I spend the two days before leaving for Black Rock City (BRC) at a shipyard in Berkeley, helping to construct the art car and to pack the camp’s supplies. The site is abuzz with the hiss of spray paint, the sizzle and crackle of welding, and the clangs of metal against metal. We work through the night and into the next day before finally mustering the troops and pointing our caravan toward Nevada.

BRC is a glow on the horizon as we pull toward it in the late evening. The city is still under construction; we have arrived early to set up. Fine particles blow up off the playa (ply-uh) and envelop us in a cloud of clay dust. I don my amber-tinted ski goggles, and the world is rendered in sepia tones—as though the memories here are destined to be treasured and extracted years later, weathered by time and wind and dust. A gentleman named Squirrel welcomes us. I step over a line in the sand and ring a bell; under the bright moon, I enter Burning Man.

Midnight on Sunday is the official start of Burning Man. Already, it has been three days since I had a shower. My hands are dry and filthy, layers of dust and bike grease and food coat them in a mottled white glove and outline my nails with black. I help make pancakes for the camp. That evening, I cook fajitas and then pitch my tent. As darkness falls, thumps of light and heat punctuate the flashing, glowing, musical hustle of preparations; they are huge, distant flame-throwers, launching fireballs into the air.

The first full evening of Burning Man is a Monday, and a full lunar eclipse. I begin exploring this surreal world: shots at the Tequila Shack, bad dancing penalized by fire at Dance Dance Immolation, jokes and songs in exchange for a mug of IP-fucking-A at the Carbofuckingnation Camp, building with magnetic blocks beneath a peaceful tent, pounding furiously on bongos as a carousel comes to life and animates a death-dance between a gorilla and a snake… As the eclipse begins, I bike to the Opulent Temple. There, I dance among the thumping techno, glowsticks, lasers, and dual jets of fire that periodically erupt from the DJ booth. One such flash burns an image in my mind: a beautiful woman, topless and bedecked with beaded decorations, arms and hair flailing wildly, her eyes closed. She is smiling. I dance for hours, moving from party to party, high on the energy of the city, as the shadow of the Earth consumes whole the once-brilliant moon.

Just then, when every eye is turned skyward, the Man begins to burn. The ceremonial burning is supposed to happen at the conclusion of the event on Saturday night; this is Monday, this is unplanned. Someone had torched it. Standing next to my bike, just outside the safety perimeter hastily arranged by the BRC Rangers, I watch pieces of the Man break off in flaming chunks and tumble down the sloped tent roof. The wooden effigy is fully engulfed in flames by the time water trucks and fire crews manage to tame the conflagration. The spectacle over, and I head toward home, but my attention is drawn to a cluster of red and blue lights. A shirtless man with face paint is being handcuffed and frisked, while half a dozen other officers supervise the proceedings and a K-9 team keeps the hippies at a distance. It was the arsonist, Paul Addis. I watch his arrest with the smoldering Man behind me and the red, eclipsed moon above.

The spectacles amass throughout the week. I slurp down ramen while watching a gorgeous moonrise, climb the steampunk tree, watch wraith-like kites drift in the sky like enormous white apparitions, visit the Thunderdome as people clamber over its geodesic shell and await the next battle, play with the bouncing glow-trees that left me giggling, and bike out to the fence-line that borders BRC. Pausing to rest at that edge between city and oblivion, I notice a serious-looking dust storm approaching. I cannot make it to my camp, but get as far as the Temple, a huge wooden structure that evokes thoughts of a pagoda. On the structure itself, stretching as high as people can reach, are messages scrawled in pens and markers. It is a temple of forgiveness and of loss. “Goodbye Mom, Dad, & Muriel,” reads one message. Another: “I ask for guidance…” Some are simple messages of joy (”I am alive!”) and others of hope (”Mom, let’s be friends again”). I wander around the Temple, reading these messages through my ski goggles as the storm completely whites-out the world beyond my arms’ reach. I cry. Picking up a black marker and bracing against the fierce winds, I add two inscriptions.

On the way home, a man hands me a plastic, glowing lightsaber. “Sundown at the Man,” he says and bikes away. Thousands of swords are distributed throughout the day. The evening proceeds predictably.

