Love Burn at a Glance

So. I went to my first Burn.

I know that following an event of such epic proportions, I’m supposed to say things like “words can’t even describe how incredible it was,” or talk about how my life was changed forever, or tell a crazy story involving whacky characters and mind-blowing adventures.

Truly, though, the highlight of my Love Burn was the moment when a gigantic flock of fish crows wheeled overhead, gathering just above the Fairy Forest (yes, that was the name of a sound stage surrounded by fairy lights, decadent lounges, and tiny tea tables) while waiting for all the stragglers to finish crossing the water between our little island and the coast of Miami. Never in my life have I seen a group of crows that large, and I can’t imagine how many murder jokes were cracked by onlookers in sequined costumes of their own creation throughout the twenty minutes it took for the flock to converge. They darted and weaved in a spiraling orb, calling loudly above the cacophony of battling basslines that clashed between countless DJs and the roar of flamethrowing art installations, and, once the last crow had caught up, departed in unison.

Biology facts: The coastal fish crow, ever so slightly smaller than its more common American crow counterpart, is a generalist species with an ability to adapt and blend just about anywhere. They’re known to join forces with other birds to mob predators and take over food sources in the winter months, demonstrated by the appearance of vultures, cormorants, and even pelicans in the mega flock that swarmed Love Burn one bizarrely sweltering day in February. An apt metaphor, if you ask me, for the group of people they visited; creatives from a diverse array of backgrounds and walks of life, coming together to share their artistic visions with everything from precision-engineered behemoth structures to art pieces made entirely from items picked out of dumpsters.

To some people in the spiritual realm, crows are a sign of metaphysical mystery, of magic and spiritual growth.

To others, they are the messengers of death.

In my experience, both translations applied to their appearance at Love Burn 2023.

 

So, what exactly is Love Burn? It’s a regional Burn in South Florida, or a smaller offshoot of the much larger and better known Burning Man in Nevada. If you’re not familiar, here’s a quick overview: Burning Man is an annual event in Black Rock City, Nevada, a town that only exists once a year when roughly 80,000 people flock to the desert to experience the trip of a lifetime, characterized by outrageous art projects and consummated by the ceremonial burning of the man (made of wood, of course).

You may have heard of it, but still don’t quite understand what happens there; this, I learned at Love Burn, is by intentional design. Of the ten principles forming the foundation of the Burning Man community, one of the most important is decommodification, or the need to create spaces without advertisements, sponsorships, sales, etc. This is an event that attracts even the most affluent and powerful of people to unwind and explore an alternate dimension, and some of those people go home to their regular jobs as lawyers, CEOs, and media moguls. The copyright power of the Burning Man legal team is unbelievable, and commercialization of the event has been successfully protected and blocked to the point where even most attendees share a general understanding that Instagram photos should be kept to a minimum.

From what I understand, as somebody who has only attended this smaller regional Burn and never the “Big Burn,” it wouldn’t make sense to share too much anyway. For one thing, there is the matter of consent, a heavily emphasized topic within the community. It’s hard to get consent from hundreds of people in the background of a photo, some of which may be wearing revealing clothing, or no clothing at all, or living as an alter ego that’s kept anonymous from their professional and personal life back in the “default world.” This comes back to two more of the ten principles: radical inclusion, and radical self-expression. The freedom to be there, and the freedom to be whoever you want to be.

If it sounds a bit like a cult, well. That’s because it kind of is. That’s ok, though. The cult mentality just involves being a decent human and joining other pyromaniacs to watch a big sculpture burn. It’s fine.

 

Bringing it back to Love Burn, there seems to be a general discourse over how it fits in the Burning Man community. I suppose that’s just what happens when people are passionate about something. Some take sides against the organizers, others will defend them to the bitter end. In recent years, this flavor of divide has seemed to become especially predominant, thanks to the influence of social media and the ability of house-ridden humans to connect with each other from behind the security of their screens.

