Last night while we ate our chicken, the Temple to Fire burned: a distant torch of light and smoke. Everything here is temporary; in a week, all will be gone. We have fallen in the habit of securing everything, always, even the smallest bit of trash, to prevent the wind stealing it. An honorable Playa citizen not only lives by the "don't let it hit the ground" adage, but chases down the blowing litter of others to pack out. Nothing will remain.

As we set off on our last daily wander, Buggy is clad similar to to what he wore on our trip to Alaska, indeed I imagine on any camping trip (which isn't that far from what he wears most of the time). Sneakers, tight black leggings, khaki shorts, a wild purple and white shirt, his wide brimmed jungle-hat, all topped with a bright yellow rain slicker worn as a cape. Nothing matches in any possible way, and the result is exactly as unfashionable here as it was in Alaska, and would be anywhere else. Here in Black Rock City, there is pride in outrageous nonconformity -- in costumes that would be shocking anywhere else, in dress that the wearer can and does wear nowhere else. Still, the common theme is that it be studied, that it hang together, usually matching the others in a mini-community. Buggy does not care. He can't be bothered to use his clothing to expose or establish his identity, or to decorate his body, or obey any external order of things: he is a true, deep non-conformist, independent in thought and action, and I love this in him. 

Largely through Buggy, we had discovered a way to participate: continuous generosity. Buggy put a collection of marbles, Superballs, gum balls, and glow sticks in a small camping kettle, and whenever we came upon a line -- almost always at the toilets -- he would walk the line, offering. After the first round, he decided that since people would spend a lot of time picking out just the right bit of stuff, he would hold the kettle high enough to force them to choose at random to speed up the process. The first time he tried this, I noticed two things. He was right about the process efficiency, things went faster. Also, he had introduced a new element to his generosity: trust. Unable to see the contents of the kettle, people were forced to first decide whether it was prudent to put their hand in the pot brandished by this wild looking man fitting no archetype -- and many refused, until their more confident neighbors brought down something sweet, and they would often change their minds. Conformity is the language of trust, and fashion is the grammar. Buggy speaks Pig-latin. 

Without hesitation we plunged into the inviting entrance. After completing the circle, we discovered that the tunnel continued spiraling inwards, each arch constricting further, and further. Forced to crouch, then to deep knee bends, then to all fours -- dragging through the dust, with no choice but to continue forward as retreat was blocked by those who followed, no way to know how small the tunnel would constrict, but encouraged by the sound of laughter still coming from the center, we finally emerged on our bellies, coughing but ebullient. "From the chrysalis, emerge, transformed!" intoned a spontaneous poet; and laughing, we walked upright along the spiral path formed beside and between the tube, which we had completely overlooked beside the yawning entrance.

Within 100 yards we came upon a geodesic with a quiet water-fountain by its entrance, and from inside the dome poured a very interesting music. Intrigued, we peered in, and the songstress weaved an invitation into her song. The space was very intimate, maybe forty people, and the band funky and fun: slightly mistuned violin, two cellos, a double bass, all woven together by a trombone, drum, and the bouncing voice of the lead singer. The effect was reminiscent of Souxsie & the Banshees -- in this environment, I would be unsurprised to learn that it was in fact she -- and wonderfully informal, lighthearted, and entertaining.

When we emerged, dusk was giving way to night. Distributing mini-glowsticks randomly to dark, mini-glowstick-needing human shadows in the crowd, we wandered to the center for the Burning of the Man.

My ears were still buzzing as we drove from the camp. Smoke, flame, and fireworks rose in fiery waves as the city continued to consume itself. Two weeks hence, no trace, none whatsoever, would remain as evidence of the burst of creativity and energy that had dominated the sere landscape so briefly: like geologic time concentrated into a week, a civilization had sprung to life, grown vibrant, then collapsed and would disappear. And at last, I found that I had a single word that could summarize the experience for me, the anchor I could use to reawaken the comfort, and joy, the sense of clear rules, purpose, and identity, the connectedness and solidarity: 

It is not sustainable. "Being out here makes us realize why we became urbanized," Buggy commented at one point, in line to the toilets, overflowing again. "Raw sewage in my backyard is stinky! I want plumbing! ...and electricity! ...and viticulture!"

As it receded behind us, reflected dully in the clouds ahead, I decided that the massive, sustained, collaborative, improvisational performance was perhaps the best single artwork I have ever seen. I lay back in my car seat, deeply contented. Racing over the shuddering desert, listening to tapes of "Harry Potter" to keep awake, I smiled, and nursed the delight in my heart.