Midway through the week, I am surprised to discover myself sick with loneliness. It happens while I am dancing at the Deep End, watching the crazy costumes and funny people amuse each other. I return to camp and get all introspective and moody. I stand by the side of the road to watch the sunset. Just then, a man on a bike pulls up to me and says, “You need to get changed!” I glance down at my shorts and t-shirt. His wife pulls up next to him.

“This is really all I have,” I confess sheepishly.

The man stares at me for a long moment, brow furrowed. “Come with me.” And I do. He gives me a playa costume, and his wife gives me some jewelry. I return to camp looking ridiculous and absurd and wonderful. With that improbable and perfectly timed gesture, the strangers had changed my attitude. I am not lonely or out of place anymore; the camp and the citizens of BRC embrace me, and I become another comical gem in the dazzling all-night parties.

On my last day, like nearly every other day, I go to the Turkish-style steam baths. Sitting nude in a small, insulated geodesic dome with a dozen strangers, I sweat myself clean. My friend Sara begins to hum a tone, and this evolves until we are all chanting an improvised song. I close my eyes and listen, contributing notes where I can. There is no embarrassment, no self-conscious shame or blushing cheeks in that dark hut of singing naked strangers. No money has exchanged hands among its occupants. There are no debts or loans. We have all given each other gifts, and do so even now by sharing this spiritual moment. Afterward, I volunteer to help the camp prepare cleaned and boiled rags for use in the baths. My friends KB and Stephanie join me.

Suddenly, a man rushes up to the camp’s leader, and, for the first time, I hear a Burner invoke an authority figure. “There was a videographer,” he explains, “filming the camp. Should we notify a Ranger?” This struck me. I had seen the citizens of Black Rock City drive drunk and drink underage, commit public nudity and lewd acts, and violate so many drug laws I couldn’t begin to name them. But the only time anyone expressed genuine concern for the safety of their fellow citizens was when a man with a camera tried to capture them on film.

“It is amazing how important that privacy is to the culture here,” I mused. “We’re comfortable with our nudity and craziness because it’s only being shared with other Burners, who share alike. The camera is stealing that gift.”

Stephanie, a photographer, nods and describes the challenges involved with documenting a party; how do you prevent yourself from changing the events you wish to seize on film? I geek out and talk about Heisenberg and about the observer effect. It is a deep property of the universe that measurement may change the outcome. KB speculates, perhaps idly, that there must be some broader philosophical principle there. Before he is done speaking, I know the answer.

I understand why the gift of the playa costume so drastically altered my mood. Why the loneliness did not strike me until I stopped working on the camp and the art car. Why I felt compelled to share my strongest emotions with the Temple. Why the premature burn was so important and exciting, and why the ceremonial burn felt so artificial and sterile.

I nod and pick up another rag, pleased to have given this gift of my time. And then I share my epiphany, smiling at the simplicity of it.

“You can never just observe.” I squeeze water from the washcloth. “You must participate.”

[A man in a blue suit strides to the podium, the enormous ballroom is filled to overflowing with scientists and military officers. Cameras are focused on him from all sides, projecting his visage onto the screens behind him and into the many satellite viewing rooms throughout the hotel.]

Good morning. I’m going to talk to you today about the future: a vision of the future as seen by the DARPA Made-Up Technologies Office. The best of the best. DARPA’s DARPA. Rambo to STO’s Barney Fife.

Imagine a world in which soldiers cannot die. In which their armor adapts to new threats instantaneously, their weapons target flawlessly and inflict the desired damage, and their hair maintains its shine and bounce, even in the harshest of combat conditions. Imagine a world where a global information network is accessible at your fingertips, or even closer, like at your knuckles or wrists. Where you can detect enemies breathing behind concrete walls, clot and repair a bleeding femoral artery with a simple tourniquet, and where a universal replacement part can assume whatever shape or function you desire. A wrench becomes a hammer. Wings take dream.

We at the MUTO are imagining exactly that.

Soldiers must fight in extremes. In the snow dunes of the arctic, the sand drifts of the desert, deep beneath the ocean, on mountain peaks, and, someday, in outer space and in the center of our sun.

[Slide show displays the Sun. Speaker gestures meaningfully.]

Our opponents are smart, capable, well-trained, and fighting on their home turf. Some of them can yodel. Most of our soldiers can barely manage a passable Star Spangled Banner. Our Army Rangers train in the mountains of Georgia, while Afghani fighters are acclimated to altitudes tens of thousands, no, millions of feet higher. Geese can handle these altitudes, why can’t our warriors?

