I walked into the house and immediately felt at home. The walls had long cracks from the ceiling to the floor, the wallpaper was awful, and the stairs were rotten, but I could see what it could be. Besides the house being completely uninhabitable, I decided that this would be my new home. For now, at least.

Three sweet old Christian ladies day tripping from Pasadena gave me a ride to the outskirts of the mostly abandoned town of Bombay Beach. I wouldn’t have minded walking the 20 miles to get here, but their enthusiasm was impossible to say no to when they offered. The women chatted about how impressive Salvation Mountain had been while the two not at the wheel hunched over the crochet projects in their laps. “I didn’t make it, but I contributed a lot to it!” I informed them. “He couldn’t adorn that whole mountain without inspiration from me!” The lady in the back seat next to me patted my knee. “That’s wonderful, dear.” She cooed in a way that was supportive, yet laced with a tone of doubt. She must have thought the guys devotion to God would be enough to fuel a project like that. Before we knew it, it was time for me to exit their vehicle and wave as they pulled back out into the main road.

The town was eerie and still. It possessed a sense of endless possibility because of the evident lack of people and the abundance of unsanctioned art installations and graffiti. The few people who chose to live here mostly inhabited rundown mobile homes and RVs. You could see what this place used to be though. In its glory days, it had been vibrant waterfront destination, dredged in the optimism of the 60’s, and full of vacationing families and couples. As the Salton Sea became hazardous and unappealing, the communities surrounding it shriveled. Leaving only a decrepit shell of what once was a thriving community. There were only two kinds of people who lived here now: the folks who refused to leave and the ones craving an alternative lifestyle. The alternative ones were oddballs drawn to the area by Slab City and the promise of a lawless, uninterrupted existence without the pressures of modern society. Those weird-o’s are why I chose to exist here. Those kind of people were full of unburdened creativity.

I have spent years in this desert. In all those years, I have always been satiated. It shocks people when they learn food isn’t required for my existence. I am sustained by ingesting the emotions left behind by creators in their work, though I don’t look any different from you. Others like me tend to prefer the fine dining experience of structured fine arts in museums and architecture. But not me. I revel in the wild gaminess of guerrilla art, trash made into sculptures, and mountains turned to monuments. The kind of creative expression I crave can’t be taught, it’s intrinsic.

Don’t worry. It’s really starting to sound like all I do is vacuum the meaning out of the work I find and leave it ruined. I follow a strict Leave No Trace art foraging method. That means once I’ve gotten my hands on all those savory emotions, you won’t be able to detect any difference. In fact, anyone can reimbue the emptied art by feeling whatever emotions the art brings out of them. My food chain is renewable. I can admit it’s awesome! But it gets even better. Have you wondered about the “waste” I produce? That’s a terrible word to describe it because it’s the best part! I digest it all down into new inspiration to redistribute wherever and to whoever I want. So yeah, you kind of CAN thank me for Salvation Mountain.