Burningman

We were all pulsating to the same ancient rhythm, gyrating in unison around the growing wall of fire.

“Throw it in!” Monica screamed above the roar of the crowd.

“Jim, throw it in!” yelled Brenden.

I looked at them, then turned back toward the inferno, pushing through a crush of bodies so tight that slick layers of desert sweat were the only thing allowing us to slide past one another. The heat radiating off the fire collided with the dry, suffocating late-summer desert air.

I closed my eyes, remembering just how close to the edge I had danced only months earlier.

Standing in the alkaline dust, watching life explode in full, chaotic color across the playa, my mind flashed back to a very different kind of tent: the plastic quarantine enclosure doctors had built around my bed at UCSF when pneumocystis pneumonia seized my lungs and nebulizers failed to keep me breathing.

Here by the fire, the phantom metallic tang of IV antibiotics flooded my mouth. I remembered the cold, paralyzing terror of dying in that hospital room.

With a guttural roar aimed straight at the cosmos, I screamed: “MY NAME IS JIM BURESCH, AND I AM ALIVE!”

The crowd around me erupted into wild cheers, hoots, and screams of solidarity.

I looked down at the amber bottle of AZT in my fist—a ball and chain like no other—and hurled it straight into the heart of the blaze.

The flames flared into unearthly shades of cobalt blue, emerald green, and bright sulfur yellow, leaping toward the wooden Man’s outstretched hand. The smoke, the blinding heat, and the collective ritual locked me into a trance, burning away the sickbed and waking me up reborn.

All around me, others were making their own sacrifices: a woman beside me tossed in a framed photograph; another threw in a canvas painting that sent purples and greens shooting into the night; others tossed in bundles of handwritten letters.

I closed my eyes and let the heavy, synchronized THUMP-THUMP-THUMP of thousands of people rattle my ribs. It beat the lonely, stuttering electronic pulse of a hospital heart monitor any day. My skin was soaked, my lungs violently alive with smoke, alkaline dust, and sweat.

My body was starving for air, water, and touch.

A stranger caught my eye, his gaze carrying a raw intensity that made my knees buckle. Without a word, he handed me a bottle of lukewarm water. It was absolute nectar. Before I could even cap the bottle, he dropped to his knees in the dust, taking me into his mouth right there in the middle of the crowd. Nobody blinked; nobody judged. My head rolled back as a wave of pure release washed over me.

Moments later, the stranger and I were skipping hand-in-hand through the dust.

“You two look adorable!” someone shouted from an art car rolling past.

My senses were in complete overdrive: the pulsing lights, the thumping bass, the endless sea of open souls.

I am alive, a voice echoed inside my head, just as the booming bassline of Madonna’s “Drowned World/Substitute for Love” remix swept across the desert, commanding the night air to bend to its frequency. Neon installations streaked across the dark floor, beneath a ceiling of a billion stars hanging in one of the blackest night skies on Earth.

I turned to the stranger skipping beside me, shouting over the bass, “This is amazing, man! But I’ve got to track down my camp—The Purple Psychedelic Freaks! It’s a giant purple dome. Have you seen it?”

The stranger stopped, framed my face in his dusty hands, kissed me gently on the forehead, and took off running. I watched his naked silhouette vanish into the neon haze.

I looked up at the stars and laughed. A god disguised as a stranger, straight out of mythology.

I spotted our camp in the distance, instantly recalling the shouting match we’d had over the dome's architecture.

“It looks like the head of a giant cock,” I had said during assembly.

“No, it looks like what it actually is—a mushroom!” Monica had insisted. “Jay, you see a mushroom, right? Victoria sees a mushroom! Why is everything about sex with you, Jim?”

“Monica, it does bear a striking resemblance to the head of my dick,” Fox had chimed in.

“Mine too,” Brenden had added.

And so there we were, camped out on the open playa: one big happy family living underneath a giant purple penis.

“Hey Mark, let the woman breathe,” I said, walking into the camp shade.