This, I have to say, was an unfortunately loud voice that seemingly made it difficult for many first-timers to sink in and enjoy themselves. But we’ll get to that later. First, let’s talk about what made it so magical.

Right off the bat, everybody is happy to be there. Arriving to a grassy island in South Florida in the middle of February is a welcome treat for the vast majority of Americans, and anybody else from the Northern Hemisphere who made their way out for the event. While it’s true that most of us limped away with infinite bug bites and sunburnt skin, reeling from the after effects of subtropical heat and dehydration, there’s no denying the utter bliss shared by everybody who sat under the palm trees, listening to the ocean waves and trying not to think about the snow they would be facing again in a week’s time.

Admittedly, I’ve successfully managed to dodge snowy winters for the past 6 or 7 years, so I can’t say that I was able to share in that collective high brought by the sun. Luckily, there’s so much more to appreciate than just the weather.

Art! Adventure! Music! Lights! Most of all, FIRE!

Fire everywhere! People dancing with fire, flaming accent pieces on DJ booths, giant sculptures blasting eyebrow-searing fireballs, art cars with flamethrowers built in. In the end, it really just is a bunch of pyromaniacs getting together to celebrate their shared love of fire. Propane consumption aside, it’s a beautiful thing witness and take part in. Fire is a sacred tool, one that brings people together, and the ability to share in a gigantic clean-burning fire with thousands of other people is truly an honor indeed.

The experience, well. I understand now why I’ve never quite been able to grasp that aspect of the experience from outside. It’s difficult to explain. But I’ll do my best to share a meager handful of quick-draw sketches.

Picture this: You’re walking down a dark path past a gigantic laser-cut beehive, and then a glowing tower made of… what, stained glass? Strategically lit acrylic panels? Who knows. It’s pretty. You see people lined up to enter a porta potty? What? Why? You peek inside. The people stepping inside the porta potty disappear into a haze of smoke, lights strobing from somewhere beyond. They don’t come back out. Alright. You keep walking. To your right is a bar where a woman in bondage gear and a bright pink wig is paddling the backside of a man whose hands are resting against a giant wooden cross. A bicycle covered in flashing lights dings its bell and rolls past you, ridden by somebody that looks like they escaped from a 1920s carnival run by Lady Gaga. A golf cart covered in beer cans whizzes by close behind them. A golf cart topped by a gigantic glowing turtle follows soon after that.

The path in front of you opens up to reveal a wide open area that seems to be the main focus of the event. Dimly lit scaffolding looms high, high above the crowd, people lined up to climb the stairs and soak in the Miami skyline above the many flashing lights. What appeared at first to be a building turns out to be a double decker bus with a DJ booth on top, fronted by bony monster face whose yellow eyes rove around eerily. A large mechanical rooster rocks back and forth, powered by people on seesaws. Naturally, it’s on fire. On one side of the field, an enormous three-layer cake shoots lasers in direct challenge to the colossal robot cat that rises up over silhouetted skyscrapers on the other end of the field, its angular feline head swiveling slowly around and sending lasers of its own across the smokey night air. High in the sky above you, a chain of glowing green balloons stretches across the horizon.

Truly, it’s just too much to describe.

 

There are no trash cans. That’s not how it works. You brought trash in, you bring it back out. Everything goes in your pocket and back out the gates with you.

It’s not soft and cushy. There are expectations involved. Look after yourself, be a good person, and don’t mess with my vibe. Didn’t bring enough of what you need? Too bad. Your problem. Fuck your Burn.

And yet, despite the aggressive attitude, you will get everything you need. Everything is a gift. No money exchanges hands on the grounds. Say hello to a person on the street, be given a gift that you can take home with you. Pass by a camp, have food thrust into your hand. Walk up to a bar, tell them what you want, pass them your personal cup to be filled (very important). They might not have your drink of choice, but who cares. It’s part of the experience.

 

I wish I could say that all of this was the most incredible experience of my life, and that I walked away feeling like my cup overfloweth with love, awe, and inspiration. Alas, I’m an observer, blessed with an unfortunate ability to see what’s hidden beneath happy facades.