Our enemies have rockets launchers. Some of them have elephants. They may even have figured out how to put rocket launchers on elephants. You can’t prove they haven’t. And when they do, will you be able to say you did everything possible to prepare?

The work we do at MUTO represents not merely fundamentally unique technological achievements, but entirely new fields of research. A calculus of awesomeness, if you will. It revolutionizes not only urban combat, but warfare in its entirety. And also poetry.

Allow me to give you a moment for your brains to stop smoking.

[Stares wistfully into the distance.]

Now that you have some idea of the preponderance of cutting edge research that is discussed at length in our office, let me introduce the next speaker, who will frighten you with outrageously melodramatic nightmare scenarios, entice you with nonexistent but sexy technology, and ease you into a peaceful and meditative state with utopian vistas of the future. Your future.

But only if the money keeps flowing to DARPA. Thank you.

The talks were obviously not the main attraction of the conference, for me. Rather, I enjoyed walking around the exhibit hall and learning about the amazing projects already underway. I especially liked some of the simpler ones, like the sniper rifle equipped with a cross-wind detector, which would indicate where one should aim in order to compensate.

The project I was there to help present is called Vernier, which aims to leverage application communities to detect and control exploits. We had a live demo that showed Vernier successfully detecting, controlling, and recovering from a self-propagating worm as it spread through a community of twenty nodes.

It was strange seeing military officers, including a three-star general complete with military entourage, checking out the latest geeky wares. Then again… there, but for the funding from DARPA, go I.

“What is the weather supposed to be like?” I asked the woman who had just printed my wilderness permit.

“The same as always,” she said in a tone inexplicably laced with lamentation, “It never rains.”

I nodded, suspicious of her claim. My summer in New Mexico had taught me that there is always a storm in the afternoon, often with accompanying pyrotechnics. One of my few California hikes had been to the Lost Coast, where it rained with the constancy of Niagra Falls. Her words proved true, however, and I enjoyed the most mild and pleasant weather of any outdoor experience. No rain gear nor warm nighttime clothes were necessary.

With a full pack, I hiked the 8 miles to the furthest and largest of the ten lakes. I was pleased to learn that the women who were swimming in the lake when I arrived were camping elsewhere. I had the lake to myself. I pitched my tent in a prime spot and ambled cautiously down to the water wearing only my shorts. I waded in the clear, shallow water amongst the large tadpoles, stepping one at a time on the flat rocks which layered the bottom of the lake, less than a foot beneath the surface. The warm sun illuminated the submerged sand and made the water temperature pleasantly cool.

I climbed atop a boulder that decorated the small outcropping of land that I had designated my personal peninsula. I let the afternoon rays dry my legs and reflect off of my pale skin, blinding hawks and chipmunks, alike. Satisfied, I leapt down and returned to my tent to fetch my shoes. The deer was waiting for me.

It was a doe (a deer, a female deer), or a buck cruelly gypped of his male birthright. It froze at the sound of my approach and we stared at each other. She broke the gaze first, dropping her head down to graze. I wondered if the animal would understand human body language, and so I turned away in a feint of disinterest. Convinced I was no threat, the doe returned later that evening, braver this time, coming within a few feet of me. She appraised me and lingered with me for a few minutes on my peninsula as the sun began to disappear behind the pines.

I ate dinner on my boulder: hot chicken noodle soup in a bag. After an exhausting day, it was a delicacy. The eastern edge of the lake was rimmed by towering cliffs. While I hungrily devoured my painstakingly timed meal, I watched the steep face of rocks and shrubs turn bright yellow, then orange, and then a fiery red before the darkness of night finally consumed them.

I awoke in the daylight, unaware of the time, and leisurely fired up my stove for some morning tea. Everything looked different, shining with light of a quality and angle unlike the afternoon before. I watched a chipmunk run down the shore into the lake, only to immediately leap back out again: wet but not soaked. A power shower? I smiled and turned away from the water to find the doe waiting for me.

“Hi,” I said. “Hello.” I felt the heat of the tea conducting through the mug handle and burning my fingers, but I ignored it, acutely aware of the precious fragility of the moment. But the lithe creature was not there for greetings, but to say goodbye. She tilted her head slightly, one ear focused on me while the other swiveled toward some sound beyond my hearing, and meandered down to the peninsula for some breakfast and a drink of water. Then she bounded off into the woods, quickly vanishing among the shadows and branches.

