Chiricahua National Park

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.

…

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.

…

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.

…

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.

…

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.

…

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?

Jesture

He was uncouth. Not according to the definition of the word. No, but I described him that way because I wanted to apply that word to someone and he was the only person in the room. The den was dark, filled with dusty furniture, antiques, and a fireplace that had never been used. The man was silent, still, sitting on a high-backed chair. I felt contempt. He was uncouth without any connection to any possible meaning that word conveyed. No matter how much he veered from the definition, though, the word fit. I threw a banana peel at his head. He didn't move and his eyes remained closed. They had been sewn shut. He was dead.

Few things matter to me more than huckleberry milkshakes.

I gave up smoking cigars by chewing on flat-head screwdrivers. Many teeth were broken that way. I saw a dentist daily. She never admonished me for biting screwdrivers, though. She was making good money off of me and assured me that I wouldn't get cancer this way.

Once in a great while there comes a man who uses baseball cards to establish supremacy over Senegalese women before stealing their children for the sake of appeasing a God that only seven persons believe exists above the clouds but below the stratosphere in an attempt to stay close enough to Earth's action without becoming too involved except to convert carbon dioxide into flesh pebbles which He shoots from a straw at people living on Papua New Guinea as a means to let them know that it was not meant for human habitation even though there has never been anything written stating such a thing which is the only way most people know about much of anything ever since sensory perception was discredited as a subjective biased by scientists and post-structuralist zealots who rarely consider the pain of a stubbed toe to be worthy of consideration given that so little research has been devoted to the study of ideas that haven't yet been thought by women who wear high heels while walking through snow drifts in rural Idaho in the middle of December on their way to build snow forts while children throw pine cones at them out of a sense of dread that their fathers may leave their mothers to join carnivals roaming throughout North America to spread crystal meth to the poor in exchange for soured milk to be poured on earthworms on the Spring Solstice to glorify the Seven Heads of the Mind Totem that was destroyed in South America in 748 A.D. to appease the Python Man who swallowed a dog and shit the Andes into existence shortly after a sparrow flew into the eye of a water buffalo in Africa to the delight of several monkeys who had spontaneously gathered to fling feces at fire ants that had grown several inches in length the previous day after being exposed to the vibrations of an electronic pygmy mask that had been discarded by marauding wayfarers who had traveled millions of years forward in time only to discover how boring the Earth had become compared to the wonderland of sex magic and giant beanstalks made of nutrient-rich sugar and cardboard molasses collected from apricot trees and granite cliffs which were abundant everywhere strong winds blew.

The Japanese government is about to eradicate weekends from calendars to increase productivity while the Brits have voted to add Queueday between Thursday and Friday to give the citizenry more opportunities to complain about standing in long lines.

I hardly think it's worth mentioning.

He looked deep into the well. It was empty. Where had she gone?

John Sayles: "As a Hollywood screenwriter, very often what I'm directed to do is, well, 'go in that direction, but avoid that neighborhood.' So you have to make a big turn around some, you know, some thing that exists. If you ever saw The Patriot with Mel Gibson, if you know anything about American history, you can figure it went probably went through 20, 25 drafts. And I bet, early on, it had slaves. By the time the movie comes out, though, there's like these volunteer black people working on his plantation and, you know, it all seems pretty happy and everything like that. [Gibson's character] was originally based on Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox. Well, the history got in the way and they had to avoid that. Things the audience might not like or that weren't black-and-white enough tended to get taken out of the movie until what you had was a beautifully photographed and very, very well-made lying piece of shit, if you care at all about American history. So, as far as being political, I just feel like, well jeez, if it's there I'm not going to ignore it. Just to leave it out makes the movie political. Every movie is political."

Are you fucking kidding me?!

Free him from animal lust, make his eyes bleed, shed his skin, make him cum all over her tits, answer the phone, dig your own grave, button down the hatches, shove your dick in his mouth, eat my pussy, make me some bacon, dump the oil into the lake, fly away like a bird, shoot the cheetah, adore me, juggle hot coals, dip your hand in a vat of lard, hide from the monster, go home after you frighten the children, bake a cake, jingle your keys, dress up like Santa, I don't like you, find someone else to collate and staple, flip those burgers, eat the chicken, feed the rabbits, pick up an acorn, drive off the cliff, unbutton your pants, make a deal with the devil, believe in Satan, kill your daughter, make love to someone you don't know, flag down the police car, fry some eggs, quack like a duck, hustle the pimp, pour a glass of water, read a long novel, turn on the television, post a video on Facebook, grab a wad of cash, mail a severed finger to your friend, operate heavy machinery, build a sand castle, maim the bitch, freak out, wipe your ass, assault a teenager, kiss the clown, beat your meat, lose your inhibitions, streak across the park, conduct a straw poll, vote for yourself, love someone who doesn't deserve it, undermine yourself, play with fire, zip your fly, pick your nose, tear off her shirt, kick him in the balls, nap in the afternoon, fist fuck a cow, plead for your life, yell at your mother, intercept the pass, call 911, hold onto the rope, go for it, do the right thing, smack him on the ass, rub her feet, jam the radio signal, verify his credit card number, expose yourself, drag a sack across the desert, climb a mountain, roll down a hill, swim across the canal, fall into a ditch, drown in the bathtub, pull yourself together, stay up all night, join a biker gang, try an eagle hunt, fill up the tank, bitch for no reason, realize your purpose, walk a mile in your own damn shoes, fuck those posers, strike a pose, blame everyone else for your problems, interrogate your children, destroy your relationships, ruin your chance for redemption, assume she wants you, victimize the abuser, hit a home run, find a shotgun, just get it done.

Nothing says "I have run out of ideas" more than a list of random fruits and vegetables:

Apples
Lettuce
Spinach
Bananas
Blackberries
Watermelon
Cantaloupes
Kale
Broccoli
Grapes
Pineapples
Squash
Asparagus
Strawberries
Pumpkins
Cucumbers
Carrots
Yams
Zucchini
Oranges

Mindfuck

[2004]