My love took me through the desert

On finding yourself in the emptiness

i.

It was death — that drive through the desert. It was like dying — driving through that desert, past the palm tree grove. The 6pm sky was orange, the backseat was silent, and King Krule played softly on the radio. At the edge of the road, palm trees lined up in perfect parallels and perpendiculars, an orderly grid of leaves that obscured the sun. I stared into the grove, and imagined myself wandering inside this unnatural forest. The air would smell of musk. The earth would be dank and dark. I would find a square-shaped clearing and walk out into the night. I would be unknown to this world, a strange place that must evade name and meaning. 

i.

The desert is one of Earth’s most dangerous terrains. Its midday sun is only countered by its nighttime winds. Its land is harsh, dry, and inhabited by deadly animals. But at first glance, it is silent. It is still. It is empty.

i.

I first learned of Joshua Tree’s mythicism from a friend’s account of his first psychedelic trip. He had driven down — 6 hours, stretched against the silent road — to find himself perched on a desert dune. Joshua’s rocks scurried beneath him like ants. A gust of warm wind rippled against the horizon. The springtime clouds were in bloom. There, in the flurries of desert, he was completely still. He described to me, the connection between everyone and everything, stretching beneath him in red threads. He described the tears rolling down his face, the texture of sand against his fingers, the catharsis of finally understanding something he’d known all along. “Do you think you uncovered the meaning of life?” I asked, half joking. He was silent for a moment. “If there is a meaning… then yes. If there isn’t… then, yes.” 

I soon discovered that this is a common experience. To the psychedelic community, Joshua tree is a place of transformation — a quick scroll through the r/ego-death thread yields story after story of self-discovery and life altering realizations. In many religious doctrines, the desert plays a similar role of trial and transformation — a quick search with the keywords “desert” and “religion” yields results with bold titles like “Who Will You Be After God Leads You Through The Desert?” When I asked my friend why he thinks this is, a fog glazed his eyes. He was silent for a few moments. “I suppose it starts with leaving things to fate,” he finally says.

i.

“Under the cold scaffolding of winter, my love took me through the desert. My breath crumbling like bread.”

Eduardo C. Corral

i. 

In the time of Gods, the Greeks celebrated the Bacchanalian rites. Every third year, they would gather in the night. For absolute freedom. Music. Dancing barefoot through the woods. Yells. The yells like animals. Pure ecstasy under the name of Dionysus. The yells, primal in the face of God.

i.

At the Joshua Tree Retreat Center, a woman working in the gift shop hands me a book after I told her that I was writing about psychedelics in the desert. “Read this, you’ll find all the words you need,”, she says, charitably. The book is piss yellow. Its cover declares that the retreat center was designed as a “part of the desert” and “a departure from concrete slabs and urban jungles”. I skimmed through its first chapter and learned that Lloyd Wright, a famous architect, designed each building to “maximize inner peace”. As I walked around, taking pictures of the gardens, the modernist art, and the sleek glass buildings, I thought about how I would feel inner-peace at a place like this. A place where stark desert meets luxurious oasis and the cafés serve overpriced food with names like “cosmic bagel” or “thankfulness juice”.

Later that night — after a quick Google search revealed that a two-nights stay costs nearly $800 — I lay on my deflating air mattress and jotted down: “peace is very expensive in the desert”. 

I lay, cramped on my deflating air mattress, and thought about how the next day, we’d travel more than two hours away to a stretch of desert that carries the same promise. 

What was once a WW2 military base is now a desert city, notorious for its lawlessness and rogue intrigue. The residents of Slab City (or, the “slabbies”) pride themselves on inhabiting the “last free place in America”. There is little law enforcement, no strict societal rules or regulations, and an acceptance of living without social norms. Its 640 acre plot of land is claimed on a “first come first serve” basis, the outlines of a city drawn with makeshift borders, glass bottles and cut tires circling the sand.

i.

What if I am scared of leaving things to fate?

i.

It was dying — that drive through the desert. 

It was like death — driving through that desert, past the red gates. 

“Love is God”, the signpost read. 

i. 

Who will 

you be 

after God 

leads you 

through 

the desert?

i.

I wanted to go to the Joshua Tree Retreat Center to write about finding myself in the desert, but now I am in pieces, I am writing myself in pieces —

i.

The sun had just set when we arrived at the red gates of Slab City. We were miles from the nearest town, and the darkness was as thick as ink. Using the stars as our streetlights, we tumbled past unpaved paths. Shadows stumbled over shadows. A wind erred menacingly. There — baited breath, a passing footstep — the rustling —

until suddenly — in the distance, a flame —

Suddenly — in the distance, a bonfire — 

figures gathered around light,

arms, legs, moving 

in slow motion, a woman

laughing silently, dancing, 

through the sand —

We stood 

in outer darkness and watched

this desert tableau 

silent, sweet, 

still — and

then, fearful, we backed away —

i.

In the place

that evades

name and

meaning, my 

breath is 

crumbling 

like bread

i.

We were at the Skatepark, except in the darkness, we saw no skatepark, only a small shack, glowing with green light. Eminem was playing. Over a makeshift bar, a milk-jug was being mixed with some red-mystery punch. Six or seven men were huddled around, and hearing our footsteps, they turned, squinting at us curiously. 

There was a tense silence. “We were hoping to join you guys?” I asked, hoping they didn’t notice the tremor in my voice. Two of them walked towards us. “Yeah, of course! It’s dark out here, you guys want a flashlight?”

They introduced themselves as Will, a science teacher from NorCal, and Mechanic Mike, a year-round slabbie and the owner of “the world’s fastest Nissan Accord”. When I asked where the skatepark was, they laughed. “It’s right over there” Mike replied, pointing his flashlight towards (what looks like) a skate ramp shaped like a penis.

“You guys want to go down and check it out?” 

We looked at each other, nervously, shrugging. – “Yeah, sure.”

i.

In the mid 19th century, a group of Mormon settlers crossed the desert and found divinity. Standing there, alone against the red of sand, a wooden man reached to the horizon in prayer. Heeding the dune’s call, they named him Joshua.

i. 

I am scared of leaving things to fate I 

am scared of leaving 

things to fate I am scared of 

leaving things to fate —

ii.

We were at the bottom of the skatepark. The floor was littered with extravagant ramps and abandoned cars — to set on fire during BMX competitions, Will says — but strangely clean and adorned with a dull linoleum. The walls were covered with colorful murals, and I squinted to make out what was being depicted. 

There, in a decrepit corner, I read — “love prevails”. 

I laughed. Yes! That must be it. Love prevails! Love must prevail, because we were here — standing in the middle of this absurd linoleum-skatepark, with these old white guys we’d just met, hunched over a penis shaped skateboard ramp. 

Love must prevail because I looked up at the sky and was met by a scattering of stars, framed by the outlines of the Skatepark. Yes! This is it. Love must prevail because Hello, the sweet smoke of it, like pennies in the summertime – because Hello, a rocking chair or a gospel choir – because Hello, I am scared of leaving things to fate – because Hello, this was the riot at the memorial parade for time and I am calling your name – because Hello is a remembrance and I am also a remembrance – because Hello, I am risking everything to see you – because Hello, my breath is crumbling like bread. 

Words: Emily Peng

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