Burning Man: The Man Burns

I stood, leaning forward over the open hole of the porta-potty toilet. Someone had ripped the lid off the seat, which I thought was kind of funny as I retched and tried to hurl. But nothing came up and I nearly choked instead.
This was a battle between me and my body: I knew what I needed to do, but something inside me was not co-operating. Something inside me did not want to come out.

I closed my eyes and focused on the spinning sensation which overwhelmed by brain. I was really, really, really high.

And I really needed to vomit.

But even with my eyes closed, focusing on the pain, I couldn't do it. This ugliness inside me wanted to hold on for a moment longer and I suddenly felt angry at it. I wanted it out so bad that I felt myself shaking.

So I rocked my head back and forth quite violently, making myself feel affectively sicker. I tried again to throw up, but only managed to make a hideous choking sound, which drew the attention of someone in the stall next to me.

“Y’okay?” they asked.

“Never been better,” I shot back sarcastically, then closed my eyes and shook my head around again.

This time, as I leaned over the bowl, I thought about things that made me feel sick: Roller-coasters that spin, cheddar cheese, peanuts, Dani—

And I finally hurled.

Several times.

When I was done, my headlamp caught the color of my vomit and I recoiled, nearly falling backward – it wasn’t the color of my food as I’d expected. It was instead the color of Grizzly Bear’s personality.

As a synesthete, it’s hard to describe the emotion I feel when I see a color in “real life” that I see for a number, letter, or person I usually see only in my head. I once saw the color of my own cartilage and it was the color of my 2s. So even though I was a bloody mess, I pointed it out to the doc, who probably thought I was crazy.

Anyhow, seeing Grizzly Bear’s personality color escape from my body in that manner made me feel shocked, amazed, and totally relieved.

It was over.
I could move on now.

I had literally expelled him from my life in the most perfect, fitting way imaginable: Staring into a disgusting porta-potty on the Playa at Burning Man, the very night they had set the Man on fire.

This is what the veteran Burners call “Playa Magic”. It’s the crazy, divine co-incidences that leaves us thinking and questioning all we know about ourselves, our lives, and our spirituality.

Such is the way of Burning Man.