I sighed and perfunctorily packed my gear. Then I, too, swallowed some dried fruit, took a swig from my Nalgene, and trudged off, away from the lake and the cliffs and along the path home.

Sisi was kind enough to house me for the week, which at least meant my primary expense was food. Her friend Anthony was also crashing in her spacious two-bedroom corporate housing apartment, and so the three of us spent many evenings exploring the neighborhood and sharing bottles of wine.

Jason Hung was also in town on business. We caught a bus to Oxford for lunch with Yong-Hwa. [An amusing and colorful anecdote has been removed at her request.]

She hosted Jason and I for lunch, which turned into afternoon drinks, which turned into high tea (a term that apparently refers to the elevation of the scones and cakes). It was lovely.

In larger news, on July 1st, the UK went smoke-free in all enclosed public places, including bars and restaurants. The change was dramatic and welcome. I missed the iPhone release, though it seems to have been a success despite my absence. I spent the 4th of July here in London, where I decided to wear a shirt my dad bought for me, which reads “i > u“. Sisi, Anthony, several of their friends, and I wound up at a bar that evening, where I pretended that everything happening around me was in celebration of throwing off Britain’s tyrannous reign. In retrospect, that may not have been the case.

After spending an afternoon at the Tate Modern, wondering how I could become famous by signing a fake name on a urinal, I went to Shakespeare’s Globe theater to see the Merchant of Venice. A few meters from the door, a gust of wind caught my umbrella, inverted it, and then ripped it off the handle completely. I was left with a curved piece of wood in one hand, a bemused smirk on my face, and rain pouring down on my bare head. I have since purchased a new umbrella, that I am assured will remain whole, even in the face of weather.

Now I’m in DC, and just gave a talk at a PI Meeting. It went well, even though I made the slides on the plane.

My paper talk goes well, and I post the manuscript and slides on my Research page. I make a surprise announcement at the end that we are able to release our data; there is much rejoicing.

I decide to skip a portion of the afternoon sessions to be a tourist. I hop into a cab from the Hilton and ask for the Scotch Whiskey Heritage Center. There is a pause. He mumbles something and starts driving. I say again, half-question, half-repetition, “Scotch Whiskey Heritage Center?”

“Scaaatch,” the cabbie retorts, mocking my American pronunciation.

“Scotch whiskey,” I try again in my best Scottish imitation.

“I understood ya’, I joos had ta think about it a wee bit.”

At the booze museum (for what else is it, really?), I meet a Canadian named Dean with whom I have lunch after the tour. We do a flight of scotch drams from the four regions of Scotland: Lowlands, Highlands, Speyside, and the Islands. According to an extremely scientific blind experiment, I can identify two of the four by smell, and all four after tasting. I win a 1 pound bet with him about whether our waitress was Scottish or Irish. Sláinte mhath!

The conference excursion takes us to Stirling Castle, where we have a guided tour followed by champagne in the garden and a banquet in The Great Hall. The meal begins with an Ode to Haggis. A bagpipist, instrument singing, leads in a waiter holding a plate of haggis aloft. The plate is adorned with napkins curled up like the ends of a viking long boat. The musician then recites Burns’s “Address to a Haggis“, in the most exaggerated accent he can muster.

The Edinburgh chapter of my travels is nearly at a close, and I will depart for London shortly after I post this. Pictures forthcoming once I settle in London and move them off my camera. I should really get a flickr account…

As we descend into Heathrow, I see raindrops streaking the windows. Ah, raining in London: how predictably quaint. It was my brilliant idea to take a train from the airport to Edinburgh, rather than flying, so that I could spice up my trip with a pleasant tour of the English countryside. I take a light rail to Paddington, and then the Tube to King’s Cross, from where my train is to depart. The station is packed with people, and most of them look cross, or concerned, or disappointed. I sidle through the crowd to check the light board for the next train to Scotland. It reads thus: Canceled, Canceled, Canceled, Canceled, and so on down the line. The enormous flat-screens flash BBC images of the severe flooding that has washed out roads, and railroad tracks, all up and down the flourishing, green countryside.

