ONE MONTH IN THE DESERT
Re-entering the city perimeter, illuminated by streetlights marking the descent of man, I felt like I was still carrying some of the desert inside of me. Technically speaking, I was. I had been so consistently coated in red dirt for an extended period of time, it had seeped deep into my pores. When I finally had my first running water shower since leaving, red water flowed from my body like blood, disappearing down the drain.
‘I will never take you for granted again, water.’ I lied, feeling the water massage my face as it moaned in ecstasy.
‘The best medicine is living on country.’ Auntie Jeanette had told me on the walk. It was true. After four weeks of being on country, I felt like I was on a mild dose of mushrooms all the time. I could percieve the subtle energies running through the trees and the land around me. I was in perfect unison with the natural flow of all things. Like a hollow bamboo reed being played by the wind. Like a yodelling puppy dog, covered in amniotic fluid and welping. Like a new mother harvesting her placenta and cradling it in her arms as if it were a second child, only to then use to slap the head warrior across the face with a wet thud.
I put my hand onto the trunk of a gum tree and felt energy flow from the heavens, into the branches, down the trunk, then into and through me, exiting out of my feet and into the ground.
You fucking hippy. The tree spake.
I stared at the city lights spread across the land before me, a roadmap of fallen stars.
It suddenly seemed obvious to me that so many of the illnesses people went through these days were just a direct result of being completely out of balance with the natural order of things.
Yeah, no shit mate. The tree spake.
So many sharp lines and angles jutting out everywhere in the city, dominating, imposing order onto the smooth, organic way of the wild, like knives gutting a fish alive. Imposing it’s right angled reason and linearity upon the organic chaos that was ultimately beyond reason. Nature would always win, would always takeover once again. It was just biding it’s time, waiting for us to tire out with this pointless illusion of forward movement.
No wonder everyone was crazy.
You’re groping a tree in public mate, that’s pretty crazy. The tree spake.
Shut up, you like it.
So many clocks and grids and fences to trap the endlessness within a reassuring illusion of structure. But you cannot keep infinite caged forever.
I went for a swim at the beach and got a grain of sand stuck in my left eye. I tried flushing it out with water to no avail. I could feel the single grain rubbing up against the inside of my eye, copious tears flowing down my cheek and nostril. The side of my face began to swell. I headed home to try and flush it out in the shower, my hand covering the offending eye, depth perception increasingly compromised.
I couldn’t get it out, so I left the house once again.
Passing through the main stretch of Fremantle, I suddenly heard the loud shouting voices of intoxicated men coming from ahead of me. With my one good eye, a gang of heavily tattooed men were verbally abusing random people outside of a pub. I could see red waves of aggression emanating from their bodies. I felt fear.
Fear not. The desert spoke from inside of me.
You are the desert.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked.
Ummm… Dunno really, guess it just sounds cool right?
Yeah fair enough.
Maybe ‘be the desert’ is a bit more of a better thing to say. Yeah that’s it. Be the dessert.
Be the dessert?
I meant be the Desert. Not dessert, desert. Sorry, it’s difficult to speak when you have a mouth full of sand all the time.
Be the desert?
I let my flesh and bones crumble into red dust. Quickly, I am picked up by the passing breeze. From above, I look down upon the gang of drunken, tatooed men. The wind tells me that they are on break from a ten day work stint in the mines up north, blowing off some steam after being trapped underground in the heat and bad air, robbing minerals from deep within the womb of Earth for money to buy alcohol and things they don’t need to fuel the consumer capitalist crematorium. Suddenly I see them not as threatening spectres of violence, but as emotionally crippled little boys trapped in flesh man suits, raised under traditional definitions of masculinity, who knew no other way of expressing any emotion beyond anger except through excessive alcohol consumption, sporting events and obnoxious public behaviour. Their gym built muscles, heavily tattooed bodies just an elaborate bluff, a protective mechanism to shield them from the reality of their own emotions. Emotions that called into question their ideas of masculinity as according to standard traditional definitions and brought them dangerously close to being called a ‘fag’ by their peers. Emotions that perhaps did encompass feelings of wanting to have sex with another man and actually being the true fag they were afraid that they actually were, underneath it all. But perhaps in making peace with their inner fag, they could achieve some degree of liberation, and inch closer to a perfected state? Perhaps that was the goal of every man these days — to be in touch, to be at peace with their inner fag. And once one was at peace with their inner fag, giving him a friendly reacharound, without guilt, going down on them with enthusiasm instead of shame, swallowing the sweet cum of ecstatic liberation flowing from the end of his inner fag’s victory horn, perhaps then and only then would there be no more war in this world.
The fear I once held turns to compassion, transmuted by Vajra wisdom, as I lovingly gazed upon these poor fags who have been playing dressups as their fag fathers for so long they had forgotten it was all just a game they forgot they were playing.
Suddenly the wind picks up and I am carried through the crowds of people in the streets, weaving in and out of the many masks they wear. I am struck by the artificiality of everyone’s public facade. Some are more carefully constructed then others. Shaped in the mirrors at home and in the mirrors in each others faces. Masks designed to protect themselves from the truth of their being. From all their own bullshit that they didn’t want to have to face. Or maybe i was just projecting. I stare at the made up faces and the suits and the ties and the coiffured hairstyles. Being a civilised human was just a denial of one’s base animality. But from what I learned in the desert, no pretence could survive four weeks of living in one’s own filth without regular showering, in the wilderness. Every carefully made up mask would disintegrate within the first dust storm and everyone would be reduced down the same stinking, base level animal state.
In my fascist Utopia, everyone would be forced to exist in this pretenceless state of perpetual filth.
I begin to breathe deeply, expanding my amorphous form, dust particles gathering with each increasing exhalation. Red dust married to gale force winds flying through the streets, slowly covering up all the sharp angles and unpleasant corners that cut deep into the curves of our true nature. Buildings disappear beneath the rising red dunes. People begin to scatter as the cleansing red dirt chases them down the streets, the fierce red winds engulfing them, reducing their designer clothes to tatters, caking the pores of their religiously moisturised skins, stripping them of all their bullshit, leaving behind nothing except for what remains constant, their true selves, their stinking, naked, filthy true selves wandering through an apocalyptic wasteland of half submerged buildings in a sea of red dirt, finally happy.
‘WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING CUNT!’ One of the tatooed men yells at me as I accidentally bump into him, shaking me from my pretentious masturbatory reverie.
‘My lost lamb, you must be one with your inner fag, do not be afraid to give him a reacharound.’ I tell him.
‘FUCK OFF FAG!’ He yells at me, the stench of alcohol emanating from his capped gums.
Well shucks, you can’t reach someone who doesn’t want to be reached. But I take on none of his anger, for I have learnt in the desert to forgive and let go.
Forgive them Nature for they know not what they do.
Well I am kind of getting tired of them raping me all the time. Nature replies.
Fair call nature, fair call.