“Leave him alone—this woman is doing just fine,” Victoria purred from a lawn chair as Mark whispered into her ear.

“No, no, no—come on, guys, you know that’s not how it went down,” Monica was arguing nearby, leaning against a massive PA speaker while chatting with two guys. One wore a silk sarong; the other wore nothing at all except a single, thick red stripe of body paint running from his forehead, down his sternum, and straight over his penis—making it look less like anatomy and more like a live Rosy Boa.

“Where’s Brenden?” I asked the circle.

“He’s around somewhere!” Monica yelled back, without taking her eyes off the painted boa.

I walked around to the back of the dome where the vehicles were parked. Brenden was leaning against a tailgate.

“There you are!” I laughed, wrapping him in a bear hug. “Where’s Jay?”

“In the back of the rental truck,” Brenden said, raising an eyebrow. “He’s tripping balls, man.”

I pulled open the roll-up door of the U-Haul where we stored our dry goods. There sat Jay on a stack of plastic totes, having an earnest conversation with a piece of fruit.

“Aren’t you a very bright yellow?” Jay asked the banana. “Are you a happy banana?”

Dropping his voice into a screeching falsetto four octaves higher, Jay answered himself: “Eat me, fucker!”

And with that, Jay took a massive bite straight through the unpeeled skin.

“Dude, what are you doing?” I asked, laughing.

“Jim!” Jay yelled, springing off the truck bed like a jack-in-the-box. He landed in front of me with wide pupils. “Stick your tongue out.”

Why stop now? I thought, sticking out my tongue.

Jay placed a square of blotter paper stamped with the Grateful Dead’s dancing bears onto my tongue. Instinctively, my tongue began to pull back, but Jay grabbed the tip between two fingers.

“Not so fast, Mister Jim,” he grinned, squeezing a glass dropper over the paper. “Liquid acid, buuuuudy!” He drew out the last word in a dead-on Pauly Shore impression.

“Jay, you missed your calling in Hollywood,” I laughed.

Jay stared back at me with a flat, Midwestern expression, utterly clueless as to what I was talking about.

We gathered around the fire pit under the purple dome—Jay, Monica, Brenden, Victoria, Mark, Fox, and me—letting the overlapping soundtracks from dozens of sound camps wash over us.

“Jim, buuuudy, let’s go for a wander!” Jay announced.

The basslines vibrating through the desert floor were no longer sounds; they were physical waves moving through my spine. The double dose of acid was taking the wheel.

“Let’s do it!” I yelled.

We set out across the open playa.

“I didn't realize how massive this place had gotten since we drove in,” Jay said, looking around.

“Look out there,” I said, pointing toward the western rim. “That glowing red snake on the horizon is miles of brake lights from cars still trying to get through the gates.”

“Holy shit,” Jay breathed. “We lucked out getting third-row placement. Imagine sitting in that line for ten hours only to camp three miles out.”

The desert air was thick, hot, and charged with dust, carrying the faint industrial smell of gas generators the way city smog carries diesel exhaust. Through the psychedelic lens of the acid, the visual spectrum went supernova: reds turned cosmic, greens neon, blues electric, and white lights left blinding trails across the dark like falling comets.

“This is so beautiful,” Jay whispered.

“You seeing it too?”

“Buuuudy, I really hope you’re seeing what I’m seeing.”

I looked over at Jay. Tears were streaming down his dusty cheeks—not grief, but the pure, uninhibited wonder of a newborn child taking in the universe for the very first time.

“Dude, you are gorgeous,” I told him.

He blinked at me with that same stone-faced Midwestern stare. I love you so much, I thought.

We wandered the playa until our canteens were as dry as the dust in our throats.

“I see the neon sign for that sound camp behind our tent,” Jay said, banking hard to the left. “This way.”

“Watch out, you freaks!” Monica’s voice called out from the darkness.

“Jay, look out, man,” Brenden laughed.

Jay and I stopped dead, rubbing our eyes. Monica, Mark, and Victoria were sitting right in front of us, laughing hysterically.

