why then by God maybe freemen and wildwomen on horses, free
women and wild men can roam the sagebrush canyonlands in freedom--goddamit!
Herding the feral cattle into box canyons, and gorge on bloody meat and
bleeding fucking internal organs, and dance all night to the music of
fiddles! Banjos! Steel guitars! by the light of the reborn moon!
That's what happens when a career college student takes a summer job in
a fire watch tower in the desert and sits up there by himself with a
bottle of whisky in one hand and his dick in the other hand and the
tower gets hit by lightning.
Eco-Frankenstein was born there, on the South Rim one summer
"Desert Solitaire" and other Edward Abbey books became cult classics in
the 1970's, but, I came to the realization that he was describing the
same plant species over and over to decorate his desert landscape (and
I still don't know what most of them *look* like) and he was describing
all the things that were running through his mind as he wandered
through the desert canyons looking for a private canyon to get naked in
so he could pleasure himself.
I was stricken by the thought that nobody could be simultaneously aware
of so many different things as Abbey wrote about. OTOH, who would have
bought a book where the author tightened up his prose to the point of
being explicit about what he did with himself in the lonely canyons and
on isolated mountain tops and on deserted islands?