Desert Storm | Wired Magazine | Burning Man 1997

by Michael Murphy

6:30 a.m. Day Four

The sun's up. Making the rounds of Black Rock City on my bike, everyone I encounter has the same "I got no sleep" look in their eyes as they mill about (in this case) in front of Bianca's Smut Shack. Sitting on a stained couch with a tapestried dorm-room backdrop, a guy in silver pants holds court. It's early in the morning (or really late in the evening) and he's lounging, and has probably been lounging all night, and the women that he's lounging with are still laughing at his jokes.

8:35 p.m. Day Four

The city just exploded into spontaneous applause as the sun went down and underlit a big sky filled with orange clouds. The desert, like this short-lived city, is in constant flux. Just as spontaneous events (and crowds) erupt out of nothingness, dust devils can appear out of nowhere, wispy clouds can disappear behind Granite Mountain and you stand back and see the desert in a way you've never seen it before.

10:10 a.m. Day Five

I'd like to skydive into this place. After San Francisco, this city is too two-dimensional. It's easy to lose perspective here, especially when sitting in Center Camp. I could be in another world. This is the active hub of a real community and it's as busy as Shanghai - bicycles everywhere, lines for food, a woman holding a martini glass and a little leather whip walks by.

6:30 a.m. Day Six (post burn)

What's there to do in a desert? Have a fashion show! Wear a grass skirt and ride around a silver bike with a penguin on the back. Hurl a mud-encrusted purple bowling ball down your street at empty cans of Tecate. Take pictures. Take pictures of the media taking pictures. Beat a Coke bottle with a stick in The Drum Jam of Your Life. Drive around your hand-built crucifix on wheels. Lose your mind. Lose your bike. Flip the news helicopter the bird. Burn the man. Burn the man.

Burning Man '97: Letters from the Desert