Luna Arcana Issue - Issue 4 by LUNA ARCANA

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LUNA ARCANA - ISSUE 4 Editor: Rohini Walker Creative Directors: Martín Mancha & Rohini Walker Art Direction & Graphic Design: Martín Mancha, www.martinmancha.com For all inquiries, please contact us at: lunaarcanajoshuatree@gmail.com Printed locally by the Hi-Desert Publishing Co., Yucca Valley, CA. Cover illustration by Matt Adams / Back cover collage, Goddess Psyche by Anna Oliv Eve Visit our website: www.lunaarcana.com Stalk us on Facebook by searching ‘Luna Arcana Joshua Tree’ • Instagram: @luna_arcana All our advertising revenue goes straight towards print & production, allowing us to keep ads to a minimum. If you enjoy what you experience in these pages, subscribe to our email newsletter by visiting: www.lunaarcana.com

With thanks to our collaborators & contributors: Anastasia DiGiallonardo Angela de la Agua Benjamin Goulet Bon Bizkerre Carly Valentine Catherine Svehla Cheryl Montelle

Chris Clarke Chris Unck Gabriel Hart Jean-Paul Garnier Jill Giegerich Joseph Mancha Julia Sizek

Julie Carpenter Kate McCabe Kim Stringfellow Laura Hauther Lauren Over Louise Mathias Monet Blair

Peri Lee Pipkin Rags Rosenberg Sophia Loukaides Tanene Allison Taylor Elyse Compton Tonelise Rugaas

Editor’s Note Balance. We all seek it: In our bodies, our lives and relationships, in our environment. Why is it so elusive? One plausible theory: Imbalance arises from a conflict between polarities, a power struggle where one seeks dominion over the ‘other’. In extreme cases, one seeks total destruction of this other. In Nature, when we observe imbalance, it is more often than not caused by the onslaught of colonialism and post-industrialized human’s insatiable need to enslave the perceived otherness of the natural world. Indigenous traditions, in the deserts of the south-west for instance, tended the land with a view to maintaining balance. Degrading and dominating it was tantamount to inflicting the same on oneself. Nature, with her manifold complex systems within a given ecosystem or community, strives for symbiosis. Balance is created through an organic understanding that all that is, is a dynamic and essential aspect of the whole. The effect of this is collaboration and co-operation. The prevailing scientific, cultural and religious beliefs of modernity: domination of strong over weak, survival of the fittest, et al. are obsolete. These childish war games are not sound science. Humans are not here to monopolize resources, destroy each other and the planet. We are here to reach across the apparent abyss of polarity and recognize the otherness within ourselves and each other, to relate with empathy and compassion. New science is demonstrating this repeatedly. If a system is out of balance, it’s likely due to a prolonged attack or defense situation, anathema to the natural state of harmony towards which all sentient beings incline. Polarity is prerequisite to material reality. Contrast animates and vivifies: Black and white, feminine and masculine, life and death. Our physical senses depend up on it. Without polarity, we would be in an undifferentiated state. And this is where the paradox arises: It is through polarity that we come to realize our essential non-dual Self, how we come to re-member ourselves. Each one of us contains the polarity of the ‘other’. I exist in this life, at this time, identified as a woman. Yet within me, and in all others who identify as female, also lives the opposite, the energetic counterpart to this form, the masculine aspect. The psychotherapist, Carl Jung, called this the ‘animus’. Similarly, in every being identified as male, there exists a feminine aspect, his ‘anima’. Imbalance arises when we go to war with ourselves, when we are taught to deny and repress parts of ourselves. This is the system of control and monopoly of power that the crumbling edifices of colonialism and patriarchy, with its dividing and conquering, has kept in place ever since the dominion and destruction of Mother Nature became a symbol of false virility and strength. A new term is needed for ‘patriarchy’- because as it stands, it’s incomplete. It entrenches division and blinds us to the reality that both genders, and all that exists in between, are unconsciously conditioned by this status quo from the very moment we begin to conceive of ourselves as somehow separate from the world. We are, all of us, brainwashed into believing that there is something within us that is ‘other’ and wrong. In order to be a ‘man’ one has to subdue, even destroy, the anima; and vice versa. And this internal conflict, with all its distorted permutations, bleeds out into the world; the world that we are, after all, not so very separate from. A tightrope walker steps onto the rope, suspended high over an infinite abyss. They must navigate their way across, while holding in each breath the possibility of life and death: The scales balanced. If they were to deny death, the eternal ‘other’, the great mystery, balance would be lost. Can we hold our otherness, the vast mystery that we are, with tenderness while we breathe our way through this time? And when we fall, can we hold each other in the same way? Because to invoke and inhabit the abyss between light and dark, she and he, me and you - that deep drop into the unknown - is to become the Artist of our lives, instead of the Judge1. Rohini Walker, October 2019, Joshua Tree, California 1

Inspired by the work of Caroyln Elliott - carolyngraceelliott.com Facing page art ‘Cancer’ by Anastasia Di Giallonardo 2

Summer/Fall 2018 Art & words by Kate McCabe

9.22 The many eclipses of summer were survived. We drape our wounds on our shoulders and welcome 9.20 the autumn equinox with a pomegranate gelato and I keep doing things wrong, like my super-noticeable Hammer of the Oz at Mesa fest. ‘Hi, I’m awkward’ bone popped out of the socket. Mercury, Venus, Mars, Saturn and Jupiter arch above 9.25 me as frowning witnesses. I’m as judged as I’m loved Not knowing where to go on a date leads us to the by this planetary quintet. My awe sits in my throat casino in 29. I’m warned it looks like a supermarket every night as 5 planets wink at me. that smells like cigarettes and vanishing money. I suggest rubbing my right butt cheek to bring good luck. A tarantula is discovered by the front door. I think, It didn’t. But my cheek felt lucky. I did too. “New security guard?” Stacey once said, “I wasn’t snoring, I was dreaming I The lizard who was the security guard is on maternity was a motorcycle!” leave. 3

I listen to a quiet snore next to me, so easy that it makes you jealous that your snores may not be as peaceful. I’m convinced it’s a dreaming one’s a motorcycle snore, cruising. How dog snores are a sound of contentment.

The day before another woman declared, “I don’t know how you do it alone.” They hadn’t noticed that I just Do. I’m an action verb.

At night, emails go to Portugal for a tour with my films. I pinch myself and then am too excited to sleep. 9.27 I take in the cold night, the weighty down blanket, reTaking in the buttes, I whisper secrets to the creosote minding myself how wonderful it is to still feel wonrings. der. There’s a Hall & Oates phone number and I save it as the only favorite on my phone for emergencies. Press 1 for ‘One on One’. Press 2 for ‘Rich Girl’. To hear ‘Man-eater’ press 3.

10.3 Messaging an old friend stationed in Kabul about my tiny heartbreak. He thinks I’m beautiful so he doesn’t understand. I say, “Me liking a guy is just like falling down the stairs.” Equal in its ability to rob you 9.28 of grace and hurt you outlandishly. I tell him about I have a disappointment that I saw coming. It still putting alligators back in the heart fortress the moat. cuts deep, knowing I put the drawbridge down on my He explains, “The right guy will bring his own drawheart fortress and took the alligators out of the moat. I bridge.” cry because I can’t put the gators back. I wipe my tears with a slice of pizza and go celebrate Bonnie’s film. 10.5 Everything on my films needs re-rendering. It’s taking 9.29 days. I roller skate, I clean, I winterize the swamp, and A cold wind returns from its extended summer vaca- finally I drive with no direction, ending up at Pappy’s. tion. It blows through violently: through bed, hair, Friends see me and declare, “Where have you been?” I dreams. It rattles everything, stating, “I told you not tell them honestly, “I’m right here where you left me, to forget me.” Someone suggests it’s blowing troubles drinking sarsaparilla in the dirt.” away, but as the doomsday optimist, I should prepare for a little more trouble. 10.6 Pickles passed one year ago. I hike to where I put I suggest the door tarantula helps create a ‘Don’t Say Scott’s ashes by an ancient creosote. They’re not the Dumb Stuff’ prevention program. Instead he demurs, only best friends I’ve lost, nor the only guardian an“You’re on your own.” I’m picking my battles, so I gels I’ve acquired. I have more guardian angels than don’t take offense. It’s damn beautiful and I say so. most. The fact that there are so many guardians, it’s There’s no way that’s too dumb to say, not even to a shocking anyone would mess with me. I wouldn’t tarantula. mess with me with all that celestial power on my side. Pickles lived with curiosity, determination, and loving 9.30 tenderness. Together, we grew up in the desert. What A wild lightning comes right on time for a dramatic if science could extend dogs’ lives instead of humans? September goodbye. This electricity is what I’m made This research needs funding. of. Its power is harnessed to clear the house of seriously negative energy. 10.10 There’s more traffic in town. The desert keeps being 10.1 discovered. Sometimes I wish it was less cool, wishing I love October! The desert nights are at their best. there weren’t haphazard boats sprawled across the way They’re not having to give back what the day took where an empty vista once was, where neighbors had away anymore. They get to be themselves. Sunday dune buggy parades. There are fewer places left like this everywhere in the world. Nothing stays Distant storms bring cloud varieties: shady bottoms, empty forever when it fills so many hearts. elongated streaks, graceful loop de loops. I speculate if my neighbors notice me and think its sad that I’m walking without my desert icon dog. Then, walking, the boisterous Rose careens up the road in her hoodless Mercedes and shouts, “Hey, where’s your dog?” 4

The Prickly Pear Cactus by Peri Lee Pipkin

Taking in the ocean of this year’s springtime wildflower bonanza, cactus flowers, at least for me, always jump out. Amidst the whites, creams, yellows, apricot-oranges, and greens, a neon magenta, deep red, or vibrant yellow atop a bright pink barrel cactus really pop against the dusty landscape. While all cactus are absolutely magical entities, I want to get you excited about the prickly pear cactus. We have a native prickly pear growing in the high desert, Opuntia basilaris, or the Beavertail Cactus, but I encourage you not to wild harvest them. Climate change, increasing human population, and development threaten their habitat and pollinators, so please, stick to harvesting the landscaped cactus, which we have a huge bounty of. Prickly pear cactus are incredibly easy to grow, even for those with zero gardening experience. By just planting one paddle in the ground, buried right side up, you could forget about it and it would still grow over the years into a healthy plant capable of producing delicious fruity treats for you and the bees.