“Where did you guys come from?” I asked, completely disoriented.

“Are you serious?” Monica howled. “You two have been walking in a tight little circle right in front of our camp for the last two hours!”

The whole circle erupted into absolute delight.

The following day, we packed up our camp, leaving nothing behind on the playa, and drove back to reality—which, for most of us, meant the corporate IT department at Wells Fargo.

A few weeks later, Monica called. “There’s a Burning Man decompression warehouse party in SOMA this Saturday. The whole crew is going. You in?”

“Count me in!”

On Saturday night, a cab dropped me at 6th and Harrison. I stepped out into the urban grit, scanning the industrial sidewalks for my playa family.

“Jim!” Monica shouted, waving both arms frantically from deep within the line.

Seeing the familiar faces against the backdrop of San Francisco skyscrapers brought back the wild magic of the desert—if only for a fleeting second. But once inside the warehouse—cavernous, painted matte black, covered in performative neon graffiti—the energy felt hollow compared to the open desert.

I waded into the dance floor, letting the heavy techno drown out the week. But after an hour of searching for the rest of our crew through the dense crowd, an abrupt, suffocating panic clamped down on my chest.

My skin broke out in a cold, heavy sweat. My pulse spiked through the roof, accompanied by a sudden, terrifying wave of impending doom.

What is happening to me?

“I can’t breathe,” I gasped aloud, ripping my shirt over my head as I elbowed through the crowd toward the fire exit.

I stumbled out into the alley. The cool, damp Pacific breeze hit my bare chest, and I collapsed against the brick wall, pulling huge gulps of air into my lungs until my heartbeat finally slowed.

What the hell was that?

I caught a cab straight back to the flat and tried to explain the strange, terrifying episode to Alain.

On Monday morning, Monica dropped into the guest chair in my Wells Fargo cubicle.

“What happened to you Saturday? We looked everywhere!”

“I was on the dance floor and this bizarre panic hit me out of nowhere,” I explained. “It felt like a heart attack.”

“At twenty-eight? Doubtful, Jim,” Monica teased.

Jay popped his head over the cubicle divider, and within minutes the three of us were reminiscing loudly, finishing each other’s sentences and laughing at the absurdity of our weekend.

Sheri Nash, our department manager whose office shared a wall with my cube, stepped out into the hallway.

“I can hear all three of you through the drywall,” Sheri said with a wry smile. “Sounds like that desert trip was quite the vacation.”

“Oh, Sheri, it was incredible,” Monica beamed. “A temporary intentional community built entirely on art, radical self-expression, and love.”

“Sounds like Woodstock with dust,” Sheri cut in gently. “Glad you all had fun. Now let’s get back to Y2K remediation.”

As winter settled in, rainy gray skies washed over the Bay, and the playa faded into memory.

Then came spring, bringing warm afternoons sunbathing on the western slope of Dolores Park. Half the city seemed to gather on that grass, looking out over the skyline—from the Van Ness corridor and the gold-leaf dome of City Hall to the sharp spire of the Transamerica Pyramid.

That summer, our four-story “Keep the Castro Queer” pink triangle hung over Market Street, making front-page headlines across the city. But while our public activism was soaring, my private life was starting to fray.

“Jim, I’ve already paid for the flights, the hotel, and the weekend passes,” James argued over dinner, his anger barely masking his disappointment.

I cared for James deeply, but he was demanding an ultimatum.

“I understand that, James,” I replied quietly. “And I’d love to go with you another time, but I am not skipping Burning Man to go to International Mr. Leather in Chicago.”

A few days later, sitting outside at Café Flore with Édith Piaf singing “Non, je ne regrette rien” over the speakers, James set down his wine glass.

“You’re just too high-maintenance, Jim. I don’t see a future for us.”

“Is this really still about IML?” I scoffed. “I prefer the authenticity of the desert over a weekend of being paraded around on your arm like an accessory.”

“Jim, calm down.”