I’ve never been to a Burn before, so I don’t know how it usually goes. But this looked like it was a hard one for many, many people.

Don’t get me wrong, the experience was overall positive and lovely. It just wasn’t without challenges, stress, and misfortune. Many people expressed that they won’t be coming back. Some were beaten and broken down to the point where they might not be coming back to the “default” world at all anytime soon.

The stress. The STRESS. My god, it was overwhelming. One could almost hear the teeth grinding on Wednesday afternoon, the day before the gates opened to general attendees. I came into it barely able to contain myself already; for some reason, ever since covid happened, I’ve been getting panic attacks every time I prepare for an event. It’s not a fear of illness or anything like that, more just this sense that something has changed. Something is different in the way people gather, and there’s no way to control how it will go. I thought this was an individual problem, but became aware this past week that it’s something being experienced by the collective.

Events aren’t what they used to be. There’s an element of sheer terror involved. At any time, people could start arguing with each other. At any time, it could get canceled. At any time, there could be a natural disaster. At any time, there could be sickness, disease. At any time, there could be violence and death.

It’s too much. It’s just too much to handle.

Add on top of that all the tiny little things that have changed over the past several years, the minor disruptions in the flow that accumulate and stack on top of each other. Supply chain shortages. Transportation delays. Rising fuel costs. Rising everything costs. Less public service workers. Less compliance. Less endurance for mental health.

It took days longer than it should have for permits to be approved. Inspectors simply didn’t show up. Build crews sat around anxiously twiddling their thumbs, tools in hand, sweating and waiting for the green light to finish assembling monuments that should have been started much sooner.

It took great deals of effort for teams to come together and get things done, what with all the interpersonal dramas popping up. Tension was high. Self-care was low. Long, long hours of gruelling work under the unforgiving sun, very little sleep. Many people are still recovering from whatever the fuck happened to humanity over the last few years, and it became apparent that many of us just aren’t equipped to deal with these things the way we once were.

 

I hate to say it, guys. But I don’t think anything is ever going to be the same again.

Sometime before sunrise on Saturday night (or would that be Sunday morning), I found myself in a gigantic sphere made up of multicolored lights reflecting on white panels, creating a light show for the people who lay suspended in a network of rope hammocks. Over the music, I found myself saying something that shocked and terrified me to say out loud, something which has been on my mind for a long time:

“Shit’s changing fast out there. Too fast. There’s a war coming, and I don’t feel like I’m ready. I don’t feel like any of us are ready.”

Bet you didn’t think that was where this essay was headed, huh?

The beautiful part about that moment, however, was being able to look around that room- sphere, whatever- and realize where I had found myself. In my immediate surroundings, I can almost guarantee I would have been able to pull together a team ready to survive the apocalypse if it had hit right then and there. People who know how to build, people who know how to lead, people who can wire up solar panels and grow food in gardens. Medics and organizers and mechanics and teachers and mothers. Everybody was there, and so many of them were doers, ready to respond to any situation that might arise.

I don’t think what’s coming is going to look anything like the fiery world of Burners, with flamethrowing art cars and Mad Max style fashion choices. I do, however, think that there will come a time when this and other communities take a look at themselves and realize, oh. Right. Maybe that’s what we’ve unconsciously been building all along.

I hope I’m wrong, and that this world continues plodding along despite the never-ending predictions of doomsdayers that have been shouting on street corners since before the times of Nostradamus. If it ever does happen, however, I can’t help but feel that there will be a deep and profound beauty to it all. The moment when people step out of their hedonistic tendencies and come together to realize that they’ve actually been creating something through their years of hard work and dedication.

I truly feel that the Burning Man community will be right there at the forefront of survivors and leaders, paving the way towards creating a brighter, more sustainable future for us all.

 

For now, though. For now I’ll just focus on planning a fun theme camp for next year.

We’ll talk about the rest if and when the time comes.