as well as overheated surges of emotions. Think of all the frayed ends of your nerves being gently caressed by the slimy touch of cactus. Puréeing prepared cactus pads with some water can create a refreshing drink – mixed with a little hibiscus flower and chia seeds, and you have a cooling summertime drink that can soothe irritated stomach linings and conditions of excessive heat, such as ulcers and acid reflux. The pads are also known to lower blood sugars and cholesterol. You can use the mucilaginous slime to help sooth sunburns, aches, minor scrapes, joint pain, wounds, and burns, as well as reduce the inflammation of swelling of minor sprains and bruises. In backcountry situations, the paddles can serve as a solid wilderness medicine; by de-spining the pads and slicing them in half, the interior can be applied directly to injuries. The flowers of the prickly pear cactus are high in flavonoids, which help fortify slow healing tissues, strengthen capillaries, and reduce varicose vein risk. They are also a diuretic, meaning they slightly dehydrate as they flush water through your system, benefitting the kidneys and urinary tract. As a flower essence, it’s helpful for adapting and accepting, letting us tap into the flow of the world happening around us. It allows us to access an inner calm that is helpful for breaking the unhealthy patterns of micro-managing, great for folks that feel rigid with plans and world views.

A member of the cactus family, Cactaceae, prickly pear cactus are also known as Nopal, and are in the genus Opuntia. Recognizable by their large, flat, pancake like pads covered with clusters of thorns that vary in size and shape. The pads connect to one another at their tops and bottoms, or nodes, and are actually modified stems, evolved for efficient water storage. They are found throughout North America; tolerating the freezing northern plains of North Dakota, basking in the rolling, wildflower dense hill country of central Texas, hugging the coasts of California and Florida down into all reaches of Mexico. They are native to the Americas, but have been naturalized in many places worldwide. Cactus are generally spring bloomers, offering up a showy range of magentas, pinks, oranges, and yellows, which throughout the summer mature and sweeten into juicy fruits, known as tunas or nōchtli in Spanish speaking countries.

The fruits produced by all the prickly pear varieties are edible as well, some are just more worth the effort than others. They will be in their peak ripeness this fall, and can be harvested pain-free with a couple tongs and a basket. You generally want to select large fruits with minimal glochids, the tiny, near invisible spines that coat fruits and where they connect to the plant. They’re high in vitamin C and have a very fruity flavor; sometimes I think, definitely banana-watermelon-plum, sometimes, I’m sure it’s like Prickly pear cactus are generally safe for all in reason- a pineapple-mango. Either way, they are a vibrant and able ‘food’ quantities, which means that consuming flavorful addition to desserts and drinks. Working a serving or two of these should not produce any with plants you grow and harvest deepens your conundesirable side-effects. Their pads are edible when nection to the landscape and cycles of life out here in young, usually de-spined and sliced, and then sau- the desert. téed, grilled, or added raw to salsas and salads… the possibilities are endless. The pads have a soothing, Respect the natural world; do not wild-harvest native cooling mucilaginous slime that has a plethora of plants. Rather, increase their abundance by growing good uses. It not only soothes your own mucilagi- them in your garden. The ecosystem thanks you! nous interiors, but helps with physical overheating, 5

Illustration by Sophia Loukaides 6

8 pm That all-in-black figure atop the polished rock it smiles, it smiles sand in its boots leather in its hair. Forget the day you met, it matters not you walk, you walk. It lifts its hand, the left one that left hand of knowledge its lips moving the high sun moves through them. “I will protect you” “I will carry you when you fall” “Go walk, go climb, go live.” Take no water take no cloud. Its lips move again “I will see you when you fall” “I will dig for you” “I will honor you” “I will sing to you”. Go live. Poem & painting by Bon Bizkerre mohavebones.com

You’ve Got to Pick Up Every Stitch… Talented fiber artist, Nikki Virbitsky moved to the desert from upstate Pennsylvania. She went to college in Philadelphia, where she studied Illustration. After her father’s sudden passing in 2014, she decided to move away from Pennsylvania, in search of a completely new and different environment. Nikki has been living full time in Palm Springs, CA., and is now looking to dive deeper into true, wild desert living by making a move ‘up the hill’ to the artist community of the Mojave high desert.

sign (after naively listening to a not so kind uncle of mine telling me a degree in fine arts was worthless). I hated every minute of it, and still think about what my life might be like if I stuck with my gut. All of the friends I made when moving to Philly went to The University of the Arts, and that was my saving grace I would go with them to classes and open studios for fiber arts and photography, and probably spent more time in classes there than I did in my own school! LA: What is your perspective on the growing art culture in the high desert?

LA: Your art is very tactile. What is it about this quality that appeals most your senses?

NV: I think any growing art culture is a great thing, but there’s definitely something special happening up there in my eyes. There are so many places that not only show great work, but with lectures, workshops, and artist talks that inspire it as well. The natural environment is downright alien, and coupled with the heartwarming sense of community I seem to feel wherever I go, it’s easy to see why creatives are drawn there.

NV: I’ve worked in many different mediums in the past and embroidery seems to be the one that has stuck with me the most, and maybe that’s because it is so tactile. I struggle with a lot of anxiety, and there’s something about the tedium of a million tiny stitches that helps focus my racing mind a bit. When I really get into a groove on a piece, the process sometimes doubles as a meditation (other times however, lots of yelling and cursing may be involved).

LA: If you weren’t an artist, what else do you think you’d be doing instead?

LA: Can you tell us how you discovered embroidery? NV: My Nana taught me to sew and embroider when I was very young. She was a fiber artist, baker, dressmaker, chef...truly a master of many skills. She patiently taught me everything I’ve ever had an interest in learning from her and there’s a little piece of her in everything I do. Even though she’s been gone for over 10 years now, some part of me still feels like we’re connected each time I thread a needle.

NV: Well, I’ve had a couple of past lives in the way of jobs - I began teaching art while still in college in Philadelphia, and co-founded an art program that offered pre-school, toddler, and Mommy & Me art classes. In 2003, I became a faculty member at Fleisher Art Memorial, the oldest free art school in the country. During that time, I also unexpectedly fell into gemology, and found myself grading diamonds for a major retailer and appraising antique jewelry for LA: Are you more productive in the cooler months or in independent dealers. So I suppose I would be doing the heat of summer? one of those things, but I’d really love to get back to teaching regardless, I just haven’t found the opportuNV: Since moving to the low desert, I’m definitely nity here in the desert yet! more productive during the summer, when it gets too hot to do much else. I also find summer here odd- LA: What’s on your music selection rotation these days? ly inspiring - Palm Springs pretty much turns into a ghost town during those months and the energy NV: I really listen to the same few bands I’ve listened seems so much lighter. to for the better part of my adult life. I’m kind of a crotchety shithead when it comes to music. Some LA: What is your background or education in the arts? of my favorites are Dinosaur Jr, Guided By Voices, Archers Of Loaf, The Lemonheads, DismemberNV: I attended Keystone College in LaPlume, PA in ment Plan, and Guster (who INSANELY asked me to my freshman year for fine arts, but transferred to the create the artwork for their new album ‘Look Alive’, Hussian School of Art in Philadelphia for graphic de- which you should all check out!) 9

Art by Nikki Virbitsky 10

Western Expansion

suck the moisture from you. But I asked the wind to go first and she did, reversing the ages. She told you to come visit, but she didn’t tell you that your tent was gonna knock your ass around as you pretended it was an apartment in the city.

by Jean-Paul Garnier

You see, one too many people stepped on my back. Most of them didn’t notice their footprints. How they took weeks, or more, to decay. Slowly weathering, softening at the edges. I like things spread out. Every life has its own space. At least a few feet anyway. We do this for good reason. You are hit by lightning, I don’t burn. I am hit, you go free. In the forest one tree burns, they all do. Here we have sand and space to protect us from the wildfire. We’re a slow grow, a slow burn. You ain’t gettin’ close, even if you’re fire, cuz we’ve spread in the aesthetic way. Alone beauty.

First we drank. Then we powdered. From now on you won’t have to be swallowed by Amboy Crater. I’m coming to you. The winds take me to Redlands. I reclaim. Then the rest of San Bernardino County. I take Riverside. I take Los Angeles. The sands come with me. Your parking lots become dune fields. Sand drifts cover your sidewalks. From now on your boots will be as dusty as ours. High heels are a thing of the past. I move onward west until my sands meet with those of the ocean. The dry winds blow away all moisture, But the footprints they left us. Started giving lightyour smog blows outward, always farther west. ning a chance. They left things to burn between us. Footprints that lasted longer than they imagined. Gardens shrivel. The barrel cactus you stole from me Concrete doesn’t allow for footprints. They live where will be amongst the only plants to survive. I’m bigger people will come and change things. They don’t wait than I was and my appetite has grown. I drink your for the wind like we do. To show them I asked the lakes, your rivers and creeks, and eventually I will wind to move west from now on. The wind didn’t drink your sea. Freeways sway in the wind as visibilmind. ity dissipates. Traffic thickens as the wind blows cars off course and sandstorms splay the paint from cars. She blew west. Took the sands with her too. Me and Traffic so thick it will stop the eastward migration. my plants weren’t used to the shift. Things had reDon’t come to me, I have come to you. So have the mained the same since the mountains were made. carrion birds, see them circling. They await you to run Now my grains flow back towards the ocean. My over my rats. All the creatures head westward. Open plants will live. Some of them have been here since your hood they have eaten the electronics from your before I dried things out. Now, I’m coming west, to 11

