Ho’s, wranglers, comrades, please lend me your ear.

MGL is hanging up her silver cowgirl hat.

It has taken months for me to write this email. In short: I don’t
know if I’m going back to Burning Man. I’ve had “off” years before, but it seems
like the dust needs to settle longer than 365 days this time. Even thinking
about it makes me want to cry. It feels like the end of a long and intense
romance.

This year I was tired and let-down — with myself (for being tired) and with
Burning Man (for being unremarkable). I know that’s not fair. I felt like
a jaded old burner whose tales of woe I’d heard before but never believed
would happen to me. But it is the rules and it is the newbies and it is the
control exerted over everyone’s “radical self-expression.”

Looking around during the burn of the Man, I didn’t feel like those were
my people. I did not feel the pull of art so grand and out of place that
there is no locale for it but the middle of a barren desert. Time will tell
if I can resist Black Rock City next August. I may yearn for a bit of dust
in my absynthe to shake me from my comfort and into a corset and combat boots.

Burning Man (and the media team) has been monumental for me. I have used
writing as a creative outlet for as long as I can remember, but Burning Man
gave me a swift push toward sewing machines and clear-coat acrylic and table
saws. I witnessed superstar DJs being gracious and understanding while others
showed me why big-name talent is big-nothing on the playa. I laughed, I cried,
I found a posse of friends and a life partner along the way.

And I learned that I can hold my breath for a really, really long time when
a sheriff’s deputy walks into the Spartan.

best,
Molly Golightly