It’s that time of year again. Our library is on Pyramid Lake Highway, the route to the
Last night with fifteen minutes to close, I looked up as an Asian woman rushed in through the entrance, disoriented and confused. She looked like she had just stepped off the set for an Anime production, crazy clothes and feathers in her hair. When she saw me, she hustled over, digging through her shoulder bag for a small baggie containing a floppy disk. I realized that she spoke little English when she pointed to the disk and said “copy?” Rather than try to explain how to use our public computers, we decided just to print what she needed. We were printing her Burning Man admission ticket information. She was so pleased and pulled out several $20 bills which she offered in payment. No, we said, it’s 45 cents. She dug through her bag further until she found a change purse and extended a handful of coins for us to choose from. In leaving she dropped a paper. I ran after her to return it and was stunned to realize that she had a cab waiting – taking a taxi to Burning Man just doesn’t seem quite right, does it.
I have two friends who have been planning for this year’s art projects for the whole year. Their groups are in a frenzy of preparation as the deadline looms. One of my friends will be attending with his wife and new baby. My youngest son celebrates his birthday this weekend and will also be there. I am a child of the 60s and the spirit of Burning Man strikes me as a second generation, with the creative energy manifested in art instead of music. Interesting, but do I want to go play in the dust? Nope.