vehicle. Your car overheats. Your AC overheats. Triple How do your feet feel upon my back now? Now that digits fend you back towards the ocean. But I have it’s your backyard too, and you’ll be forced to live as boiled your seas. those whom you drove out with your property values and your vacations and your polluting migrations on Concrete everywhere. It raises my temperature. Noth- the weekends. Trash mixed up in a tumbleweed ening to cool me down. Your streets will disappear in my ters your once glistening green gardens. It’s a popsicle sands as you wish that the mountains of asphalt were wrapper, the same you let fly from your window after not on my side. The streets crack, unused to my heat. taking a picture with my iconic trees. The dog shit is Manicured lawns brown. Bird baths dry up. Pools easier to see against the backdrop of my golden sands. empty into the sky, water replaced by sand. The air It dries, powders, joins the air. My winds take them itself is boiling. Sea breezes change direction forever, and spread the flotsam for all to breathe. heading west to join the others, never again to cool the coast which I have commandeered. The rain shad- The Southwest is mine. More so than before. Come ow descends upon you as we become one. visit, you won’t have to travel far. Now we share a back, so go ahead and tread. I will adapt to the invaScorpions, snakes, and centipedes join me in my sive species. My dust will crawl up your boots, coat westward march. You become afraid to walk bare- your tires, and join you in the living room. The winds foot. You do not know to shake out your boots. You change your tides. Blowing eternally. I have made thought things could be clean and you could come plenty of room for your development. Try to tame to my haunts to ‘rough it’. By ‘rough it’ you meant me, building endlessly. I will grow as you do, remainleave trash, dog shit, and drain my waters rinsing off ing a step ahead. When your sprawl reaches between after your Airbnb Jacuzzi time. I’ve seen your groups the great oceans, a continuous stretch, I will have drink, shower, and hose away five thousand gallons come first. I will spill across the plains taking the rains in a weekend. Even the parasitic tamarisk trees can’t away as I go. If you try to suck me dry, know that do that kind of damage. So now I’m here to drink I have already done it for you. Know that my sands your pools dry. Replace the water you stole with sand. record history, which seems so fleeting to you, but is Even your trash-fed coyotes run for what was once the permanent. You will learn to read this record. You shore, afraid of the heat hardened real thing. will have to see it throughout the days. No longer is the desert your weekend playground, but an enforced way of life. 12

Hell sâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Bells Poem and photo by Louise Mathias

Loneliest Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever been is a rest stop outside Willcox, Arizona, in a killwind, in my too thin dress. Beyond the blonde-shatter dust of trucks, I stalked the hawk-moths that haunted the Datura, told only her creamy petals what I want. Delirium-ed secret: even the moth was stoned. When God puts blood on the road, it looks nothing like its mammal. 13

the green has gone to stone, shell, and seed. Like the rotting food in our fridge, it’s another measure of time in our failure as a couple. While it is the desert, conditions to keep extraordinary things alive are inherently more challenging due to the extreme elements. But it can be done. There are vineyards and citrus groves here, some properties so Eden-esque, you think you’ve died. We’ve seen it in our neighbors when we would play that driving game – “They have their shit together! Next neighbor, not so much!” We are now the later neighbors, our garden truly grey like her worst nightmares. Dried, crispy, everything petrified, perhaps permanently startled lifeless by the sheer volume of the owners’ incessant screaming. “Play dead!” the vegetation whispers. Only one thing stands tall in our once lush patch – the beguiling Century plant, a true oddity that might be the most accurate allegory for our charred heap of domestic dystopia. What was once the centerpiece of our property – our postcard-perfect Agave plant, plump, verdant, blooming wide as a firework – one day grew an obscene appendage out from its top. Our guests laughed as we swore it was growing right before our eyes, this phallic growth bursting with runaway pride, pointing right to the sun. The next day even larger, a time-lapsed erection, this Fairytale asparagus-stalk that was now beginning to branch out curly limbs that were also coming to flower. The next day twice its size. Our home, a Little Shop of Horrors! Why is it here? When would it stop?!

Art by Taylor Elyse Compton

CENTURY AND THE DECAYED

Soon, we noticed that the more it grew, the more the agave below began to decay and blacken, drooping sad and defeated under this insatiable new addition that had been robbing it of its nutrients. We were taken aback to learn that this was normal – what we actually had was a Century plant, which matures every hundred or so years. The coveted Agave was just one of its phases, a mere vessel for this once unsightly parasite that will only wind up growing into something beyond anyone’s control. Our time together had merely reached full maturity. It was time to prune the decomposition.

by Gabriel Hart

It wasn’t as if our dream had died. You cannot kill what began as an illusion, elusive as the hallucinated oasis, always one step ahead. The idea, this solution wasn’t necessarily real just because we were the ones that thought of it. We patted ourselves on the back when we could have been doing the work. We were merely another middle-class couple who moved to the desert to re-invent themselves, only to face the harsh reality that metamorphosis must begin and end from within, alone…

Gabriel Hart is an author/singer-songwriter from Morongo Valley, CA. His debut novel Virgins In Reverse/The Intrusion (Traveling Shoes Press) was released this year, while his punk rock Wall of Sound group Jail Weddings will be dropping their third full-length Wilted Eden in Fall 2019.

I exit my vehicle and survey my parcel of land, searching for my pride. While I know it’s there – somewhere – it has been suffocated, suspended as a result of trying to survive our Siamese Twin coronary bypass. A household’s quality of life can be revealed by how they upkeep their property. I focus on our garden, then other patches of life we tried to give this land – all 14

THE MOJAVE PROJECT K I M

S T R I N G F E L L O W

of Native Americans to claim that Willie’s actions had been driven by drink and immoral whites who provided alcohol to Indians. Posse members and posers were looking to exchange their side of the story for cash. Forty years later, a newspaperman for the Riverside Press-Enterprise thought that he had stumbled on the story of a lifetime. Harry Lawton thought that he could find the real story of Willie Boy. And for many years after its publication, his novel Willie Boy: A Desert Manhunt was seen as historical fact, despite its many internal inconsistencies and excessive psychologizing of its characters. In fact, it received the James D. Phelan award for nonfiction, and its popularity was reflected in the creation of a 1969 film Tell Them Willie Boy is Here, directed by the formerly-blacklisted former Communist, Abraham Polonsky and starring Robert Redford as Sheriff Cooper, Katharine Ross as Carlota, and Robert Blake as Willie Boy. (Interestingly enough, the rabid anti-communist Jack Tenney also found value in the novel, writing a fan letter to Lawton that included song lyrics). Lawton’s collected correspondence reveals how the book and the film affected viewers, from those dismayed that it did not live up to genre Western conventions, to those who found it an archetypal tragedy of a man against the odds.

Willie Boy: How a Manhunt Became a Myth by Julia Sizek

It wasn’t until 1994 that scholars James Sandos and Larry Burgess published a book that questioned the historicity of the novel and other accounts of the Willie Boy case, leading to claims of defamation from Lawton. Examining newspaper accounts of the day that served as the basis for Lawton’s account, they find that yellow journalism—in which journalists dramatized events to sell papers—ran these papers more than facts did. They also show how common stereotypes about Native Americans—particularly about Native American drunkenness and propensity to uprising—colored the way that people at the time interpreted and viewed the so-called ‘facts’ of the case both when it happened and years later. These stereotypes were not only demonstrably false, but often encouraged what Sandos and Burgess call ‘Indian-hating’: In other words, racism.

The only undisputed fact of the Willie Boy case was that William Mike was dead. Mike’s wife Maria did not report the death until morning, giving Willie and Carlota, the eloped couple composed of the William’s daughter and potential son-in-law, an ample head start into the hills above the Morongo Indian Reservation. The Banning sheriff decided that Willie must have killed William Mike after he forbade his daughter Carlota from marrying Willie, so the sheriff organized a posse that left to track the couple that afternoon and chase down the so-called criminals. During the course of the two-week chase, Carlota died of a gunshot wound during a posse chase—most likely from one of its members, though the posse initially claimed that Willie shot her. The chase ended when posse members thought they found Willie dead at Ruby Mountain, near Landers, CA (later, the fact of Willie’s death at Ruby Mountain is disputed). In all, the pursuers and their target covered an estimated 600 miles on horse and foot across the San Bernardino Mountains into the Mojave Desert.

Sandos and Burgess make corrections through careful fact-checking, against the proliferation of stories surrounding what became known as the Willie Boy manhunt. Through oral histories and detailed readings of newspapers, their research allows for an opening to an ending very different from the one in Lawton’s novel or Polonsky’s movie.

The story quickly became a legend for locals, though it hardly made national papers. Riverside boosters were relieved that the episode had ended so that President Taft, who had visited during the chase, wouldn’t see the region as lawless. Temperance organizations drew on stereotypes

“The posse never got him, you know,” Chemehuevi elder Alberta Van Fleet would tell Sandos and Burgess. Along with Van Fleet, Chemehuevi elders Mary Lou Brown, Cahuilla elder Katherine Siva Saubel, Willie’s mother, Mary Synder 15

Photos by and courtesy of Kim Stringfellow

Suggested Willie Boy reading and watching:

and many others have long maintained that Willie Boy fled on foot after the Ruby Mountain posse ambush—possibly first to Twentynine Palms and then into the open desert. Trained as a Chemehuevi spiritual runner, the long distances wouldn’t have bothered the spiritual man. They suggest that Willie made his way to live with the Southern Paiutes in Pahrump, Nevada, until he died from tuberculosis.

For a pulpy yarn: Willie Boy: A Desert Manhunt, by Harry Lawton. For magazine-length pulp: “On the Trail of Willie Boy,” by James Carling in the November 1941 issue of Desert Magazine, available online. For your best bet at a factual account: The Hunt for Willie Boy: Indian-Hating and Popular Culture. By James A. Sandos and Larry E. Burgess. For a middling Western: Tell Them Willie Boy is Here, directed by Abraham Polonsky For a contemporary take: Lewis deSoto’s site-specific interpretive art exhibit at the Oasis of Mara by the Twentynine Palms National Park Visitor Center.