“I am completely calm,” I said, dabbing my mouth with my linen napkin, standing up, and walking out onto Market Street without looking back.

“You did NOT!” Monica gasped through the phone when I told her.

“He tried to make me choose between my family and his scene,” I said.

“You’re the sweetest,” Monica said softly. “We love you.”

Preparations for Burning Man 2.0 took over our lives.

“I’m thinking about bleaching my hair platinum blonde,” I told Monica during an afternoon smoke break outside the Wells Fargo building.

“You totally should!” she cheered.

Jim Fox, our coworker standing with us, leaned in. “My girlfriend is a professional stylist. I can have her do it for you.”

“What are we doing?” Jay asked, walking up.

“Jim is going full bleach blonde for the burn,” Monica said.

Jay furrowed his brow. “Will management have a problem with that? Corporate policy technically says they can terminate you if you drastically alter your appearance after being hired.”

“I’m an IDEX contractor,” I pointed out. “They don’t own my hair.”

“Not if we both do it,” Fox said with a grin. “Have you seen the guys working the server branches? Half of them are covered in tactical tattoos, and the other half look straight out of Deliverance. No offense, Jim.”

“None taken,” I laughed, thinking of home.

“Just run it past Brian,” Jay suggested. “If the VP clears it, nobody else will care.”

Later that afternoon, I ran into Brian Gilpin, our VP, in the breakroom. “Hey Brian, quick question—would management care if Jim Fox and I temporarily went bleach blonde for a festival?”

Brian laughed. “As long as it’s temporary, knock yourselves out.”

The weekend before leaving for the Black Rock Desert, Fox and his girlfriend came over to the apartment Alain and I shared near Haight Street. Fox and I were both broad-shouldered, muscular guys with zero outward femininity.

“I’ll sit in the chair first,” Fox volunteered.

Three hours later, we stood side-by-side in front of the bathroom mirror looking like a pair of bizarre, sun-bleached brothers.

“Jim, you’re blonde, man,” Fox said, staring at his reflection.

“Jim, you’re blonde, man,” I replied.

We doubled over laughing.

Burning Man 2.0

Driving north out of Reno, the highway sign for Gerlach flashed past, and my pulse leaped.

I mashed the gas pedal to the floor, rolling the windows down and blasting Creed through the stereo, letting the engine roar against the desert wind.

San Francisco evaporated in the rearview mirror. The endless corporate dread of the upcoming Y2K rollover vanished; the lingering sting of the breakup with James dissolved. The vast, unyielding openness of the Black Rock Desert claimed my mind once again.

A few hours after rolling into camp, Jay and I were wandering the freshly laid streets of Black Rock City.

“Let’s get tattoos,” Jay blurted out.

“Out here? How?”

“There’s a guy running a tattoo rig off his car battery, bartering for work,” Jay said, pointing toward the outer perimeter.

Parked in the dust was a battered white van flanked by two sun-faded pop-up canopies. A heavily tattooed, middle-aged man with a shaved head emerged from the side door. His skin was an overlapping tapestry of ex-girlfriends' names, skulls, and mysterious Asian characters.

“What’s up, my dudes?” the artist rasped.

“What are you charging for ink?” Jay asked.

“Shrooms or clean blotter,” he answered.

“Done!” I said, handing over a bag of magic mushrooms I had traded for homegrown Castro weed.

I sat on an upturned cooler under the scorching midday sun while he hooked his tattoo gun to a pair of jumper cables running into his engine bay. The needle buzzed against the base of my skull, carving the silhouette of the Burning Man into the back of my neck.

Between the heat, the drugs, and acute dehydration, my vision went black. I passed out cold in the dust.

I woke up sputtering as a cup of warm mineral water splashed across my face.

“You alive, Jim?” Jay asked, peering down at me with concern.

“Never better,” I groaned, sitting up and brushing the white dust from my knees. “How does it look?”

“Looks legendary, buuuudy,” Jay smiled.

We began walking back toward our camp. “So what tattoo did you end up getting?” I asked Jay.

