…the Pacific’s silver grill bites away at earth’s edge
slowly devouring all that lays in her path
appetite encouraged by the machines
the machines fed by mans cannibalistic hands…
Ancient energy emits from this dirt. A presence I am both comforted by, and wary of. The earth itself has become defensive, brutally aware of the damage man’s hands, and greed filled fury are capable of.
Black oceans… unruly forests… barbaric mountains… the wild that reside within… all possess a nervous and savage temperament; willing and completely able to unleash their primordial wrath upon any antagonist. Tasmania’s history is as bloody as any, but the scars left on this land are deeper and darker than most. She has forgiven little- forgotten less- and suggestions of her mood are constant.
The winds batter my dreams.
The cold reminds me what it is to be warm.
A tiger snake patrols the shoulder of a trail, whispers in its’ wake speak of a symbiotic wonderland beyond – choose to trample on pain of death.
True beauty is brutal honesty.
Silver splinters of light send messages of warmth to bloodshot eyes.
The sun dips its weary head and saunters off to warm some foreign land, making way for its ivory counterpart. The huge white disk awakens, convex on the jumbled horizon, painting the park’s monzogranite features in a perfect pale light. Its glowing face projects a gigantic spotlight, emphasizing the theatrics of the desert’s cast. Ten thousand Joshua trees reach from the ground, their bony, alien hands clawing in a vain attempt to connect with the majesty above. The desert eve is lighted by an overripe moon and a million pinpricks in earth’s black blanket. I sleep now and give my mind to the night.
Dreams are vivid, encouraged by the malevolent cackle of the desert’s muse. I embrace the midnight journey, a subconscious spirit quest offered by the deepest slumber and the coyotes’ berceuse. It has been over a year since I have set foot in Joshua Tree, and I am comforted to close my eyes in her barren bosom.
I wake in the Mojave among these iconic formations that litter the pressed landscape — masses of ancient caramel boulders, stripped bare and huddled together in proud battalions. Their broad shoulders create a granite labyrinth so abstract and surreal that one cannot help but break the bonds of mundane cognition. The mind boggles, struggling to comprehend the beauty of this foreign landscape.
The brain (and its adapted modern occupation to busily filter the barrage of needless information we are now so readily subjected to) begins to slow. Thoughts are unsullied, delivered and processed in a linear manner. Creative theories flow freely and an uncommon clarity is embraced.
Beyond the scattered masses of knuckled rock, the two-lane blacktop veers east, descending into parts less explored. Uninterrupted flats lay naked, handsome and raw. The desert’s beige floor is punctuated by a uniform sprinkling of rugged flora, all elegantly adapted to their harsh surrounds, gracefully aging over millions of visits by sun and moon.
Dirt trails break from the paved road, splintering in all directions. These back roads lure more adventurous souls to vacant wanderings through the park’s obscure reaches. The true beauty of the desert lies among these vast spaces; the lack of noise or human interference offers moments of uninterrupted splendor. I inhale the limitless panorama, unmolested by man’s hands and sculpted by 100 million years of symbiotic evolution.
Gray clouds pass overhead, ignoring the parched tongue of the Pinto Basin, their precious cargo to be unloaded on the softer climates that lie beyond a sea of hazy mountains to the west. Jagged peaks and troughs rise and fall, stacked to the eye’s far reach. Each bare range emits a different shade in reaction to the westerly path of the obedient sun. Pastel colors plaster the earth’s walls, while above, candy skies morph through waves of silent change. Scattered light floods the drastic volumes of space and distance, softening all edges and flattening perception of depth, leaving behind a painted scene reminiscent of a 1960s postcard.
It’s unsaturated, romantic and absurdly wonderful. Disconnect from your devices that exist to control through distraction via force-fed, mass produced misinformation. Lift your head beyond your screen and witness the unfiltered wonder of the natural world. The more time we spend removed from the mediocrity of society, the less we depend upon it.
Welcome to Joshua Tree.
Wish you were here.
Man took it upon himself to hinder and harness millennia of fluid evolution. Constructing monolithic concrete walls to stop water travelling its natural path purely for self-satisfaction. Throwing spanners into creation’s balance.
All that remains… skeletal limbs marooned in the misguided flow…
Beauty. Death. Sorrow.
Imbibe. Digest. Live.
…Nature will take back what is hers.
Such is her nature.
At the end of the line lies a hillock with three hundred and sixty degree views of Southwest National Park.
The southern perspective, a chaotic beauty; smothered by an unrelenting sea of trees- a shroud over the rolling hills- creating a formidable barrier for any with exploratory delusions of hoofing it south. Beyond this ancient growth is an impassable huddle of granite peaks. Tall, cold and stern; these grey elders, a further barrier to curious strangers entering the dark lands below..
The north vista, here behold a beautiful mistake. It is a damned countryside littered with islands, punctuated by unnatural channels and rising peaks. Abstract tree lines skirt navy lakes, a ribbon of stubborn timbers still growing strong from beneath the water line. The only suggestion this landscape is not a natural wonder is the awkward scatter of concrete corks. These dams have barred the water from its natural path ironically forcing this foreign beauty.
The sun runs off to awaken some foreign land… her departure- a magnificent trip of light and colour.
Bipolar lovers kiss goodbye.
Shot from the hip on the 395
Trump has one
All have lost
A handsome town; full of handsome people.
The cloned and confused
The plurality of Pied Pipers
Generic genetics… individually sculpted.
The gloom of the cobalt lake reverberates fragmented paintings of arctic Russia. Low fog hides these frozen lakes from those who choose to perceive her only from above. Climb on down below the surficial facade and revel amongst the darkness…
“Steer clear the beaten path you wear boring and render bare, savage tourist!”
Plump, proud and pasteurized, they complete their forecasted circuit with moments to spare.
"Return to your wooden cabins before the witching hour settles upon the land and consumes your plastic fantasies!”
“Wander astray from mapped lines and neo-natural structures displaying historic facts spelled out and encased in yet more fantastical plastic for weary walkers to inhale and recount over their bistro feasts.”
More chips… more gravy.
“Muddy your hooves through the forests black, search further to end up nowhere with nobody!”
Uncomfortable space littered by the creator’s beauty.
Spiked, scratched, scarred…
…“There will be blood!!!”