After years of hearing Lawton’s side of the story, it’s time to believe that Willie got away. The Mojave Project is an experimental transmedia documentary and curatorial project led by artist and educator Kim Stringfellow. It explores the physical, geological and cultural landscape of the complex and surprising Mojave Desert. Peruse the project at: mojaveproject.org. 16

Luna Arcana

Issue 3 - FALL/WINTER 2017

That scene bore into me, and motivated me to contact Dr. Tick and arrange a book reading for him in Joshua Tree in March, 2012. The night he spoke, the room was packed. Three leather-jacketed Vietnam veterans sat off to the side, their backs up against the wall, with a clear view of the entire room. Two of them wore Vietnam vet baseball caps pulled low, the other had flowing white hair, a beard, and sunglasses. They were alert and listening. “One of the ways we can support our returning veterans,” Dr. Tick explained, “is to create some kind of local group that welcomes veterans home, welcomes them into the folds of their community by providing engaging, and creative activities within a safe space.” The author with participant at a painting workshop

My mind raced. I visualized some kind of creative group forming. The Morongo Basin had a wonderful arts community and I was part of it. I already had an extensive mailing list. Maybe I could start with that?

Mil-Tree: A Story of Life After War by Cheryl Montelle

In 2011 a friend recommended that I read a book called War and the Soul by Dr. Ed Tick, describing his work with Vietnam veterans who suffer from PTSD. At the time, the plight of veterans was not a significant calling for me as I didn’t grow up in a military family and I didn’t know many war veterans. I had, however, recently read a novel that explored the adrenaline rush of war, and I became curious; how could someone become addicted to war? How do veterans connect after experiencing war? I imagined how a devastating situation such as seeing your buddy blown to pieces or having to kill another human being, or being shot, or losing a limb would, literally, change the way you walk in the world. And then our warriors come home: their wounds, both physical and emotional, spill onto their families and loved ones, creating a dark puddle of despair, altering more lives. Tick writes about his experience treating soldiers coming home from war, how it isolated them and ate away at their lives. His analytical narrative weaves in Greek mythology and Native American warrior initiations and rituals.

A few weeks after Dr. Tick’s visit, I reached out to my email list about starting a group, and, to my surprise and delight, several people were interested. Our first meeting was held at a local art gallery. The walls were lined with modern artwork from the current show, the canvases filled with broad strokes of black, gray and white surrounding us with colors reminiscent of war. The group was made up of a handful of community members, a couple of Vietnam veterans, one veteran that worked at the Twentynine Palms Marine Corps base, and a young Iraq war veteran with his wife. We started exploring names for the group. The young veteran spoke up first. “Why don’t you start the name of the group with Mil?” he said. “That’s what they do in the military, everything starts with M-I-L.” “Let’s call it Mil-Tree, like Joshua Tree, only with Mil,” another member suggested. After some debate, the group voted and the name ‘MilTree’ was born.

According to Tick, the United States military initiates men and women into service, but there is no real initiation out of it. In the first chapter he writes about a Vietnam vet, a machine gunner who defended a hill that was under constant attack. The soldier confided to Dr. Tick that his soul had left his body during one of the many battles:

Now came the hard work of developing Mil-Tree’s vision and mission. How could we help our veterans? It was clear to everyone that this community group would involve the arts — all kinds of art because the “I don’t ever tell anybody this, but [my soul] sits right process of creating is engaging and restorative. It would here next to me. It’s sittin’ here looking at you deciding be an inclusive group — for veterans, active military, if it’s gonna trust you. It’s like my twin. It’s like there’s their families, and the community at large — a bridge, a re-entry; a common ground to explore, build, express two of me wherever I go. I can see it and feel it. . .” and create. 19

We agreed that if trust, dialogue, and friendships were found within this group, then Mil-tree would create value within the community and accomplish its mission. From that first night of brainstorming to today, Mil-Tree’s mission has remained the same: Mil-Tree’s mission is to bring veterans, active duty and civilians together through arts and dialogue to help transform the wounds of war. After receiving non-profit status in 2013, Mil-Tree hosted a Soldiers Heart Retreat, led by its founders, Dr. Ed Tick and his wife Kate Dahlstedt. This retreat concentrated on helping community members learn how to best support our veterans. Forty-four people from around the country participated, including veterans, active military, pastors, therapists, healers, family members, a conscientious objector and even an ex-gang member.

Pizza making workshop

She took a deep breath, squeezed my hand and stood up.

It was an informative and heartfelt retreat. Participants came away with a better understanding of what our returning veterans struggle with. By listening deeply, we could support them and provide safe spaces to connect without judgment. I walked away, with other founding members of Mil-Tree, inspired and ready to grow this fledgling organization.

“Okay Cheryl, I’m going in.” With the professional guidance of the Diavolo team and support from the other participants, I watched as this veteran slowly relaxed and engaged. She expressed herself through her own movement, her own words and her own writing. During one of the movement exercises, she walked into the middle of a circle where she was embraced, elevated and carried around the room, gently put down and embraced again. The warmth and trust in the room was palpable.

Since then, Mil-Tree has partnered with various other local non-profits, community organizations and businesses. Participants have designed diverse creative programming around art, music, writing, movement, theater workshops, and built a community structure where dialogue and ideas can be shared. Mil-Tree has received funding from the California Art Council’s Veterans Initiative in the Arts Grant three times and was recent- On the second day, she brought her teenage son to parly awarded grants from the Albertsons, Vons, and Pa- ticipate with her, and the rest of the family came to vilions Foundations to help Mil-tree continue its work. the final performance. I sat next to her husband, also a veteran. Tears streamed down his face as he watched One of Mil-Tree’s recent projects was a movement his wife and son perform. Her face was beaming as she workshop held at the Joshua Tree Retreat Center, led by took her final bow. These moments are why Mil-Tree Diavolo Architecture In Motion — a world-renowned exists. Los Angeles based dance company. This workshop was designed to build trust and connection, through a series Though Mil-Tree is small, we are accomplishing the of exercises and individual expressions through move- very goals we set out to reach. The bridge is secure— ment, voice and words. It was a moving demonstration trust, dialogue and friendships have developed through our various events and programming. We could not of the value of Mil-Tree have done this without the generous support of this On the day of the event, one veteran participant was open-hearted high desert community. Together we are struggling with acute anxiety and she was debating all learning to share the burden of war with more trust leaving. As we sat on a bench under a tree, I took her and grace, and for that I am grateful. hand in mine and asked: To find out more about Mil-Tree, visit mil-tree.org *Save the date for Live From Joshua Tree, January “What is the worst that can happen if you stay?” 18, 2020. Stories about the desert and more! “I don’t know,” she replied, shaking her head. 20

Meanwhile, the World Goes On… by Dr. Catherine Svehla

Illustration by Lauren Over

As for me, no ceremonial gesture could produce meaning or forgetfulness. I sat down by the creosote, ‘the immortal shrub’, Mary Austin called it. The branches bounced gently in the slight breeze. I looked at the hard yellow-brown swirls of the dead tortoise’s shell. “They’ve lived here for millions of years,” I said to the breeze. “But they’re no match for us, with our houses and cars, our garbage and greed…” Tears welled up in my eyes. “Damn you, little tortoise,” I said softly under my breath. But I didn’t mean it and cut short the impulse to cry. Tears struck me as meaningless too, a sentimental defense against real feeling or reflection. How long will it take the desert sun to fade and crack the shell, I wondered, to flake the waxy, whirled, rectMy greeting was met with silence. Up close, I realized angular shingles from the bony carapace? What creathat this was the carcass of a tiny baby desert tortoise. ture might cull nutrients or building materials from The shell was whole and uncrushed, about 2 and half these raw remains, and by what patient process will inches across at the widest point, festooned with tiny the desert make soil from them? What type of seed dry scraps of flesh and the right, front leg. I stud- might find that soil and take root? ied the leg. The minuscule claws were still intact. It seemed so weird, so incongruous next to the gamy I’m sad because I imagine the death of this baby torlittle dark hole, the shell cave that once held a living, toise is tragically premature, and yet the circumstancbreathing creature. I saw no sign of struggle or distur- es are a mystery. The sky is blue and the tiny flowers bance in the sand and rocks. Questions rose up, as did bloom. Ravens wheel by overhead and the world goes sorrow, and the fervent desire to wind back the spool on. My remorse at the destructiveness of my species of my day and not see this dead baby tortoise. This feels honest and real, but isn’t it also a kind of hubris, to see myself as agent of the fate of this tiny tortoise? empty, almost empty, shell. Shit. Now what? Do I believe the earth will receive me any differentI started to walk away but something called me back. ly in the end? Personality, striving, accomplishment, This was wrong, I thought. My aversion was coward- and protestation aside, there will be an end. Death, ly. I knelt down by the tiny carcass. I should bury the great leveler, will erase distinctions that appear it. That would be the right thing to do. I picked up so important in life. I stood up, wiped my hands on a rock to use as a shovel and glanced around for a my jeans, and walked home. A week or two later, in spot soft enough to dig. The meaninglessness of the the course of another daily walk, I looked for that gesture struck me before I even scratched the surface. creosote bush and the baby desert tortoise shell and What made this dead tortoise so special? What about couldn’t find them. the other casualties I encountered, like the smashed rabbits, squirrels, lizards, and snakes that I often saw Dr. Catherine Svehla is the Mojave high desert’s mythologist and storyteller extraordinaire. She combines scholarship, storytelling, art, and activism on the road to town? The ravens efficiently dispatched to create entertaining, thought-provoking events and workshops for adults. the bulk of those remains. Something would come Catherine is also the host and producer of the bi-weekly storytelling podcast, Matters (available on iTunes and other podcast platforms). Learn along and nibble the hard skin of the tiny tortoise leg Myth more at www.mythicmojo.com and keep the mystery in your life alive. and harvest the miniscule scraps of desiccated flesh. This is the desert’s natural economy, impersonal, oddly beautiful. ne glorious spring day, I got up from my desk and wandered down into the valley below our cabin. Pathless, cheerily aimless, I was delighted to spy a tiny baby desert tortoise in peaceful repose under a creosote bush. This was exciting. What great good luck! I frequently cross paths with adult tortoises in the washes and on the surrounding hills but I had never encountered a baby tortoise before. I wondered how I managed to notice it, still and yellow-brown amidst the confusion of rocks and small flowers, sequestered in the shade of an ordinary creosote, in a valley dotted with hundreds of such shrubs. I went over to say hello.

