jobs. They’ll get married. They’ll get divorced. They’ll come to terms with deep grief. They’ll reorganize their entire existence. They’ll reformulate their goals. They’ll change their values. They’ll change their lives. And it’s really rather extraordinary, and certainly it’s not anything you’d see if you went to a consumer event.
And, of course, if you look at the way the Man is presented, he is presented according to the conventions of religious iconography. I love temples and holy places. I always have. And I’ve tried to present this city in a way that creates certain kinds of perceptions, that allows people, if they so desire, to have a profound and transformative time.
Any final comments you’d like to make to the inquisitive general public?
Oh, no, not really, except that this is one hell of an outdoor experience! (Laughs.) It combines two things: survival camping with cosmopolitan living. You know? Seems to me that’s the best of both worlds. The only thing I never understood was the suburbs. (Laughs.)
17.
Lynch and I finished the interview at around noon and met up with the rest of the group back at The Searcher for lunch. Henry had cooked up a big pot of pasta. We ate and told them all about Larry Harvey. Meeting the guy had been a curious thrill. He was a presence, no two ways about it, a captivating talker, a born salesman. Lynch played back some of the tape. Everyone sat there, rapt.
After lunch, Horvak and Blair suddenly announced that they were going on a naked bike ride. They stripped down, painted each other a variety of different colors, hopped on their bicycles, and left. Neither of them seemed to have any reservations whatsoever about being publicly nude. Henry, Lynch, and I just sat there, drinking beer and trying to act natural. It was odd seeing Horvak naked and odder still seeing Blair strip down. She had a terrific body. None of us knew where to look.
After they left, the three of us continued to sit there. We commented on Blair’s body, and then we cracked a few jokes about how maybe we should get naked too. The conversation went on like this, but nothing ever happened. Nobody got naked. None of us had the guts. Whatever it took to get naked in public and ride around on a bike, we didn’t have it. The confidence wasn’t there.
With this in mind, it wasn’t long before we decided to split up and head off into town on solo adventures. I think the realization of our nudity fears was what set us on our respective courses. We needed some time alone to contemplate our deficiencies. Aversion to being naked was a strangely depressing thing to realize. It made you realize how uncomfortable you were with yourself.
nudophobia n., also gymnophobia
Fear of nudity.
yourself pron.
1.) That one identical with you.
a. Used reflexively as the direct or indirect object of a verb or as the object of a preposition: Did you buy yourself a gift?
b. Used for emphasis: You yourself were certain of the facts.
c. Used in an absolute construction: In office yourself, you helped push the bill along.
2.) Your normal or healthy condition: Are you feeling yourself again? See usage note at myself.
It was Friday afternoon. The Man would burn the following evening. I made my way out to the playa and steered my bike down the long boulevard that led to his pyre. The boulevard was lined with wooden lampposts, and the Man was standing straight ahead beneath a darkening sky. The clouds were rolling in, slate gray and menacing. The sun was fading, and the wind was starting to kick up. The good weather had hung on through the early afternoon, but now the clouds were winning. In truth, the clouds had been winning for much of the week. The day before had been all right, but otherwise, we’d been under threat.
People were cruising around in art cars and on bicycles, going this way and that, weaving in and out of installations and
sculptures, talking about the weather, looking up at the sky. A lot of them seemed to be heading in the opposite direction, back toward the city, back toward their camps.
I didn’t really care. I kept on riding toward the Man. I told myself that Horvak and Blair were somewhere on the playa, nude and probably freezing. That or they were back at The Searcher, washing the paint off of their naked bodies, putting their clothing back on. I figured they probably felt silly about having made the attempt and were huddled under blankets by now, cursing the weather and drinking hot tea. Meanwhile, I was out there on the playa, fully dressed and persevering, riding into the chaos, trying to make myself feel better about the fact that I was afraid to get naked.
A few minutes later, I was standing at the Man’s feet. I had ascended the hay bales, climbed up onto his altar, and was standing beneath him, looking out on Black Rock City. It was something I’d been meaning to do ever since my arrival. The wind was whipping, dust was rising up all around, and visibility was poor. Rain appeared imminent. In the distance, through the growing fog, I could make out the arc of the metropolis.
The metropolis was large.
I needed a glass of water.
The climate was changing.
The climate was always changing.
Time passed. The weather worsened. Dust was burning my eyes. I shielded my face, stepped down from atop the hay bales, and remounted my bicycle. I zipped up my coat and rode away, across the playa and into the wind. On my way back to town, I turned around and looked to the Man again. By now, I could barely make out his figure in the distance. He was standing in the middle of the desert, in a milky gray haze, completely and utterly solitary. In the strangest of ways, it almost looked as if he weren’t made of wood.
18.
Halfway home, the rain started falling. The weather kicked in full force. Suddenly, I was lost in a cloud. The wind stung my face, and my eyes were fried. I was in the thick of the city, and the ground was turning muddy. Pedaling was difficult, and I was having trouble seeing. Eventually, I dismounted my bicycle and ducked inside a large white tent. The tent was home to a theme camp called the Costco Soulmate Trading Outlet. The sign out front was prominent, inviting visitors to come inside and shop around. I’d ridden past it several times but had never had the courage or the inclination to enter. Now the weather had driven me in.
soulmate n.
One of two persons compatible with each other in disposition, point of view, or sensitivity.
There were three people inside the Costco Soulmate Trading Outlet, a guy and two girls. The guy was battening the hatches, trying to keep the tent stable. The girls were tending to the tables, securing paperwork and computer wires. I could hear a generator running.
