Why I Burn

I discovered Burning Man in a Barnes & Noble, of all places.

I was still in high school, wandering through the photography section, when I pulled a book called The Art of Burning Man off the shelf. The images were unlike anything I'd seen — massive sculptures rising from cracked desert earth, impossible structures that looked like Escher drawings made real. I didn't really know what I was looking at, but I knew I wanted to see it for myself.

It would take years before I got there. When I finally had disposable income and the freedom to make it happen, I asked my cousins in Reno if they'd heard of it. Turns out they'd been going for more than a decade.

Without a moment’s hesitation, I got tickets, and made plans to camp with them. 

An Unexpected Catalyst

My first burn was 2016, and I mostly came prepared. I embraced the principle of Radical Self-Reliance, but due to travel constraints, I couldn't bring my own bike, and asked my cousins to bring one for me. They did, but (Murphy’s Law) the chain broke immediately.

This was the beginning of burn week, before the bike repair camps were open. My cousins told me to grab the bike belonging to their friend's wife, who wasn't arriving for a few more days - problem solved. That evening I explored Black Rock City for the first time - pedaling through the dust as the city began to come alive. We passed art cars and sound camps and people dressed like they'd raided the wardrobe department of every film ever made. There were plenty of Mad Max copycats searching for Thunderdome, which it turns out, at Burning Man is a real thing. It was everything the book had promised and more. We explored Leonardo’s Workshop, which was part of that year’s theme, and I even bumped into a few friends.

Vision and Doc battling in Thunderdome in 2022

The next morning, I was the first one awake in our camp. I decided to keep exploring and went for the same bike.

That's when Catalyst, quite literally, burst onto the scene. 

There I was, in the early morning hours, just as the sun was beginning to pop over the mountains, when a man came spilling out of the trailer next to my tent. He was quite a spectacle - dressed only in a gold onesie and still wearing last night's costume and makeup - he was clearly convinced a theft was underway.

He asked what I was doing. He asked if I was needed anything, if I was lost, confused, or on drugs.  His questions were far from accusatory - he was genuinely curious and wanted to make sure I was OK. Finally, he asked why I was attempting to ride off with his wife’s bike. 

Half awake and a bit overwhelmed by the scene, I was a bit tongue-tied. I tried to explain, but fumbled the introduction. I failed to mention my cousins by name, couldn't quite articulate why I was grabbing someone else's bike at dawn. All I could get out was that my bike chain was broken and someone told me it would be OK to take that one. 

Understanding the problem, he told me to wait, and disappeared back into his trailer. He came back in a silk kimono, with a bike chain repair kit in hand, and immediately set about fixing the bike. It was then that my cousin emerged, saw what was happening, and everything clicked into place.

That interaction defined my first Burn, and laid the groundwork for how I came to view the community. Here was a guy I’d never met, who honestly thought I was stealing from him, and his first reaction was to help. 

It informs how I show up as a burner every year, and is a large part of how I’ve come to view the community - a bunch of loving lunatics who just want to connect, contribute, express parts of themselves they can’t in day-to-day life, and generally just have a good time. Above all else, burners take care of each other.

It turns out that Catalyst is a close friend of my cousins, and he has become someone I look forward to spending time with each and every year I go back.

Vision, Doc, and Catalyst

So What Is Burning Man, Actually?

People ask me about it all the time, and I've learned to start by asking what they think it is. The answers usually reflect whatever sensationalist coverage they've seen — naked hippies strung out on drugs or dancing in the desert, billionaires in luxury camps, some kind of lawless steampunk fantasyland.

All of that is true of course. It just completely misses the point.

In my experience: Burning Man is a temporary city of 80,000 people built on a set of ten core principles. For one week each year, tens of thousands of people show up in Nevada's Black Rock Desert and attempt to do, create, and live by their interpretation of those principles, together.

Like any city of that size, there's extraordinary variety: scientists and artists, executives, educators, and activists, first-timers and thirty-year veterans. Yes, there are sparkleponies and darkwads and sometimes people overindulge in whatever their vices of choice are, but for every one of those, there’s also an AA meeting, panel on philosophy, international development, or tech, and an energy healing workshop. People come to party, for sure, but they also come to try on new ways of being and doing and showing up in the world. They come to build impossible things, serve amazing food, and remarkable experiences that can only exist in this unique time and place in the world. They come to push their own boundaries, and to find community in a world that makes community increasingly difficult.

It's not a festival you attend. It's a world you help create - everything there is done by and for the community, and almost all of it, highly intentional.

Coming Home & Leaving ‘The Default World’ Behind

The journey to Burning Man is always a bit stressful. The planning, the prep, the investment in infrastructure to build or gifts to give away, the logistics of hauling everything you need to survive a week in the desert. By the time you reach the greeters at the end of Gate Road, you're usually in need of a nap.

But then you run into old friends, new neighbors, and witness this remarkable city rise out of the dust.

Every year, I'm struck by how much creativity and effort people pour into their burns. Massive art installations, tents, interactive playlands, that in many cases take months to build. Vehicles that look like pirate ships or dragons or glowing jellyfish, and giant flame-spewing octopi crisscross the desert at night, dodging darkwads and delighting crowds. Everyone shows up with something to offer.

El Pulpo Magnifico - Image Credit: Duncan.co

Soon, the legends begin to spread - things like: 

“I had the best pizza of my life at about 12:30, way out in deep playa by the giant LED willow tree. They’re only open from 2-4 a.m. but you have to try it.” 