Photo “Untitled (Embrace)”, 2012 by Angela de la Agua

the mythic joshua tree by Chris Clarke

No doubt about it: Joshua trees are awesome. They evoke the Mojave Desert in a way few other plants evoke their own native landscapes; only the saguaro is a more recognizable symbol of the desert. Joshua trees are shaggy and oddly shaped, they’re liable to poke you sharply and they’re somewhat reminiscent of human beings, so in all those respects they’re much like people who’ve lived in the desert for a while.

Here are a few of those false Joshua tree stories, along with corrections. Feel free to use them to poke people sharply, like the tree we all revere. “Joshua trees are native only to the Mojave Desert and the Holy Land.” For those of us who consider the Mojave Desert the Holy Land, this statement is correct, if redundant. But people telling this story generally use the phrase ‘the Holy Land’ to refer to the general area of Palestine and Israel. The Holy Land association likely came about because of the biblical sounding common name of the plant, about which more later. Joshua trees are native only to the Mojave Desert, which means they

And as with any picturesque, unusual living thing, Joshua trees have accumulated a bunch of folklore around them that people repeat out of well-intended admiration for the plant. Like much folklore, the stories people repeat about Joshua trees are often wrong, at least in part. 23

can be found in California, southern Nevada, northwestern Arizona and the extreme southwestern portion of Utah. They might grow in Jerusalem, if someone plants them there, but the same is true of Los Angeles, the Bay Area, and in university greenhouses worldwide.

Joshua trees aren’t really trees because they’re in the lily family is like saying “often considered a dentist, Bill is actually Norwegian.” “Joshua trees are protected under the Endangered Species Act.”

“Joshua trees are ancient, a relic of the age of the dino- Nope. The trees are protected in certain places by a saurs.” range of laws from municipal codes to state laws, and Federal law protects Joshua trees in National Parks. That cactus wren sitting atop the local Joshua tree is But the tree has not so far won protection under the a dinosaur, so again this is technically correct. But if Endangered Species Act. In 2015, the environmental you say this meaning the brontosauruses and veloci- group WildEarth Guardians petitioned the US Fish raptors that died out when a comet hit the Yucatan and Wildlife Service to list Joshua trees as Threatened 66 million years ago, then: no. Joshua trees evolved under the Endangered Species Act. (‘Threatened’ maybe about 5 million years ago, 61 million years af- offers a slightly looser level of protection than ‘Enter the non-avian dinosaurs bit the dust. dangered’). Fish and Wildlife has not so far issued a determination whether it’ll list the Joshua tree as Sometimes you’ll hear people say that individual Josh- a Threatened species, and chances are low that the ua trees reach immense ages. That depends on your Trump administration will choose to do so, given the perspective. Joshua trees seem to average about 150 way those people think. years in lifespan, with a maximum somewhere around 300; that seems ancient by human standards, but the “Joshua trees were named by the Mormon pioneers who desert is full of plants that live far longer than that. saw them as a sign that they’d reached the Promised The unimpressive cholla or creosote next to your Land.” ancient-looking, 150-year-old Joshua tree might be thousands of years older than the tree itself. Speaking There’s a grain of truth to this one. The trees were of which: called ‘the Joshua’ as early as 1875 by Mormons in southwest Utah, as documented by botanist Charles “Joshua trees are not actually trees.” Christopher Parry. That’s ‘the Joshua’, not ‘Joshua tree’. But the whole story about them being named There is no hard, fast, rigorous definition of the term by Mormons seeking their promised land is bogus. ‘tree’ in botany. Generally, a tree is a plant with an The Mormons’ promised land is Salt Lake City, which elongated trunk that holds leaves a few feet, or more, they had already founded and developed by the time above the ground. You can find people online saying Brigham Young sent colonists out into the Mojave that in order to qualify as a tree, that long stem has Desert where they found Joshua trees. Some versions to grow outward and form annual rings, but that’s of this story have the Joshua trees appearing at the turning the term into a bit of horticultural jargon. By halfway point in the settlers’ journey, which is clearly that definition, not only are Joshua trees just barely bogus. disqualified, but so are palm trees, tree ferns, banana trees, and tree frogs. Though that last is really pushing “Joshua trees are doomed because they depended on the the definition in any case. extinct giant sloth to move their seeds around.” Essentially, a tree is a plant that’s shaped like a tree. If I’ve spread this story myself, as has NPR. But it’s quesJoshua trees aren’t trees, then palm trees are certainly tionable. There’s little evidence that Shasta ground even less so. sloths ate Joshua tree fruit – though they clearly ate the leaves, a lot – and it turns out the antelope ground Sometimes you’ll see this story as something along the squirrel does a great job of dispersing Joshua tree lines of “often called a tree, Joshua trees are actually a seeds. Also the antelope ground squirrel is very much member of the lily family.” Joshua trees haven’t been not extinct, to the chagrin of gardeners around here. considered members of the lily family for some time, but even if they were, this story is a non-sequitur. A “Joshua trees may be wiped out in a couple centuries if we plant family is a group of plants all descended from a don’t do something about climate change.” common ancestor. A plant form, like a tree or a shrub or an herb, is the strategy the plant uses to make a That one’s totally true. living. Think of it as a job description. Saying that 24

Becoming Whole, and Becoming Who You Are by Monet Blair

Where do you go…when your mind travels from its daily routine? Does it draw you into a personality or a song? An image? Does it linger there, sometimes unraveled and misunderstood within the long shadow of the sun…and then, when the lights are out, find its way into your dreams? There, do you sense a presence or hear a voice that feels familiar and yet, at the same time, unknown to you? Do you wonder what might occur if you could engage with that presence—and furthermore—allowed it to more consciously engage with you?

We might find a healthy anima/aminus balance in someone to whom an evolved, integrated world-view is appealing, and an unhealthy one to a person who remains rigidly attached to an imbalanced or polarized outlook. It’s important to understand the difference and make an effort to integrate those denied elements within so that we may create a unified Self, and thereby serve the wider world. Those aspects that we might feel ashamed of: the purely physical, overly indulgent, narcissistic elements for example, call our attention to our wounds and require analysis to learn from.

In taking a deeper look at these peculiar forces in our daily life which we are, without conscious effort, drawn into, and by effectively delving into the material, or alchemy, that has led us there—we might begin to see ourselves in a different, more complete light.

My anima/animus expresses a Jean d’Arc, Charlie Chaplin, Anaïs Nin, Bob Dylan, Kate Bush, Mother Theresa mix. It’s complex: you might say that my anima/anumus is shaped by forces that believe in caring deeply for those in need, but not at the expense of lacking care of my own. She is a monster and a saint, he is a comedian with hedonistic tendencies who at the same time enjoys deeply rooted humor and intelligence. The people I mentioned were each shaped by the people they gravitated to, and so, in this way—we are collectively one.

Our modern myths have taught us that engaging with the unknown forces within us could get us institutionalized, and I don’t take this lightly. They can and they do, largely because they lack a structure, organization and initiation through which we might explore the outer reaches, and it has therefore become something terrifying, pathogenic, and taboo to undergo. The sacred and profane aspects of existence equally require a reverence and a containment in our unconscious. The process itself is cyclical: we are always in a process of psychic movement or change, as there is always new information coming into our conscious and unconscious awareness.

I leave you with these considerations: who are some of your heroes and heroines, people you are drawn to when the lights are out or no one is watching? What is it in the substance of their being that is reflected in your own—or that you on some level, need to own? Are they people you’d want to share a meal with or is an unhealthy amina/animus wreaking havoc and C.G. Jung found that there lived a spectrum of gen- creating chaos in your life? What will you do to inders within each person, a fluidity of sorts which con- tegrate those elements so that you are no longer at sisted of both female and male psychic elements: the their whim, but feel a sense of belonging and also, amina and aminus. In order to live a more complete influence? life, and to attain wholeness—or ‘individuation’, as Jung called it - it would become important to inte- Further reading: Echo’s Subtle Body by Patricia Berry; Re-visioning grate these elements; to learn from them, and in our Psychology by James Hillman; Jane Eyre’s Sisters by Jody Gentian own way, live through them. To live with a repressed Bower or denied anima/animus creates an imbalance within Monet is a psychotherapist who holds a Master’s Degree in Depth Psychology the psyche of the individual; and when this becomes from Pacifica Graduate Institute, where she is currently working towards a prevailing societal conditioning, collective imbalance Ph.D. in Integrative Healing Practices. She has been living in and exploring her depths in the Mojave desert for over fifteen years. ensues. 25

‘Libra’ by Anastasia DiGiallonardo 26

‘Saturn’ by Anastasia DiGiallonardo 27

C.G. Jung: The Collective Unconscious & Free Will vs. Fatalism by Tonelise Rugaas

One of the sources of misunderstanding of Carl Jung’s contribution to the life of our time is due to the assumption that his overriding interest was in what he came to call ‘the collective unconscious’ in man. Jung was indeed the first to explore the collective unconscious and give it a contemporary relevance. But it was not this universal unknown aspect of consciousness that compelled his seeking. Jung strived towards establishing the existence of a paradox: the unconscious and the conscious exist in a profound state of interdependence with each other and the well-being of one is impossible without the well-being of the other. If the connection between these two states of being is impaired, we become deprived of meaning and purpose. If the flow between one and the other is interrupted for long, the spirit is plunged into chaos.

more rationally focused the consciousness of man, the greater the danger of antagonizing the universal forces of the collective unconsciousness to such an extent that they would rise up in rebellion and overwhelm the last vestiges of a painfully acquired consciousness.

Consciousness is not merely an intellectual and rational state of mind. It is not something which depends solely on our capacity for articulation. Contrary to the Cartesian world-view, it is untrue that that which cannot be articulated verbally and rationally is meaningless and unworthy of expression.

This ‘awareness’ included all sorts of non-rational forms of perception and knowing. Such non-rational awareness carry reinforcements for expanding and strengthening human consciousness, which is engaged in an unending campaign against the exactions of life in the here and now.

