The Larry Harvey Memorial, Inner Playa

Dear Larry “Swordfish” Harvey,

We’ve never met directly, but I wanted to thank you here and now.

You co-founded something truly remarkable out here—a temporary city that somehow feels more real than the permanent ones we return to. Your presence lingers here not just in the structure and the culture of the place, but in the strange gravity that pulls people in year after year.

Burning Man has changed a lot since Baker Beach, of course. I’m sure you’d be the first to admit that. When you torch it all to ash every year, change is inevitable. With it, the opportunity to build something newer, bigger, stranger. That’s the power of this place. It’s wild and loud and densely packed in a rare high desert place that is incomprehensibly vast in all directions—and all of it grew from a few dreamers lighting driftwood on fire on a San Francisco public beach.

I’ve seen as much of This Thing as I could. From the skeletal grid and shipping container staff blocks to the lush and luxurious theme camps springing up like playa wildflowers, I’ve been stunned by what blooms out of this chalk-white dust every time. 

I’m biking fifteen, maybe twenty miles a day trying to take it all in, and that is setting my childhood heart free. I’ve cruised the full Esplanade, explored the inner playa around The Man, wandered into the deep playa void, and drifted through the suburbs out between I and F.

I like the suburbs here while I openly despise them in the default. There’s something much more intimate about them here—front yards strung with lights, small bars tucked into open-lounge camps that face the street like porches with no fences in a friendly neighborhood. They feel present, like they’re welcoming you to be there in their uncrowded spaces. 

What moves me most is the care people have poured into these places—days, months, maybe years of preparation. And still, despite this, so many of them sit quiet on the periphery, barely used. The crowds have migrated to the massive sound camps and sensory-overload party domes. It’s not a criticism—just an observation. The city gets louder and more spectacular the longer I’ve been in it. And maybe I would have enjoyed it more if I’d come earlier—years earlier—when things felt smaller, closer, more immediate. Or maybe that’s just my temperament. It turns out I’m not built for nonstop stimulation.

There’s a strange mystery in a city like this. I’ve found that the more people I’m surrounded by, the smaller I feel—which, paradoxically, makes me feel seen. There’s a headcount somewhere—maybe 50,000, maybe 70,000—past which I stop being a protagonist in my own story and become just another mote in the dust. And you know what? That feeling is beautiful. It means I don’t feel the need to stand out, and that feeling of unimportance is a profound and good feeling. To steal a phrase: there’s great comfort in being just another freak in the freak kingdom.

So, thank you again. This is a strange place you’ve built, Mr. Harvey, and I’m sure you know it better than anybody: Next year was better.