San Francisco author Rebecca Solnit, in her collection of essays titled "Storming the Gates of Paradise: Landscapes for Politics" says:

"To think of a figure in this vast western space of the Great Basin is to see a solitary on an empty stage, and the space seems to be about the most literal definition of freedom: space in which nothing impedes act or will."

A few sentences later, she touches on Burning Man as one of several places/events to have "realized this definition."

Even if it isn't very solitary.

But it's true enough that the inhibitions fall away, that people go there for freedom, defined in many different ways. Some, but not all, understand that with freedom comes responsibility, that in some ways responsibility is freedom.

For me, freedom came late in the week, in the second major duststorm. The heavy suspended dust filtered the sunlight, moderated the afternoon temperatures just a little, and I was finally acclimated to the heat and the 4,000-foot elevation. So I grabbed my camera, safely packed away in a plastic bag inside a case inside a pack, and my goggles and dust mask, and headed off the right edge of the city, in the general direction of the bit of playa-art called Babylon.

The intensity of the storm gradually built, but the path toward Babylon was so well traveled that it was signed, big psuedo-highway markers that said "BRC 69." The whiteout closed in around me, until I could see no one else, could barely see 50 feet. All but a few people had taken shelter.

That's when I felt that freedom, like walking around in a hot dry cloud, surrounded by tens of thousands of people, yet all alone. For a while I stood there and felt the sensation, felt the hot blast of the wind, the blowing playa dust. I stripped off what little I was wearing, to feel it all the better, stood in the hot wind, feeling like all I needed to do to fly would be to stick out my arms.

Eventually, bored with that, I climbed to the top of Babylon, all 10 or 11 stories of basic boxy steel construction, past two people asleep on mid-floors, and stop on the top in a white void, unable to see the playa, unable to see anything except the top floor upon which I stood. Bored with that too, I slowly wandered back to camp.

This began a series of explorations of the playa, all the way out to the bordering fence one day; around parts of the city another. Usually these excursions were in the cold magical light of dawn, ironic because I'm usually not a morning person. Sometimes they were later in the day. One afternoon I took my camera, in another whiteout, deciding to find some random attractive young semi-naked woman to photograph in the midst of the white out, just because I wanted to; as a way to spoof my own more controlled photography of models. Walking to the edge of the city, I pulled out the camera and walked slowly, like a predator stalking its prey; only to find, five minutes later, that the prey was stalking me. A young woman literally followed me, smiling, staying close through several turns as I tested her intentions, until I asked if I could take her photo. She rubbed up against me as she said yes. I looked in her green eyes, quickly realizing that her mood was more than a little chemically influenced, took two or three photos as her mood changed and changed again and flew across her face. Then just as quickly, as she began to ask the same questions for the second or third time, I turned her loose and continued my walk.

The night they burned the man... I found it a little annoying. We arrived early, staked out places, all 9 of us. For the next hour, people pushed to the front, packed in too tightly, until it became a distinctly overcrowded and unpleasant experience. I was seriously considering leaving, going back to camp, when they finally set the flame.

The next night, for the temple burn... more of the same. More late arrivals pushing to the front, too much loud talk ripping at the solemn mood. Why is it that people with nothing important to say, tend to say it so loudly? I listened to those present to mourn the lost ones shout down the insensitive ones, tried to feel sorry for those battling their substance abuse issues or their general lack of sensitivity, and not being in control.

I too was there to remember, to honor an artist who had done his part to create a community, who had launched a whole network of creative individuals. My photograph, a portrait of the late Hobart Brown, was stapled to the wall of that temple, as were words that others had written about him, about what he had done.

The flames finally stunned all into silence, at least most of the time. I heard sobbing behind me, felt a wave of energy from the crowd.

As the structure fell, the wind picked up, the wall of dust howling across the playa. With perhaps 20,000 people out on the open playa, a mile from camp, at night, visibility disappeared. We sighted on the green lasers of Opulent Temple before they too vanished into the white, walked calmly back to camp, and managed to find our way. I wonder how many took a wrong turn and wandered blindly for hours, fighting down panic or despair.

The winds were perhaps the highest of the week so far, from a different direction than usual, and they had gotten under one end of the cover on the dome, torn two or three grommets loose from the rebar stakes. There was never any danger of losing anything, the dome is very stable. But we had to work for about 20 minutes in the dust storm to keep it on the outside, away from us on the inside.

I had to leave early on Monday, to beat the mass exodus and get back to the coast. At that point I thought the LA trip might happen Tuesday morning, so was on my way out pre-dawn. There was hardly any traffic so early, but when I rolled down the window a bit going past the gate, it caught a moment, stuck in the accumulated playa dust, and popped off the track, slowly sliding down inside the door. It made for a cold ride through the early light of the Nevada desert, finally warming as I crossed the state line and pulled into Eagleville.

There, my Blackberry began to buzz endlessly as some 200 e-mails came rolling in (despite having had my out-of-office notification on), the first signal I'd had in a week. Scanning quickly, I found the ones about the LA trip, which I'd delegated to someone at the office to set up for me. Yes... not til Wednesday. Time to relax, no need to rush.

Breakfast in Alturas tasted so good. Including stops for gas, food, and a one-hour nap in a rest area, I rolled down the hill to the coast 12 hours later, about 9 hours of actual driving. Arriving home, I quickly unloaded the car and then slid into a very long and very pleasant shower. It would take a couple more of those to find the last of the playa dust.

The pile of dusty things remains in the garage, I'll finally have time this weekend to sort through it. I have an appointment Monday to fix the car window, fortunately there's no crime to speak of in my immediate neighborhood so there was no hurry; although I took the other car to the office today, because oldtown has its transient population. With a business trip close on the heels of a week-long "vacation" in extreme conditions, I'm tired. I'm on deadline at the office, with a major draft document due in less than two weeks, with a meeting in San Jose scheduled for next Thursday, with two other rush projects breaking. But for now, I feel good, feel like things are fun.

And this years crew, no longer virgins... they're already planning for next year.