Jung suggested, through empirical methods, that consciousness is not just a rational process. He suggested that feeling depressed and deprived of meaning may happen for the following reason: for centuries since the Renaissance a slanted development on the assumption that consciousness and the powers of reason are one and the same thing has been pursued.

This may be one of Jung’s most important contributions to a new and more significant understanding of the nature of consciousness: it could only be renewed and enlarged as life demanded of it, by maintaining its non-rational lines of communication with the collective unconscious.

Jung suggested through his work with the so-called ‘insane’ and the hundreds of ‘neurotic’ people who came to him for an answer to their problems, that a narrowing of consciousness caused most forms of insanity and mental disorientation. The narrower and

Virtually alone among the depth psychologists of the twentieth century, Jung rejected the theory of human psychological development, believing instead that evolutionary pressures have individual predestinations. Jung recognized, as he did in so many other

Jung found that it was only through working towards an expansion and integration of consciousness that we will find meaning and ability to move towards realization of our highest values. He put it back into its native paradox: that consciousness is the abiding and deepest dream of the unconscious. As far back as one could trace history, to where it vanishes over the horizon of myth and legend, the unconscious has incessantly strived to achieve ever greater consciousness, which Jung preferred to call ‘awareness’.

For this reason Jung rated very highly all the non-raDescartes’ axiom ‘I think therefore I am’ was a precur- tional ways along which man in the past has tried to sor to the European hubris which brought about the explore life and bring his conscious knowledge into French Revolution, fathered a monstrous offspring in new areas of being and knowing. The Soviet Union and is spawning subversion of the creative spirit in schools, universities, temples etc. all This is the explanation of his interest in astrology and over the world. Such institutions once were citadels of divination, and this too is the explanation for his beliving meaning. lief in the significance of the Tarot.

games and primordial attempts of divination, that the Tarot had its origin and anticipation in profound patterns of the collective unconscious, which he referred to as Archetypes.

If we are to reject the hypothesis of predestination and also the notion that our lives can be guided by reason, are we then to assume that we live at the mercy of chance happenings where (to paraphrase Einstein) “God plays dice with the universe”? Or can we, as These archetypes, lacking tangible, material form, Jung suggests, accept the fact that our reasoning mind dwell in the unconscious. They acquire solidity and is not supreme and find ways to interact with the suinfluence in the encounter with empirical facts. The prarational world of the unconscious, which plays archetypes form a dynamic substratum common to such an important part in our lives? all humanity, upon the foundation of which each individual builds his own experience of life, developing This is not to say that by getting in touch with the una unique array of psychological characteristics. conscious via dream analysis, I Ching, Astrology, Tarot or other means we can avoid all sickness, sorrow, While archetypes themselves may be conceived of conflict or problems that flesh is heir to. We possess as innate, nebulous forms, from these arise images, more freedom than we realize to select, attract and unsymbols and patterns of behavior. Being unconscious, derstand the events within our personal environment, the existence of archetypes can only be deduced indi- and as we begin to grow in confidence and awareness rectly by examining behavior, images, art, myths, etc. of who we are, we can begin to choose more wisely They are inherited potentials, and actualized when and accept situations, in which we seemingly have no they enter consciousness as images or manifest on in- choice, and do the best out of such situations proacteraction with the outside world. The archetype is a tively and with integrity. crucial Jungian concept. Its significance for analytical psychology is likened to the significance of gravity for Jung said: “…the unconscious always tries to proNewtonian physics. duce an impossible situation in order to force an individual to bring out his very best. Otherwise one The Tarot can be understood as an archetypical pic- stops short of one’s best, one is not complete and one ture book. This tool allows one to dip one’s toes into does not realize oneself. What is needed is an imposthe collective unconscious, and the collective element sible situation where one has to renounce one’s own is what makes it work. Understood through Jungian will and one’s own wit and do nothing but trust the psychology, archetypes and knowledge of the collec- impersonal power of growth and development.” tive unconscious allows us to pursue predictive readings, and counsel on the basis of such readings. The answers are present in the collective unconscious. As there are numerous answers and solutions to every problem, a simplistic ‘yes’ or ‘no’ has little relevance. The key to understanding the bigger picture, which resides in every question, situation, dilemma or circumstance, lies in relevance between different archetypes. If we were to pursue our discussion of prediction to its ultimate conclusion, we would find ourselves enmeshed in the age-old question of fatalism versus free will. As everyone has the free will to stay trapped in their personal quagmire, or make choices that sabotage potential, successful interactions, free will comes with a responsibility and a certain discipline and control. As Jung makes clear, we humans are by no means wholly free to choose our destinies nor can creativity or talent be consciously achieved by will power. Quite apart from the obvious fact that the number of choices offered to one individual in his lifetime is limited, it is becoming increasingly obvious that our reasoning intellect and will power play a minimal role in governing whatever choices we make. 29

Desert Dweller by Rags Rosenberg / Photo by Terry Taylor Castillo

The Mojave wind can be seen in her cheeks, the coyote howl heard in her voice, The unrelenting August reflected in her eyes.

What will not return is her old life. No, she would die here among the lizards and the snakes and offer up her flesh to the dark winged raven before going back.

She knows that here, every unlikely genomic twist finds a way to unique itself into existence,

She knows she can fail, she knows that hope beckons, tempts, and abandons. She believes that when her lips are beyond parched, and her canteen and her will long-drained, a sign will be sent:

stake out its miniscule territory beneath the merciless sun, and she will not be denied. The smart ones burrow deep, dulling their nails on the decomposed granite. Eventually, all accounts are brought current, the marrow consumed, the bones bleached, and the love dispersed.

a comet from Persius perhaps, or a lumbering desert tortoise at her door. A soft spot to burrow will appear, It will be just enough to encourage for one more day, or one more hour, her beautiful, improbable enterprise.

She knows that what was lost sometimes returns. The walking stick left leaning against the boulder, The old wisdom. 30

Va len ti

rly Ca y os b Phot

Everyone’s Welcome: The Story of Gabriella Evaro by Benjamin Goulet Joshua Tree native Gabriella Evaro is the desert incarnate, embodying all that is good, honest and genuine about a place that many of us consider sacred. A talented musician, artist, clothing designer and entrepreneur, Gabriella comes from a musical family that includes a Nashville-based songwriting/record-producing father and a group of virtuoso siblings, including her brother, guitarist Gene Evaro, bass-playing sister Bryanna and singer Shavaughn. If you’ve lived here long enough, you’ve probably seen Gabriella (or one of her siblings) on a stage somewhere.

contributed vocals to their 2018 eponymously titled record. But telling her story is nearly impossible without also telling the story of her family. As one of eleven children, Gabriella’s parents divorced when she was young. Many of the siblings moved with their father to Nashville, Tennessee, but Gabriella stayed behind in Joshua Tree with her mother. “Growing up here in the desert,” she said, “I was always a creative kid. I was selling painted rocks as a kid, always hustling. Exploring the desert, this wild land.”

As a solo artist, Gabriella’s music combines folk and looped electronic beats, while her voice and her melodies evoke soul music and classic Motown. Her influences range from Delta bluesman Skip James to Creedence Clearwater Revival to Lauren Hill and the Fugees. Most of her instruments are hand-me-downs or borrowed from friends, and this sense of utility is imbued in her music, giving it a down-to-earth, rootsy feel. In addition to her solo work, she sang with the high desert ethereal band Earth Moon Earth and

The distance created a transcontinental bond that grew stronger between her and her siblings as the years passed by. When her brother Gene would visit from Nashville, she and Gene would make music together. “We had a cassette player and we’d do a radio show,” 31

she said. “We have tons of VHS tapes and I’m singing and dancing.” Throughout high school, Gabriella imagined herself moving to Tennessee and opening a dance studio. Like many young people, she expected to leave home and start a new life somewhere else. Then, in 2008, she received the call. Her twenty-year-old sister Natalie was killed in a car crash in Tennessee. For any family, a tragic event like that is disorienting, but for the Evaros, even in their grief, it solidified their bond.

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“It changed my life completely,” she said. “I was ready to leave the desert, to do what you’re supposed to do and get out of your hometown,” she said. “But after by oto that, I was forced to stay. We flew back to Nashville h P and packed up my sister’s life, Gene’s and my sister Bryanna’s lives all into a U-Haul and drove back [to the high desert]. Joshua Tree has been the main con- “I want to play guitar and write my own music,” she stant in our lives. It only made sense for them to come said. “[Back then] I wanted to see if this was even for me. Now it’s so clear that it is. I needed to go away, back here and heal.” but still be in town. To see what I was capable of.” Returning to the desert, Gene, Bryanna, Shavaughn and Gabriella all lived together at their mother’s home While writing songs and recording music for a solo album, she also founded a clothing line with her sisin Joshua Tree. ter Bryanna, Mojave Blue Leather (as a designer and “My mom is amazing, and we found ourselves in her seamstress, Gabriella makes many of her own clothes). living room, totally mourning, and Gene’s teaching us a song and we’re singing,” she said. “Bryanna wanted Inevitably, our conversation turned to the changes to play the bass, so he’s teaching her. And I’d done she’s witnessed to the desert as a Joshua Tree native. choir and I always sang, so music was always in us. For Gabriella, tourism and growth shouldn’t be considered a bad thing, while acknowledging that “many But Gene got it out of us.” people are freaked out” by the rapid popularity of the None of them realized it at the time, but the siblings’ high desert. musical journey was about to take a new turn. The “The desert’s changed so much, [so] I’m used to it,” band, Evaro, was born. she says. “Growth is part of our world. I think change Their music was a pastiche of deep grooves, borrowing is great for the community. Everyone’s welcome. I feel from funk, Delta blues and Motown soul, and yet the like, if it brings good to the town, it’s amazing. The band had a sound that was wholly their own. Their desert will chew you up and spit you out [anyway], if performances, especially to hometown crowds in the you’re not a good fit.” high desert, became an almost revivalist experience. She takes a long sip of coffee. The sun pierces through “That was an amazing time for us,” she said. “It was the trees above. Birds chirp and sporadic desert traffic everything we ever wanted. We were finally togeth- hums. er, everyday. We rehearsed everyday. All day and all night, because we just wanted to be together. We were “Losing my sister,” she said, “I realized that no one knows anything. Why make life any harder? We’re all still in mourning, still trying to figure stuff out.” just trying to get by.” Eventually, as Gene went on to do more solo work, Gabriella began to write music of her own. She felt You can find Gabriella’s music @gabriellaevaromusic and her clothes @mojaveblueleather on Instagram. Her solo ready to do her own thing. record, currently untitled, is set to be released in 2019. 32