The guy saw me first. He walked over, shook my hand, and introduced himself. His name was Jerry. He had strawberry blond hair, a space between his two front teeth, and freckles on his arms.
The women were named Naomi and Courtney. Naomi was tiny. She had short-cropped, curly blond hair and looked like a marathon runner. Courtney was heavyset and cheerful. Her face was painted blue.
The sales pitch began almost immediately. Courtney asked me if I’d like to find my soulmate. Naomi informed me that it was my lucky day. I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond.
“Here at Costco,” said Jerry, “we have one mission and one mission only: to offer quality name-brand and private-label soulmates at substantially lower prices than can be found through conventional wholesale sources.”
He pointed to a banner hanging behind him. The Costco Soulmate mission statement was printed out across it in big red letters. He had just recited it verbatim.
I asked them what it would cost me.
“It all depends,” said Naomi.
“We accept a wide variety of goods and services,” said Jerry.
“Do you have anything specific to offer?” said Courtney.
I shook my head. Everything I owned was back at The Searcher.
“Not to worry,” said Jerry. “It just so happens that we’re accepting knock-knock jokes and songs this afternoon.”
“I’d love to hear a song,” said Courtney.
“As would I,” said Naomi.
“I’m tone deaf,” I said.
“Most people are,” said Jerry.
“Sing your favorite,” Courtney said with a smile. “Belt it out at the top of your lungs, and we’ll be off and running. Pitch doesn’t matter at all. All that matters is whether or not you sing it with heart.”
“Enthusiasm,” said Naomi. “That’s all we’re really looking for.”
“I don’t think you want to hear me sing,” I said.
“Of course we do,” said Courtney. “We would be thrilled to hear you sing.”
“Just so long as it’s done at the top of your lungs,” said Jerry.
“Volume is really our only requirement,” said Naomi.
“Go all out,” said Courtney, “and we’ll deliver your soulmate.”
“Think about it for a second,” said Jerry. “One song. One soulmate.”
“That kind of value is incomparable,” said Naomi. “Where else can you find that kind of deal in America?”
“How about a knock-knock joke?” I said. “I know a few knock-knock jokes.”
“I think we need to hear a song,” said Courtney.
“Yes,” said Jerry. “The weather being what it is, we’re desperately in need of a song.”
“A song?” I said.
“A song,” they said.
“What song?” I said.
“Any song,” they said.
I stood there thinking, trying to figure a way out of it. I had a difficult time saying no to anyone. It was one of my greatest weaknesses and one of my greatest strengths.
The three of them smiled at me.
“You can do it, Wayne,” said Naomi.
“Yes,” said Courtney. “We have the utmost faith in you.”
I sang them the first verse of “Dust in the Wind,” by Kansas (Point of Know Return, 1977). It was the most apropos song I could think of on short notice. I belted it out at the top of my lungs. My voice cracked. It sounded awful. I shut my eyes. Singing publicly felt deeply unnatural. I couldn’t hit the high notes. I couldn’t hit any notes.
“All my dreams, pass before my eyes, a curiosity….”
Surprisingly, my dismal effort was greeted with generous appreciation. Jerry whistled and whooped. Naomi and Courtney applauded with gusto.
“Bravo!” said Jerry.
“Hear, hear!” said Naomi.
Courtney stepped over from the other side of the table, took me by the hand, and sat me down in a chair. Naomi walked over with a digital camera and snapped a head shot. Then she took the camera over to a laptop computer and downloaded the photo. Moments later, I was handed a clipboard containing the official Costco Soulmate questionnaire. My picture was printed at the top of the page in the upper left-hand corner. A battery of probing questions was printed down the length of the page. Jerry told me to fill it out carefully. Courtney informed me that they would process my information and issue me a soulmate within twenty-four hours.
“Go with your gut,” said Naomi. “First thought, best thought. No holds barred.”
I looked at the first question. It read:
Are you now, or have you ever been, a slut?
I picked up the pen and started scribbling.
19.
Sundown, Saturday September 2, 2000. The oranges and pinks on the horizon were fading. The sun was sinking out of sight, and the darkness was moving in. The clouds overhead were starting to congeal, blanketing the moon and stars. A cold wind blew in from the hills. A single red flare soared into the sky over the playa. Slowly, citizens of Black Rock City left their camps and ventured toward the Man in a massive herd. It was a pilgrimage.
My friends and I were standing in the middle of a crowd, directly in front of the Man, about seventy-five yards away. We had arrived early in order to secure a go
od view. The preburn ceremonies were already under way. Fire dancers and music. A parade of crazy characters marching down the boulevard in costume. The big event was set to happen momentarily. The energy in the crowd was electric. Henry had his video camera running. Lynch was talking into his Dictaphone. Horvak and Blair were cuddling like teenagers.
Romance was in the air.
I was wearing several layers of clothing. In the right front pocket of my jacket was Mitch Baxter’s coverage for The Grandeur of Delusions. In my left hand was the teddy bear I’d bought in the subway station at Union Square. Wilhelmina. She’d been sitting in the bottom of my backpack for the past month. I’d never bothered taking her out.
Sometime in the middle of it all, Lynch tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face him. He extended the Dictaphone in my direction.
“Okay,” he said. “Wayne Fencer. In ten words or less, I want you to describe exactly what you think you’re doing out here.”
“What I think I’m doing out here?”
“Yeah. I want you to make an official statement and sum up your experience of this moment as succinctly as you can.”
I thought it over.
Lynch moved the recorder closer to my face.
“Okay,” I said.
“Go ahead,” said Lynch.
“Standing here in the desert,” I said, “waiting for an epiphany.”