“There’s a 12 piece tribute band playing the complete Darkside of the Moon album at midnight, and they got the original saxophone player from the band to join them.”

“The Philharmonic is playing a sunrise set at The Temple. We’re going to hit up the Baconeers afterwards for some Bloody Marys.”

Such stories are common in a place most burners think of as “home.” It may sound trite, but thinking of the temporary city of home, and real life as “the default world” is actually a declaration of purpose. It says, this is what community can and probably should look like, and asks how we might infuse our daily lives with a bit more connection, creativity, effort, inclusion, and joy.

Like life, the collective effort is what makes it work. Burning Man isn't something that happens to you — it's something you participate in. The city exists because everyone there decided to build it.

Pink Floyd tribute band with original sax player, Dick Parry leading the way.

Expanding Horizons

I don’t often think of myself as a "free spirit." In fact, it’s the opposite. I feel a sense of responsibility and obligation to other people - one of my close friends recognized this trait in themselves and labeled it “omnipotent responsibility guilt.” I’d never heard the term before, but honestly, it seems about right.  

I came up in a fairly conventional path — UCLA, NYU journalism school, a decade in social impact. Burning Man is a place where I can experiment, push my boundaries, and show up in ways that might not fit neatly into everyday life.

On-Playa, I've done energetic and shamanic work that I never would have had access to in the default world. I've had conversations with scientists building portable and expandable solar arrays that fit neatly in shipping containers. I've talked freely to strangers about extremely personal things that, for one reason or another, just never come up with daily life - not even with people I’ve been close to for years. The environment creates access, permission, and a total lack of judgment, to be curious, to be vulnerable, to try things and trust people in ways that seem strange anywhere else.

The temporary nature and sense of anonymity helps. Everything at Burning Man is impermanent. There are people I know only by their “playa names” (see e.g.: Catalyst). Even people who are close friends in real life tend to refer to each other by Playa Names during the burn - it’s a respectful acknowledgment that the person they choose to be on-Playa might not exactly line up with the person they are in real life, or in the workplace. Sometimes the names are just fun, but for many, they express a specific intention that’s important to honor.

The structures will burn or be packed up. The city will disappear without a trace. That impermanence creates a kind of urgency—if you want to experience something, you have to do it now. It also reminds us not to take everything so seriously. It's all going to dust anyway, and we can all rinse, rest, repeat, and get ready for another year.

For myself, I always come back a little dustier, a little smarter, a little more open and curious, and with new ideas and intentions to put into practice when I get home. 

Golden Guy Alley in 2024. Image Credit: Duncan.co

Golden Guy Alley and The Missing Piece

I think it was my first or second year, when my aunt (also a multi-year burner; no known Playa Name) came up and told me about a place I simply had to check out. It was an eclectic group of small bars and restaurants, and they were serving warm, delicious, pho. When we arrived at what I discovered was Golden Guy Alley, I was blown away. The spectacle of it, the scale, the variety, the energy… I felt like I had found “my spot.” 

I stood with my aunt reflecting on the experience as the crowds thinned. Before long a hidden door behind us slid open, and a flamboyant redhead named Commanda invited us in. She informed us that we were seated in the Wize Owl, an intimate bar, seating 4, that she had built herself. She was from New Orleans, and wanted to bring her version of the Vieux Carre cocktail to the playa, and this would be her last service of the night. We spent the next hour sipping our Vieuxs and chatting about life. When we finally emerged, the crowds were gone, and we disappeared out into the night, in search of the next adventure. 

Inspired, I reached out to the organizers of the Alley, and today, I’m fortunate enough to be leading an expansion of GGA, on the opposite side of the playa from the more established 7:30 original.

My personal contribution is The Missing Piece.

It's a 12-by-8-foot wooden structure built by myself and a few friends, housing a bar I made from steel pipes, wood, and resin. We serve handcrafted cocktails using high-end spirits—À La Louisiane, Mai Tais made with fresh passionfruit, goat cheese-infused dirty martinis, homemade limoncello. We also offer functional non-alcoholic beverages using teas, herbs, and infusions designed to evoke specific moods or feelings. The point is to create an intimate, unique, and high-end experience, and share some quality time and interesting conversation with whomever wanders in. There’s never a rush, and nothing is transactional. It’s just craft, conversation, and human connection.

V1 of The Missing Piece, an N/A bar called Antidote, with mixologist Grace Davis tending bar, in 2023

Why I Keep Going

I ask myself this question each and every year. It’s expensive, time consuming, and in all honesty, I don’t do well in that kind of heat. The value I personally get from Burning Man is in the community, the creativity, personal growth, and the opportunity to contribute in new and unconventional ways. Most of all, it’s a reason and opportunity to practice being a better version of myself.

It's also great practice for what I actually want to build in the world: genuine community. Living for a week in a city designed around generosity, participation, and care for one another changes how you see what's possible. You can't unsee it, and you can't help but want to bring some of that magic back to the Default World.

The Missing Piece is also evolving. What started as a bar on the playa is expanding into something bigger — a game studio concept I’m building around the same principles of craft, joy, and intentional experience. That wouldn't have happened without Burning Man. The Playa continuously reminds me what it feels like when people show up for each other, and now I'm working on ways to create more of that in everyday life.

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Header and listing image credit: Duncan.co