Illustration by Bon Bizkerre

Dust Devil

“Go out into the desert. Say hello.”

by Tanene Allison

She told me, specifically, to go out around three. I had forgotten though. It can be hard to keep track of all the My dead mother had told me a lot of things that morn- details when your departed loved one shows up to talk ing. One year to the day of holding her hand, holding for a few hours. her head, and singing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot as she took her final breaths. I took pages and pages of notes All morning, while taking notes, I listened to Gospel. byplaylist on what all she had to say. Pages of wisdom, interspersed The Chris Cl I made arke of the songs I sang to my mother in with short bits of specific information. her final days. Over the year I have added to it. Aretha. Donny Hathaway. Whitney. All of her favorites. “You are allergic to ants. That’s real.” Some Sunday morning, years ago, I found myself home. Followed by pages more of how to live and love in this I can no longer remember exactly what was going on in world. my life, only that I needed to go home and see my mom. On that Sunday we sat in our regular packed church. I She pivoted back often. Among all the pages are constant had arrived late, and so sat in the wooden pew one row reminders. ahead of her. 33

The keyboardist began to hit familiar notes, starting up sound of a lizard. Such distinctions are important in the one of my favorite songs. It starts slow, almost sad, most- desert. ly determined. But only silence surrounded me in that afternoon sun. “Whatever comes, just keep your arms around me. Keep The creosote bush sat still. Everything still. And then me in your care. Let me know you’re there. Keep your slowly, just barely, the bush began to rustle again. The loving arms around me...” rustle rose to a crescendo. The entire bush shook with a fury. Just this one bush. No breeze. No wind. Everything A few minutes into the song, something within it shifts. else still. Some energy stirs up. The lead singer begins to wailshout-demand. This was no snake. “COME ON AND HOLD ME!!!”

The mind is a wild place when trying to make sense of the unexplainable. The bush and I in some sort of standIn the packed heat of that Sunday morning church, my off of logicless interpretation. I was still trying to solve short mother rose to stand behind me. She wrapped her the mystery as a piece of tumbleweed flew off, with force, arms around me. directly at my face. The entire choir in echo. Increasing sound, shouting.

I stumbled backwards to avoid getting hit. As my feet refound their footing, the bush shook a final decisive time. A gust of wind blew from the bush to my feet. A whirlwind of dust. Within seconds, the dust devil grew speed and height and leapt towards me. I stumbled again, to avoid the force of sand and dust now swirling in fierce circle.

“HOLD ME!” My mother held me. “When the storms of life are raging. And the billows, how they roll, oooooooooooooooooh!” The choir’s voices rose as billows, rose as storm, storm rolling through. Coming out on the other side in lullaby.

Once my feet steadied, I looked around to find the dust devil. It took me a few seconds before I realized it had surrounded me, thrown itself around me.

“Just keep your loving arms around me.”

“COME ON AND HOLD ME!”

Everything swirled. Dust through stained glass. The sensation of home. My mother’s arms. The heat of the church. The rush of the choir. Everything love. I was held.

From my feet to my head, everything encompassed by hot wind circling. Warm air pushed pieces of sand softly against every part of my body. Everything light and swirling. Everything the sensation of sun. Held.

I played that song on repeat that day. One year to the day of my mother’s passing. Singing at the top of my lungs.

The sound of the choir swirling still in my head.

Inside a dust devil is an electromagnetic field. When the heat of the ground rises quickly, individual wind cycles can build. The sand whipped around in circles hits Sitting alone in my house out in the desert. Remember- against each other and creates an electric charge. ing her arms. I stood there. Held in that field of sand and warmth and Around three, my dog and I headed out into that desert. wind. And then it was gone. The dust devil blew across Out into the expanse of land we trek on a daily basis. the road and dissipated into desert air. Everything back Blue sky. No wind. Unusually cool for a late May after- to silence. My entire body left in a thin layer of dust and noon. No other human in sight. bits of sand. COME ON AND HOLD ME!

My wolf dog bounded up the trail ahead of me. I wan- Loving arms. dered slow, scanning the ground for rattlesnakes. Humming to myself. I had gone out into the desert. A quarter mile in, a bush rustled. I stood still, listen- I said hello. ing. Trying to determine the sound of a snake versus the 34

Sla b Ci ty: The La s t Free Pla ce in America ? by Laura Hauther / Photos by Julie Carpenter

cy to burned-out, alongside huts and shacks made from wood or cardboard or whatever building material could be scrounged and repurposed from the What was once part of obscure desert lore buried mounds of garbage that seem to be everywhere. Sanideep in the Sonoran desert has somehow become tation is iffy at best. a must-see tourist destination. It’s a two hour drive from Palm Springs on a road lined with date palms In winter, the snowbirds come back and the poputhat skirt the north side of the Salton Sea until a plain lation climbs to about 2,000. In the summer only ringed with mountains opens up as you pass through around 150 of the hardiest keep the encampment gothe tiny town of Niland. A few more miles and a con- ing. crete graffiti-covered guard shack announces ‘Almost there’. When I drive in there’s a single merchant set up along the rutted dirt road. A recent rainstorm battered the Built as a Marine training base, Camp Dunlap, in area with flash floods, leaving berms of soft mud sur1946, the area was abandoned and torn down to the rounding the road. In the short time I was there, a bus concrete slabs in 1956, and turned over to the Cali- and a Jeep got stuck pulling over to scope out the jewelfornia State Land Commission. The slabs were there ry lined up on the table. I head over to talk to the salesfor camping, free of charge, but also free of the usual man and am intercepted by a sauntering dog whose basics of civilization: running water, sewage, electrici- mouth was filled with a food bowl containing a tip jar. ty and garbage pickup. “That’s his only trick,” says Jimi Austin James, the merFor decades now the slabs have hosted RVs from fan- chant. Photos by Carly Valentine This is the first of a two part series investigating the economic changes transforming Slab City, CA.

Examining his carefully made delicate rings and brace- Tokyo and Palm Springs to see the folk art masterpiece lets made of twisted silver colored wire and semi-pre- Salvation Mountain and the eclectic, ever-changing cious beads, I notice a cardboard sign listing Venmo collection at East Jesus’ Art Park. and Paypal. Slab City is getting used to the publicity, with res“People don’t carry cash anymore,” Jimi says. “When idents regularly fielding questions from reporters my friend brings his Square [reader] I can swipe credit both foreign and domestic. A YouTube search brings cards too.” up over a hundred videos - some feature the art, but many focus on life in the slabs, on getting by in a You might not think that residents of Slab City, the place where not even water is a given. squatter’s paradise and ‘last free place in America,’ known for its very rough edges, would accept credit It all started with Leonard Knight’s vision of spreading cards or even welcome tourists. When I head into the the word of God through a giant hot air balloon beauslabs, I run into Jack Two Horses, a gregarious Slab- tiful enough to dazzle. After many years, his balloon ber I recognize from at least one YouTube interview. project failed but his faith did not. He just directed He’s lived here for the past eight years, watching the his evangelical energy into another project - building growing stream of people drawn to the Art Park in a mountain with a soaring GOD IS LOVE message East Jesus. big and colorful enough to stop even the faithless in their tracks. Despite the first mountain collapsing, “That’s the thing, we love visitors here. I hardly ever and Imperial County attempting to declare his art socialize in the Slabs during the season [when tem- a toxic waste site, he kept going, living in his trailer peratures are cooler], ‘cause I get to talk to people without running water or electricity through the 120 from all over the world all day long.” degree summer heat as he slowly rebuilt. Jack sits on the stairs of his bright red trailer, set di- What emerged was Salvation Mountain with its rollrectly behind East Jesus, a moniker given to places ing blue stripes and candy-colored patches of green, out in the middle of nowhere. After a brief period of pink, red and white with contrasting letters, topped tension with his neighbors, Jack decided to call his with a giant white cross. The mountain itself is mancamp West Satan and it stuck. made from adobe, hay bales and concrete topped with thousands of gallons of paint in every color imaginHe keeps several camp chairs set out, and a new arriv- able. Leonard took what was donated and created his al prompts him to head over to a wooden hut deco- own palette. Knight’s dream project is now real, with rated with bright purple wheels sparkling with small magical swirls of bright and pastel colors throughout pieces of mirror to grab another one. the vaulted rooms and twisting tunnels. Artists, musicians and filmmakers were drawn to this unlikely, Buses with tourists arrive nearly every day from Little unlicensed rebellious work of art in the middle of one 36

of the most inhospitable environments imaginable.

donated work, including a giant metal flame-throwing pseudo-Burning Man, and a small airplane angled to look like it’s crashing, repurposed from that hugely popular desert art festival.

In 2000, The Folk Art Society of America recognized Salvation Mountain as worthy of preservation and two years later Senator Barbara Boxer, in an address to Congress, called the mountain “a unique and vi- There’s the ever-growing TV wall, each screen painted sionary sculpture…a national treasure…profoundly white, with cautionary messages in bright red warnstrange and beautifully accessible.” ing of the evils of consumerism, capitalism, and tech. Disembodied blue mannequin legs and baby doll But it wasn’t until 2007 that Salvation Mountain got parts make up some of the assemblage pieces spread its close up when Sean Penn featured it and Slab City out over the park, sometimes out in the open, somein his Christopher McCandless biopic, Into the Wild. times partially hidden by a small grove of trees. Penn set pivotal scenes in the slabs even though McCandless never actually stopped there. Although you can find art and creativity randomly spread throughout rest of Slab City, it has no central The movie was arguably the start of a wave of curiosi- purpose other than being ‘the last free place in Amerity that has yet to crest. ca’. There is poverty, drug use and mental illness. 2007 also happened to be the year that East Jesus founder, Charlie Russell, decided to chuck in his tech career and move everything he owned down to Slab City to create his own world where he could make and live art.

