One little piece of paper with so much potential. A faceted panorama of meanings. Symbolic of entry. Indicative of fun. Always, always, I have loved a ticket.
I was so happy and inspired when tickets suddenly saw a jump in artistry. My first artistic ticket was a mail-order Grateful Dead ticket to their last show in North Carolina in Charlotte 1994. It has purple glittery print-style ink and a heart on it. I still have it. I save all my tickets, even the boring ones, just so I can remember all the shows, festivals, and events I've attended. In that whole big mess of special little papers, none of them quite compare to the Burning Man tickets.
Every year they are different, and yet every year they carry the same warning:
"The ticket purchaser or holder ("you") voluntarily assume all risk of property loss or damage, personal or bodily injury, serious injury, or death, which may occur by attending Burning Man 2012." (And so on...)
That line scares the faint-hearted away from the event. I find it inspiring. Yes, you could die at Burning Man. The environment is harsh, and despite the many rules we follow, there are dangers. Things could go wrong. You could make a bad decision, or someone else could act poorly, and you might not make it back to the default world.
I appreciate this. I find it refreshingly truthful. So much of our daily lives has lost any flavor - it's hum-drum, day-to-day, tasks and chores and work and bill paying. We've separated ourselves from death by enclosing our old folks in nursing homes and hospitals. Death, largely, has become a sterile thing behind closed walls. Occasionally it's a tragic thing we cast our thoughts away from even as our eyes can't help but watch. We bury our dead away from our homes and go on living our clean, sterile lives separate from the immediacy of it all.
Historically, death was much more present in daily life. It was harder to live, and people knew life was short. I feel as though we would all enjoy life better if that were still true today. We've taken so many pains to avoid risk that we've dulled the whole scenario.
That's one of the things that I appreciate most about the playa. Burning Man is a very special event in it's concept, just like all the good regional Burns around the world. The playa, however, adds a certain zest to the whole thing. It's big. It's harsh. It's dangerous. You could die! There's RISK involved!
I believe it's the close bareness of the possibility of death that helps us feel so much more alive. Cherish it.
But then, also be careful. No reason to tempt the shade. I suppose that if I died at Burning Man, I'd go to the great beyond pretty satisfied that I went while I was sharing my best self, rather than on the commute to work or something awfully mundane like that. However, I'm sure my loved ones would see it as a tragedy. So I do my best to remember the back of my ticket, and its warning.
In 2008 I came across a camp with an old fire truck, ladder suspended at a 45 degree angle with a bell hanging from the end of it's fully extended length. I watched a woman climb all the way out to the bell, rung after rung, and ring the bell.
Internally I struggled with watching her. I get vertigo, just a little bit, when I'm near the edge of a level looking down - like bridges or balconies. I'm not afraid of heights exactly, but my equilibrium tends to shift pretty severely for a moment or two at an overlook. Watching her climb made my head spin a bit. Even so, the desire to do that, to climb up into the open air just to challenge myself, suddenly came over me. I was about to dismount and request a turn when the woman finally began the climb down. Obviously she wasn't much of a climber, because she turned around to climb down, in an awkward crab-walk down the ladder. My friends and I cringed and looked away, fearing to even watch her struggle to descend. Bill suddenly croaked out "Back of the ticket! I'm not staying here!" and rode off. We followed. I'm sure she made it down just fine, but I agreed with Bill - I didn't want to be so personally involved in a "back of the ticket" moment.
Make good choices while you're on the playa (and every day, for that matter). Stay lit at night, both your body and your bike. If you're going to lay on the ground in the open playa at night, light your perimeter - especially if you plan to sleep. Getting run over by a mutant vehicle would be an unpleasant way to go. If you're going to climb, do it while you're reasonably sober. Don't do too many drugs, or get dehydrated, or drink too much. Avoid messing with things that aren't supposed to be messed with, especially art installations or fire effects. Walk the line. Remember, you can't have a good time if you're dead.
The road home is the most dangerous experience in your whole Burn. Everyone's exhausted and just wants to get to that final stop: whether it's a hotel or home, a crash spot or a shower. Exhaustion brings on frustration, poor decisions, and car accidents. If you're too tired to drive, don't. Pull over and rest. Remember that you're not only endangering yourself, but everyone else when you drive when you're too tired to handle it. Be responsible and let's get everyone home safe in September.
Flip that ticket over and take another look.
"Admit One Creative Spark"
That's YOU, you know. How do you express your creative spark? Think about it...
I was really vibing with that idea earlier today while I was working on a big pile of playa gifts. I AM a creative spark. Sometimes it's dull or shuttered, but it's there, hanging out somewhere near my heart. SPARK.
Sparks are kinda like tickets - full of potential.
The art on this year's ticket supports the idea as well. A faucet of light, nourishing a dried-out world. New growth digs in and attempts to flourish.
Let's make it grow. And ourselves. And each other.
SPARK. SHINE.
It's in you. Let's let it out!
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