I live here. This is my backyard. That strange rock wall is the first thing I see every morning. It reminds me that I am only as weird as my surroundings. I’m fucking weird, man. Really fucking warped. It’s not a problem, though, because I’m the only one living here. I have no neighbors. None that are human, anyway. Hawks, yes. Lizards and snakes, yes. Burros, yes. Mountain lions, yes. Boulders, of course. Odd-looking trees, naturally. Sand and dirt, indeed. The sky, always. But no humans. I’m grateful for that. I can’t stand my own species. I hate civilization. Everyone fucks up everything. But not this place, not my home. Here I’m safe from your bullshit … for now.
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This is my home. I live in a cave with many openings. I have only once been attacked by a puma. I have a rock stove. I light it with my hunting knife using flint and kindling. I’ve got a pot, a frying pan, a spatula, a fork, a spoon, and a canteen. It’s all I need for cooking, really. My bed is made of twigs and branches for support and dead leaves for padding. I have to replace the padding quite often. The branches and twigs sporadically. The cave protects me from rain and wind. I have cougar skins, an old parka, long underwear, a wool hat, and a sleeping bag to handle the cold. The heat? I walk around naked except for a bark-rope belt with snake-skin flaps dangling over my ass and my junk. I have a pair of winter hiking boots and a pair of waterproof moccasins for walking and running (usually after prey). I’ve learned to make tinctures for wounds and I eat or apply herbs for illnesses. I’m mostly self-sufficient, but sometimes I steal from human visitors stupid enough to invade my space. This is the wild; your property rights mean shit to me. I’ll slit your throat just as soon as shake your hand. And I’ll fucking eat you if I’m hungry.
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These are my hunting grounds. And my playground. Depends on my needs. Nature has provided me with an outdoor gym. I climb, jump, run. I walk slowly and silently stalking prey. I made a slingshot with sticks and the intestines of a burro. I shoot rocks into the air to kill birds or on the ground at lizards, snakes, rabbits, and more. I also have a stock of spears I’ve sharpened from long branches. I stab with them if I’m close enough to an animal and I throw them if there is some distance. I have a bow and arrows, very nice, synthetic, factory-made. I took it from a hunter who had the misfortune of crossing my hunting grounds. I stalked him as he searched for deer. At dusk, I struck, slicing the carotid artery in his neck. I drank his blood and howled as I spread it over my body while a bright white moon looked down on me.
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This is the Spirit Tree. For many years, white people have passed by it without acknowledging its power and the beauty of this place. I have killed all of them. I beat animal-skin drums with femurs, honoring the Spirit Tree with leg bones from the disrespectful. I have made crowns, necklaces, bracelets, and anklets from phalanges and rib bones. I keep the skulls in my cave and look at the trapped souls in the empty eye sockets, watching their torment and listening to their futile cries for mercy. They made their choices while human. Now they suffer without cease.
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I have placed the bones of dead humans throughout the boulder columns. With some I have made sculptures and installations. Sometimes I forget that I have made one of them then a year later I stumble on it and laugh at my forgetfulness. I invite the crows to perch on them. The crows are good. They show me where dead carcasses are hidden. I share with them, but I eat the best parts. There is one bone statue I have made that provides sexual satisfaction. It is made entirely of pelvises. I sit in proximity to it and experience ecstatic reverie.
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A dry wash. The wash is filled with rushing water when there are heavy rains. I collect the water in pots I have created from naturally bowled stones. When the season is dry, I drink the milk of cacti as well as the leaves of certain bushes and trees. I am currently digging a well, but the work is slow and treacherous. The wash, though, is also a place of sanctuary for me. It is there that I commune most fully with who I am. The history of water has left its life there and I drink from the past to sustain my soul. I never urinate in this area. It is sacred ground. Nor do I shit there. How do I wipe my ass, you ask? Why would I wipe my ass?
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