The Slabs are more than off the beaten path. This place can surprise and shock but like most things in our world, the Internet worked its brand of double-edged magic here, pulling tourists to an unlikely place, one that still carries legitimate dangers and retains many very rough edges.

He did just that, building a creative oasis in the middle of Slab City, transforming chaos and garbage into an artistic playground in his little corner of freedom. Since his death in 2011, East Jesus has grown from two art cars and a shelter to a complex complete with a kitchen, a central meeting area and bar, a stage with a grand piano, a sound system and stage lighting, and a solar power system to run it all. Living quarters made of trailers and shacks and a partially buried bus spread throughout the boundaries of the camp.

Will the influx of tourist dollars tame this wild place? And will this mean an end to freedom, or the ability to afford some of the basics most of us take for granted? To be continued.

Friends rushed to save what Charlie had built, creating a non-profit organization, the Chasterus Foundation. The area called the Art Park is separated from the rest of the camp by a tall wall made of Quickcrete and colorful bottles. Inside, there’s art created onsite and 37

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Permaculture in the Desert Interview with Eva Soltes by Jill Giegerich JG: Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve recently changed the mission of Harrison House.

Eva Soltes has, over the course of her decades-long career, produced, directed and/or written almost a thousand music, dance, theater and media works for national and international audiences. She currently lives in Joshua Tree, California where as a burgeoning permaculturist she is the Founder/Director of Harrison House Music, Arts & Ecology, an artist residency/ performance program for gifted artists and environmental activists based at the straw bale retreat built by late American composer Lou Harrison.

ES: Our mission at Harrison House for the first seven years was Music and Arts. Then I realized without nature there is no art. Nature is the most sublime artist there is and the most amazing teacher. For whatever reason (and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a little mysterious) humans seem to have evolved away from feeling like we are part of the earth. Permaculture for me is learning to take lessons from Jill Giegerich is an artist and permaculture designer. nature and living more in equity with nature. Due to She is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and the overwhelming success of the Permaculture Design has artwork in the collections of numerous national Certifications (PDC) weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve hosted here and the permuseums. She is a Professor Emerita of UC Riverside maculture work that we are doing onsite designed by and a founding member of Transition Joshua Tree and high desert permaculture expert, Damian Lester, we the TJT Permaculture Team. She currently lives and are expanding our program to include a center that is works in Cathedral City, California. intended as a demonstration site for drylands permaculture and a place to explore the intersection of art JG: & ecology. We feel there is nothing more important How do you define Permaculture? than learning and practicing to be good stewards of the earth. ES: Permaculture is a design science for creating environ- JG: ments that are in harmony with nature, making use of How have you personally combined art and ecology in the patterns of nature, and the wisdom of nature. your life?

ES: Having had a life in art and having always regarded art as my spiritual base, I’m very indebted to Beauty as a resource internally. Art and Nature both engender Beauty and share relational traits. JG: Artists are trained to see a link between something over here and something way over there, where few others see the relationship between them. ES: Artists are courageous pathfinders. The people that ture. I could share wonderment in the beauty and joy I’ve always been attracted to, try to collect around me, of living in nature. are the ones that are out on a limb. JG: JG: How did you decide to get a PDC yourself? There’s a new perspective ‘out on that limb’. ES: ES: I learned that Warren Brush was offering a PDC at his A lot of people who’ve done a Permaculture Design Casitas Valley Farm. I decided to enroll as I realized Certification say that their lives and their perspectives that it was concurrent with making a mission change have changed as a result of it. For me, it was a way of to Harrison House. seeing myself in the world and going “Oh my God, wait a minute, the earth is alive!” I think once you JG: make that leap, you can’t live the same way. Did that PDC change your life? JG: You are going to run another PDC here at Harrison House taught by the world-renowned permaculture teacher Warren Brush. How did you come to this decision?

ES: I came out understanding how important community is in permaculture. It’s about recognizing relationships and your part in the web of existence. In one of Warren Brush’s talks during the PDC he said you had to ES: negotiate with the earth if you wanted to dig a hole. Like many people who moved to a new area like Josh- Later, I was installing a gate for the Harrison House ua Tree, we come out with our gloves on, wanting to and I thought “oh my God, I’m digging holes” so I be activists. One of the first things I remember doing paid for it by planting six trees on the property. was sitting with you in front of Vons handing out free re-useable shopping bags. JG: Are artists uniquely positioned to tackle our environmenIt became clear to me that living in the desert, being tal problems? surrounded by nature, was an extraordinary experience and opportunity. I was raised in semi country in the ES: San Fernando Valley. But pretty quickly it became ‘de- Artists are creative problem solvers. We need to put all veloped’. The pine forest, the orange groves that I grew the creativity we possibly can into solving our environup with all became housing tracts and I witnessed the mental problems. destruction of the environment. Save the date! Harrison House is hosting another Permaculture Design Certification Course (PDC) with world-renowned Permaculture Designer, Warren Brush, from March 14-27, 2021 in Joshua Tree, CA. For more information, please visit louharrisonhouse.org or call 1-760-366-4712.

Now living in Joshua Tree, I have come to understand that the desert is Ground Zero for climate change and if we can learn to live in the desert while regenerating it, then we will have a lot to teach the rest of the world because there’s going to be more desert in the world. I could give artists the space to take a deep breath and think about their next steps with their work. That’s what I could do with Harrison House with permacul40

Luna & the Lake {August, 2018} by Rohini Walker

at a precipice in my life, and was ready to leap into the unknown abyss before me, to leave behind everything that had become familiar, stifling. He held my hand and we jumped together, surrendering to the exhilarating free-fall, to the pull of forces beyond our control.

There is a lake in a desert, under which bubbles a hot spring. An enormous, sprawling desert smoke tree overhangs the water from the sandy bank: the folkloric World Tree in all its majesty. There is so much lush vegetation here that the spot could easily be mistaken for a watery clearing in the jungle. Bullfrogs abound, their sporadic, guttural croaks echoing in the silence, reverberating off the stillness of the water.

We landed in this desert, far away from where we had been. And now here in the water, a dear friend offers me a large bowl of rich, bitter, brown liquid made from ground-up cacao beans. Someone plays a solitary flute nearby. The fish continue to nip at me and I surrender to the sharp, sudden sensations as I inhale the arousing aroma of the cacao. The voices fall quiet.

Under a full moon, recently replete after being eclipsed by Earth, I gratefully immerse myself in this water. There have been catastrophic fires caused by human hands in the surrounding mountains. Over the past few days, the air has been dense with ash and smoke, the heat of the desert summer intensifying. The horizon has been absent.

Like the fish, the dark liquid is curious about me, but gentler. It travels down to my heart, where I sense it coalescing into the shape of a tall, dark, slender woman. She is neither young, nor old; her heavy lidded eyes seem to look at me and through me in a way that makes me breathe a sigh of relief.

The night before, la Luna was a fiery red. Not only because late July is the season of this moon, the ‘Blood Moon’, the ‘Thunder Moon’, when, it is said, the buck’s antlers realize their full-grown glory; but also because Mars is currently closer to Earth than it has been in over a decade. And then of course, there are these fires, their livid glow shining off our reflective moon. This aspect is just for us, those ones who are within breathing distance of the raging inferno. From the mythic, to the planetary, to the local: what a magic mirror our moon is.

The words of a song echo in my mind: The water sustains me without even trying, The water can’t drown me, I’m done With my dying.1 Inside my heart, the dark woman sweeps regally down a corridor lined with many heavy, wooden doors, some open, some locked. She continues purposefully, until finally she stops before a locked one on the right.Producing a key from her dark, velvety skirts, she asks me if she may open it. Silently, I consent.

And here she is in her fullness, calmly reflecting off the water’s glassy surface. I stand neck-deep in the moonlit water, digging my toes into the muddy lake-bed with the glee of a child splashing in puddles. Every now and again, tiny fish curiously nip at my legs and ankles, occasionally with a slight ferocity. At first, I am alarmed. Visions arise from the dark depths of my imagination of razor-toothed creatures, out for blood and flesh. I become aware of voices within debating whether or not I am in mortal danger from what lies within the unseen depths of water. I look down and see my reflection in the moonlight. Another voice, a distance away from the cacophonous rabble, a quieter one, whispers, “Oh look, it’s only you.”

I follow her into the room, a large chamber with high, vaulted ceilings carved in stone, and large windows that bathe the room with a faint, dusty light. He is sitting on a wide window bench. Next to him is a small, dark child, a little girl, no more than four or five years old. I recognize her immediately. He is thin, emaciated almost, and looks at me with the same look in his eyes as the day of our first meeting: faraway, haunted, searching. Unspoken volumes spanning births and rebirths pass between us. With each new life, I find him, but force myself into forgetting who he is, who I am. The child remembers but I lock her away, afraid that in listening to her, I will lose myself; lose the fragile illusion of myself as separate from him, from the water.

Closing my eyes, I remember the blurred edges of the late July day that I first met him, some eighteen years ago. I was a precocious 21 year-old, he about a year older. I had gone to meet a friend on the green, open spaces of Wimbledon Common, in the suburbs of London where I grew up. They were good friends, and the two of them were sitting under a tree, waiting for me. We chatted a bit, I can’t recall what about. All I remember were blue eyes with a faraway look, eyes that I knew I had known before.

The dark woman turns and looks at me with a brilliant smile “Oh look, it’s only you.” She walks out of the room, leaving the door open. I open my eyes. Tears are streaming down my face, mingling with the moonlit water. I feel the fish swimming around me, gently brushing up against my legs and ankles like an affectionate cat. Some distance away, the coyotes howl in discordant unison.

A decade passed before I saw him again. We had our own lives and loves. Our mutual friend often spoke about him to me, and I noticed a vague curiosity arise whenever his name came up, a delicate eagerness to see him again, this man I knew from some long-forgotten past. Finally, our paths crossed again. I had arrived

The Water by Johnny Flynn & Laura Marling

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