I’ll make my pilgrimage, over mountains, across desserts, and between narrow walls of stone. I’ll travel to where the Colorado Plateau, Great Basin, and Mojave Desert collide. To a canyon scraped from the Navajo Sandstone by the force of the Virgin River. Mukuntuweap, as the southern Paiutes called it, is my destination. For seven days I will hike up and down the canyon walls, and for seven nights I will stare up at a sky full of stars. Mukuntuweap is my church, my Zion.
The artist, Alanis, is a guy from Quezon City in the Philippines. I hope this is a self-portrait, I could really use some beard-growing tips.
inky:
R.I.P. Don Ivan Punchatz, designer of the momentous box art for Doom.
aforementioned fork + old man
I’ll take the high road.
Do you ever feel like you’ve come to a point in your life where things could go in one direction or another? A “fork in the road” if you will… Well, this morning I came across a giant eating utensil standing 10 feet tall where Pasadena Ave meets St John Ave, just south of California. An old man in coveralls was bolting it into place. Old man, you made my day.
I wake freezing. I’ve kicked the covers off in the night, again. My eyes fail to adjust even in the pale gray light. Rubbing them helps slightly. The red numbers on my clock are fuzzy, barely legible - 6:45. It feels like something is resting on my chest, invisible, massive. My hands try to brush it away, but come to their senses soon after I do. I mutter to myself, “How many times is this going to happen?” Nobody answers. Rolling onto the floor I try push-ups, and sit-ups, no relief. I climb to my feet. Upright, I stretch my shoulders, touching my fingers to the ceiling. Nothing. I let my arms fall to my sides with a loud “slap!” Inhale, then I take three steps, turn, exhale, and take three more. Pacing, the pressure moves from my chest to my abdomen. Simultaneously I feel famished and gorged. I want breakfast, but I can’t stand the thought of food. Thoughts race through my head as I stumble towards the kitchen. - “Did I say something wrong?” “Did I fuck something up?” - I pour myself some water and drink the whole glass in one swallow. The water is cold, having been in the fridge all night, and I can feel the cold run down my throat and into my stomach. My pilomotor reflex kicks in, and all my hairs stand on end. This vestigial response to the temperature makes me smile as I make my way to the bathroom. Seeking ablution, I fumble with the knobs to start the water for my morning shower. My five digits prevail. I look down at my trembling hands and am reminded that I’m an ape, and that my cognitive mistakes are products of an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex. I forgive myself. I wasn’t made for this world; I’m just trying to survive it. Inhale. Exhale. The pressure is gone and the water is nice and hot.
The collection of airborne solid and liquid particulates and gases in your lungs, emitted when a certain material undergoes combustion, has been known to relieve symptoms of mad.
