I am a communist. I defy death almost every day. It’s ordinary. I am an ordinary man. What is the almost about. Don’t soften it to make it prettier for them, Tim, than it is. I do not care if you like it pretty. I am an angry guy. Without Mescaline, I am a madman. There is no part of my person that cares about people let alone the people who read my work. There is no reciprocity in MakeItPrettyland. Making it pretty for the normals is more difficult for me than measuring Uranus.

I smile. Don’t assume I am looking at your body language. I live with am autism – I have lived with it all my life – I don’t get Life. I don’t get autism. And I do not get you.

I get animals, and I get time. I get what it does to space. There is one unifying set of symbols that My Take on it all is that life is stupid and insane, and in reality, my reality, life is an emptinness the same way space is an emptiness filled with light, and photons, and suns and gravity wells culminating in event horizons and if there is anything this pathetic species knows, it’s an event horizon silent (there is no sound in space) as a big black hole. Short people have no reason to live. What do we really know. Let’s dip into the assassisnation files, and make a new one.  Living with assassination, We ALL live in Ukraine. We are ALL under seige. I am only pretending to even be aware of you. People just move on. I want them to move on. I do not want them in my bubble at all. Go home.

I despise Homo sapiens. All of them. I have my animals and domesticated dogs. I do not need you. There is something deliciously ironic in the wearing of a ghost dressed in animal skins so they might know your second selves, your pagan selves, and so it seems that no one knows who you really are. My work on the planet is done here.

I have written all the books I wanted to write. I love writing them. To jump inside someone else so to become them. To inhabit them. I will break their bones. I created them. I can castrate them. I can give them flying lessons. They are mine. I will gift them to you. To taste their tongue inside your constricted throat. Your heart is constricted. Your hate is constricted. Your culture is constricted because that is the meaning and power of culture.

To constrict or to let live. Put this over there, and that over there, and those over there, and turn this rock over here. Books are rocks. You might have to  read one twice. I do not want to sell my books or photographs because life is so short it’s not unlike drinking water from the sky. Where do you think your water comes from. The white people tap in White People Town. Take a hammer to the rock. Let’s see it open up and show us secrets from one big bang. There is nothing more pagan than the big bang and a single rock. Have you ever seen a pole dancer dancing in the middle of a lake. The theme is water, and I can give it, or I can take it away. I will write you snow that was never there. It is what writers do. It is what photographers do. I am both. Not one or the other. The New York Times has accused me of playing my flute to snakes. I choked on that one.

Silence is ephemeral. Mescaline protects my ferocious anonymity.

Humans do not know I am alive. You have never met me, and you never will. You do not even know my real name. The reds are a bloodsport of hypocrisy, and the Irish blues are just before the sun rises in the east. I live in the Blue Ridge around the corner from Jump Off Rock. What’s pitiful about suicide has nothing to do with death. The tragedy is that people jump who have no story, and try as they might, they have never cared enough to make one.

Animals arrive on my mountain – curiosity is not a crime – it is only curiosity. Every last one of them has a story. I can see their breath in the fog of darkness. I have infrared. Only a photographer can be depended on to have infrared. We come from heated rocks. None of them were designed to be heard by you. You do not have an ear for generosity. You are not my overlord.  You are not my master. You are not anything I can care about. I can only pretend. That seems to work with most humans. Ask 500 Americans if they think they are far enough away from any nuclear bomb that might annhilate them. I did. I got 497 responses, all the same response. 

Yes.

Even I was amazed at the power of herd mentality. Homo sapiens are a dime a dozen. I just don’t care about them. I have tried. I have loved a lot of women. I have loved a lot of men. I have loved and cared for my children. I do not understand how people think in two dimensions. My love is bigger than your love. I live miles from any bomb blast and we will all be safe.

To watch me sit on my porch as the sun comes up over the distant hills juxtaposed against a blue as frigid as my first lover’s eyes. I see it. I smell it. This is how I taste it. This is how I listen to what the peyote has to say. Bite down. Swallow. The messenger who arrives with the cactus on wings says nothing. White people talk is rubbish.

They are a violent species filled with madness. I recoil at everything they do. Why in the world would I microdose on a superficial, fearful, Nancy Reaganesque rabbit hole of aristocratic antipathy.

The peyote is bitter and so am I. Eat me.