“Oh… after watching you drop face-first into the dirt from a car-battery rig, I think I’ll wait until we get back to a licensed shop in the city,” Jay answered with that classic, deadpan Midwestern delivery.

“I’m looking for a deeper spiritual awakening this year,” I told him as we walked. “I’m planning a Lizard King walkabout out into the deep playa—just me, naked, with a gallon of water.”

“What kind of awakening are you expecting?”

“The Jim Morrison kind,” I replied.

Jay gave me a look that silently screamed: This queen is never winning a Mensa award.

Approaching our purple dome, I spun around. “Monica! Look!”

“Yeah, your ass is as flat as ever,” she yelled back, laughing.

“Not my ass—the neck!”

“Relax, Jethro, I see it. It’s lovely.”

Victoria brought out two compact makeup mirrors so I could see the work: the sharp, iconic silhouette of the Man, hands raised toward the heavens, etched permanently into the back of my neck.

As the sun dipped behind the western peaks, sheer physical exhaustion caught up with me. “I’m taking a quick nap in the car,” I told the crew, climbing into the front seat, clicking on the air conditioner, and instantly drifting into a deep sleep.

“Is he dead?”

Monica’s voice filtered through the glass.

“I don’t know, but he’s been asleep with the engine idling for hours,” Brenden replied.

I opened my eyes. Monica, Jay, Brenden, Victoria, Mark, and three strangers were pressed against the windows, staring at me.

“Jim!” Monica beamed, her smile clearly amplified by whatever chemical was carrying her through the night.

“What time is it?” I asked, rubbing my eyes and opening the door.

“Just after five in the morning,” Brenden said.

The eastern horizon was glowing with faint lavender light.

The temporary city had grown still in the pre-dawn chill. Stripping off my clothes, I left everything behind except a wooden walking stick and a gallon jug of water.

I turned my back on the camp and walked straight out into the deep, untouched alkali flats.

Stepping into the vast wilderness completely naked carried a thrill that had nothing to do with exhibitionism; it was an act of total surrender. I was stepping away from identities, expectations, and trauma, leaving my fate entirely to the open horizon.

Miles out in the stillness, the morning sun began to scorch the earth.

I didn't find Jim Morrison out there in the dust. The only man waiting for me in the wilderness was myself. Stripped bare of the drugs, the social circles, and the city noise, a quiet, undeniable truth settled into my bones: The life I am living in San Francisco is not making me happy.

With half my water gone, I stopped in the blinding light, took myself in hand, and climaxed against the cracked earth.

“I am the Lizard King!” I screamed into the desert wind. “I can do anything!”

I turned back toward the distant silhouette of the city, certain that profound change was coming, even if I couldn't yet see its shape.

By the time I made it back to camp in the late morning, Jim Fox had arrived—and he had brought a surprise.

“Alain!” I yelled, running across the dust to throw my arms around him.

“You taste like salt,” Alain smiled, pulling me into a long kiss.

That evening, the celebratory mood was shattered. Monica ran into the shade structure, pale, shaking, and hyperventilating.

“They had to airlift her!” Monica cried. “They flew a medical helicopter right onto the playa—she’s on her way to a trauma hospital in Reno!”

Alain grabbed her shoulders. “Monica, calm down. Who was airlifted?”

“Victoria,” she choked out, the name knocking the air straight out of our camp. “Someone has to go be with Mark.”

“What happened?” I asked, my stomach dropping.

“They don't know,” Monica wept. “The medical tent said it’s not just heat exhaustion. It’s serious.”

“Jim and I will go right now,” Alain said without hesitation.

We packed our gear in silence, threw the bags into the trunk, and pointed the car south toward Reno. As we pulled onto the access road, we passed miles of headlights still crawling forward, waiting to enter a party we were leaving behind.

I looked out the passenger window, watching the glowing lights of Black Rock City shrink into the vast desert darkness. Deep in my bones, I knew I would never set foot on the playa again.

Yet I knew, just as surely, that the playa would remain inside me forever.