“We advise you not to travel to Edinburgh tonight,” a gentleman with the GNER tells me. I advise him, in my turn, that I will be ignoring his well-meant words, wholesale, and seeking passage to my destination. We dance the frustrated-customer-and-powerless-terminal-operator jig for a couple of minutes, and I emerge with a ticket to Edinburgh that will leave “sometime” and take “probably a very long time”. The flooded sections slow the train to a few miles per hour, I learn.

Ticket in hand, I go stand dutifully underneath the giant light board with the throngs of passengers awaiting further instructions. The amber colors flicker and a single train is announced: Edinburgh-bound, Track 5. I bob and weave through the current of people as they rush toward the train (FCFS), my giant suitcase trailing heavily behind me as I curse myself for packing like a woman. I dive into a car and slump down in my seat, exhausted and, I realize as the train pulls away from King’s cross, hungry.

Sufficiently displeased with my condition, airline-rested and fed as I am, I immerse myself in The Forever War, by Joe Haldeman. A revered classic, to be sure, but I also took a writing course from Joe at MIT and felt ashamed to have never read anything he wrote. I finish the book on the train, pleased with the experience. The rain takes a break to allow the summer sun to blaze down through my west-facing window, driving me into a sweat and completing the trifecta. I stare out the window, pointedly.

Soon, though, the clouds roll over the sun again and food service sates my animal hunger. My status downgraded to whiny, I write this post. The train ride takes about seven hours. Total travel time to Edinburgh from home is roughly 24 hours, subjective time.

The countryside really is quite lovely. Speckled with white sheep and rising near Edinburgh into seaside cliffs and crumbling stone walls. Rolling, green, and well-watered.

At least three of the trips (Edinburgh, DC, and Anaheim) involve me giving a talk of some form, which means I have to convincingly feign cognizance. Sean is tying the knot in Portland, which will either make him a married man or qualify him to become an eagle scout. Or a sailor. Vegas is the MIT Pi Reunion, roughly 3.14 years after our graduation; I’ve got a room at the Wynn and tickets to Cirque. Vermont is a revivification of an old tradition, except in a better house and with people who care about each others well-being. I haven’t seen my family in a solid while, so I’ll be stopping there afterwards to raid the fridge and reluctantly (but with secret glee) accept numerous hugs.

Preparations for Burning Man have been ongoing for months now, beginning with the building of a 40′ diameter geodesic dome out of metal conduit piping (our trial assembly). The current projects involve making a cover for the dome, so that we can live inside of it happily, and designing the art car, which will apparently have wings. I joined up with a camp called DeMaTerial, which has gone to Burning Man before and includes several of my friends. I’m a playa virgin, so this will be a new experience.

I’ve been making an effort to leave my comfort zone whenever possible. I think it helps me grow as a person and inspires new ideas. Somewhere between Scotch tasting in the Scottish highlands and living in the Nevada desert in a colorful hemisphere of pipes and hotel sheets, I ought to be planted firmly outside of that comfort zone.

I hope it inspires more than just discomfort.

[removed by request]

Let’s take terrorism as an example. The idea is simple: effect social or political change by manipulating a community using violence or the threat of violence. That is, by using fear. Our government has taken up the notion that they might destroy this idea by killing people and blowing up buildings. Also by moving people around and by creating new buildings. This will fail.

The President has never described what victory in the War on Terror looks like, with any specificity. There won’t be a white flag, or some glittering dawn on which the terrorists of the world will throw up their hands and say, “Oh well, we gave violence a shot. Let’s try spreading our message with catchy pop lyrics.” The War will not end when bin Laden dies, nor when we kill Al Qaeda’s #2 for the umpteenth time (we’ve done that so many times it’s a joke). Ideas don’t die when their inventors or proponents do.

You would think, of all people, that Christians would understand the ineffectiveness of killing the central adherent to an ideology.

Of course, I could be wrong. Perhaps the military will finally locate and kill Osama bin Laden, and instead of unifying Islamic extremists behind a globally recognized martyr, it will shatter their confidence and sense of purpose, rendering them impotent to terrify Americans. Perhaps we will manage to find and slaughter every last person who believes violence can effect social change, without a hint of irony or hypocrisy, and maybe we’ll manage to do so without creating any new terrorists. It could happen.

After all, we killed Jesus and totally nipped that Christianity thing in the bud.