By jim holt
I continued evolving through my second day of Burning Man 2009.
More specifically, my art – my car-swallowing amoeba floating with brilliant crimson and white-hot simulated bioluminescence – continued to evolve on Jurassic Road where I lived every year, for at least a week each time, since 1998.
This year, with any hope, I would suggest to my fellow citizens of Black Rock City that our dusty desert community was – at least at night, in the darkness – fathoms under the sea, in the deep deep blackness of the ocean – a single celled organism, drifting like many of us there, along independent timelines of our own evolution.
That was the plan, anyway.
I also wanted people to come by and change the arc and configuration of the beast. The heavy 2-inch tubing, however, proved difficult to manipulate. A swaying segment of exposed red rope light on the street-side of the structure, however, did allow anyone the option of augmenting its design.
A few did.
I did.
I liked playing with the moveable pseudo-cytoplasm. I unfurled a tight coil of copper tubing and stretched it between supports. This allowed me loop the red light in an arc.
But, as dusk approached, I still hadn’t solved my sustainability problem.
How do I keep it up and running long into the night? An age-old problem, to be sure.
“I’ve got a generator,” said Mike the Mech man.
I was suddenly thrilled at the prospect that my vision would be a well-lit vision for all to see on the playa.
I was excited.
I had purchased a gas-powered generator a couple of years ago but never saw a compelling need to bring it, even though I bought it specifically for Burning Man.
I won’t make that mistake next year.
When the sun set, inside a gentle deep-orange glow in the calm following the afternoon dust swells, as I was cooking my dinner to the sound of Roots reggae music, beside the open hatchback of my SUV, my knitted reggae cap proudly worn, I saw Mike the Mech Man drag the generator across Jurassic Road, past the amoeba to where I stood with my chili and my reggae.
Not only was I able to cook my dinner with butane, and power my reggae via my deep cycle solar-charged battery (something I learned at Burning Man 2000) now I was about to power up my art – thanks to Mech the Mike Man – you heard me, Mech the Mike Man.
He stretched an extension cord from the amoeba to his generator, poured in the gasoline and then looked at me.
This called for another beer.
I only had oranges, beer and bourbon to share at Burning Man 2009.
The time came to throw the switch.
I was eager to see the new design with its hump of arcing red exposed stretch of rope light and excited about the prospect of everyone around us seeing it.
After all, the well-meaning folk camped at the far perimeter of Black Rock City seek out such a well-lit landmark by which to guide their way home from a night of partying on the playa.
My amoeba – nay, our amoeba, the amoeba of Me and Mike the Mech Man – would be such a landmark, a Black Rock lighthouse at the bottom of the deep deep black night sea, guiding drunken playa sailors and the disoriented jellyfish of our community back to their wee beds….
That was our plan.
He threw the switch.
The amoeba hummed in the sunset. It was beautiful.
Time for another beer.
Wow, he said.
Wow, I said.
Take a photo, walk down the road, admire how it accented our street, walk back, have a beer, sit in my comfy lazy-boy foldy chair and bask in the slow red/white glow of our primitive design.
Mike the Mech Man sat in his own foldy chair, across Jurassic Road, also admiring the single celled beast.
The women at the Couch Potato camp were in awe.
They were, indeed, drawn to the amoeba – as so they should be.
“You boys deserve a margarita.”
Hell yeah.
More beer, more Margarita.
They approached the floating beast, umbrella drinks in hand, drawn to the ever-evolving creature the way wee fish in the deep ocean are drawn to fish dangling beautiful bioluminescence in the darkness.
They could not help themselves. They were consumed by the light; we, in turn, consumed their margaritas. Evolution was unmistakably at work.
It was – finally – the beacon we had worked diligently to develop.
It was party time, time to venture out onto the playa for the much-touted launch of the playa rocket. Thousands would attend. Those living in and around Jurassic on the next to outer rim – our neighbors – would have the luxury of finding their way home by seeking out the amoeba, our amoeba.
It was magnificent.
I got into my party dress (literally? Figuratively? Only burners know for sure).
The Couch Potato crew was about to venture out – also in their party dress, each costume dangling its own bioluminescence – swaying glow sticks, light tubing, LEDs …
Another beer, another margarita, just about to make our way to the rocket launch – and then it happened.
It went dead.
The amoeba died. Or at least, it appeared to have died. Its lights turned out.
No beacon.
No device by which to help sailors avoid obstacles as they stumbled home.
No lighthouse – just a setback to evolution.
I checked the extension cord. Everything was connected.
I turned off the generator.
Silence. Just the light wispy sound of breeze.
The Couch Potato women beckoned, bobbing in their own fibre-optic stage of devlopment.
On the first night, our amoeba magic lasted just 4 and a half minutes; on the second, for two hours.
Burning Man, in part, is about survival and with survival comes problem solving. Two years ago, I forgot my tent poles. One year, my Jeep battery died. I broke my coffee pot two years ago. Solutions respectively: PVC tubing, solar panel charger, duct tape.
In Burning Man 2009, year of thematic Evolution, I had a problem to solve in the evolution of my art – but first, the rocket, the cacophony of playa night life, the glowing fire art, laser-crafted designs, rockin’ art cars and friends.
Once we were on the playa, the Couch Potato crew and me, in the confusion and craziness, among thousands of wild rocket-lovers, a fellow burner whom I met in 2005 found me.
“Jim?”
“Keith, buddy”
“I looked on your street, I couldn’t find your Canadian flag?” he told me.
“I have an amoeba this year, a giant floating single cell-like amoeba. It could swallow a car –“
“I’ll come by tomorrow, I’ll look for it.”
I had a problem to solve.
The rocket never launched, at least not that I witnessed after 3 hours of waiting. It was a launch problem, I guess.
It didn’t matter. It was about anticipation – frenzied anticipation. The smell of evolution was palpable.
I could smell my amoeba unfolding ….
