(A view from the basin bin)
Well, the nail polish remover has been applied to all ten fingers, twice. All of my dresses have been packed away for a later date. The panties and wigs have been dusted and returned to their easy-to-get-at location.
It's over, except for the playa dust that is still emerging deep from within my sinus cavities and lungs. As a ten day dream that leaves your body sore from a sleepless exhaustion, it must be over.
People on Facebook who either were or were not there are all agreeing how terrible Burning Man has become... wishing things away that they can not control, improve, adequately denounce, or fully ignore.
I found it to be among the most wonderfully and deeply human experiences I have ever had.
So, there is that. There is still that.
I know that some of you were hoping for wild, irreverent tales from the sandy-side - dancing stories of my shambling dingledodies, as Jack Kerouac instructed - but I do not yet possess the returned sensibilities for it.
I am back at work, trying to align the particles of pixie dust with my eye floaters and drifting phantoms of the field.
Cobwebs of wobbling jelly.
I will spend my day performing the very simplest of required tasks, the least possible without causing alarm or anger... all the while bravely tussling with space-spooks, etc.