"reprint"
This came up in conversation about BurningMan more than once over the weekend, so I figured I'd pull it out again. The original is here, with comments...
It comes again; that time of year which brings a heavy heart and a certain trepidation as I watch so many of my friends scurry to shop and pack, then joyously travel long distances to attend strange rituals. Yes, they always come back. But more of my friends and acquaintances go every year, and every year they come back slightly changed, somehow. The changes are deeper than the dirt and the sunburn, and they worry me.
I'm sure you've heard, as have I, wondrous tales of art and generosity; seen the pictures of marvelous constructions and incredible costumes; been as curious as I about the stories of altars to strange gods and goddesses and hints of barbarous practices in the dark. You may have been tempted, even as I have been, by local "parties" and "fundraisers" which are guaranteed (no matter how titillating or scandalous) to be but pale imitations of what is supposed to happen out beyond the reaches of civilization. But I have not succumbed to the sly blandishments, the gentle pressures or coy salesmanship. I cannot, I dare not...
"The altitude gives one clarity," they say, "and the heat is not so bad once one starts to acclimate." The dryness, they claim, would be good for my health. I suppress my shudders as best as I can and demur. I will not, I must not. Maybe next year, I always say....
And then I wonder. Is it this year? Does it start now, that not all my friends return? Or, might I now find a friend or loved one is more than slightly changed, is no longer the dear one I knew but truly someone, something else? Or is it this year that they bring back more than that strange dust; import enough of some subtle contagion to change my mind; return with something more enticing than the call of the drums and seductive enough that the whispered promises of communion make me finally forget to ask, with what?
It comes again; that time of year which brings a heavy heart and a certain trepidation as I watch so many of my friends scurry to shop and pack, then joyously travel long distances to attend strange rituals. Yes, they always come back. But more of my friends and acquaintances go every year, and every year they come back slightly changed, somehow. The changes are deeper than the dirt and the sunburn, and they worry me.
I'm sure you've heard, as have I, wondrous tales of art and generosity; seen the pictures of marvelous constructions and incredible costumes; been as curious as I about the stories of altars to strange gods and goddesses and hints of barbarous practices in the dark. You may have been tempted, even as I have been, by local "parties" and "fundraisers" which are guaranteed (no matter how titillating or scandalous) to be but pale imitations of what is supposed to happen out beyond the reaches of civilization. But I have not succumbed to the sly blandishments, the gentle pressures or coy salesmanship. I cannot, I dare not...
"The altitude gives one clarity," they say, "and the heat is not so bad once one starts to acclimate." The dryness, they claim, would be good for my health. I suppress my shudders as best as I can and demur. I will not, I must not. Maybe next year, I always say....
And then I wonder. Is it this year? Does it start now, that not all my friends return? Or, might I now find a friend or loved one is more than slightly changed, is no longer the dear one I knew but truly someone, something else? Or is it this year that they bring back more than that strange dust; import enough of some subtle contagion to change my mind; return with something more enticing than the call of the drums and seductive enough that the whispered promises of communion make me finally forget to ask, with what?