Oasis of Junk

Rule number nine in the Survival Guide of East Jesus stated that if you don’t fuck with them, then you’ll be fine, but that they can be deadly if provoked. While this rule was referring to some of the more dangerous creatures of the desert—black widows, scorpions, rattlesnakes, tarantulas—I had the feeling it was also an overarching warning about East Jesus itself. The whole website seemed to give off the violent shake of a rattle to keep potential visitors in their place and warn that if they didn’t abide by the rules, then the residents of East Jesus weren’t responsible for the repercussions that might result, which included “staring down the barrel of 12GA.”

Most of the warnings weren’t so violent as long as people were respectful. Do unto others as they would do to you, only “edgier.” They wanted people to act with intention and not to treat the place as their own personal playground. In fact, rule number negative one demanded that people consider why they would even want to visit their wasteland in the first place, almost like a pre-morals check. East Jesus was not looking for more staff to upkeep the site, so it wasn’t as though one were going to find paid work there. It warned that it also wasn’t a “dumb-ass hippie commune,” but rather them just wanting to exist as themselves, making art that most people will never get to see in a place that most people will never venture out to see, perhaps to their liking. They also informed prospective guests that they would not be welcomed to stay unless ‘we’ have seen your face and, essentially, like you as a person.

This ‘we’ is never defined as an explicit group of people, but I suspected that was due to the nature of an experimental, ever-changing, ever-growing, habitable art museum that attracts nomad artists to stay and work for only a couple days at a time before they are probably told, in the language of their informative website, to piss off. The ‘we’ is probably changing every week as people filter in and out. This system seemed to be unstable, perhaps chaotic, but it would also produce interesting art from a very specific type of interesting people that were willing to live out in the middle of nowhere doing God knows what to make art that may never be acknowledged from a widespread audience.

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Niland, CA, the town leading into Slab City (the location of East Jesus) seemed to be a town straight out of an old western movie. No one was out and about, most likely because of the arid heat or because there seemed to be virtually nothing to do. The road was run-down, pot holes were everywhere. The liquor store, the one with a faded Pepsi sign from the late seventies on its roof, had its door wide open to receive whatever breeze might come through. I drove slow just to breathe in the atmosphere and take in the architecture that seemed to be crumbling before my eyes. There was one sand colored building that must have been beautiful in its prime with masterfully crafted columns holding the ceiling to the foundation. Now, however, giant cracks cut through its walls and cautionary fences rose for the safety of anyone passing through.

    Once I got to the residential area I was able to see snapshots of what the town held closest to their hearts. Almost everyone had a trailer or four-wheeler of some kind in their driveway, personal tokens to get out of this place and have some fun. People’s yards were full of dead grass and long-forgotten swing sets rocking in the slight breeze. There were no porches, no townspeople working in their yards, only handmade crafty work littered throughout. One person’s house put red solo cups in their chain-linked fence to spell out ‘God Bless America.’ God bless this town, I thought, if only he remembers it.

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    It was becoming more and more clear with every passing slab and town bulletin board advertising community talent shows that I would have to learn the rules of this town that proclaimed to be the “last free place” in America to live, both economically and artistically. With later research I learned that this was mostly true since Slab City belonged to no one person or corporation, meaning there was no rent to be paid or harassment from local authorities. This was one of the better aspects of the city for citizens who were mostly comprised of retired people, squatters looking to rent without a dime in their wallet, those faced with addictions, or homeless people attempting to survive off of government assistance on land that the government didn’t want to claim. This might have been because of the persistence of the almost inhabitable heat or because of the unpleasant appearance of the massive mounds of trash that were scattered everywhere. 

    There were no buildings around that I could have seen, only more trailers and recreational vehicles with their curtains pulled tightly closed. One trailer had about seven or eight signs letting travelers know that a veteran lived on the premise, guidelines that they wanted people to follow/believe in, and to not trespass if they didn’t want a bullet in their flesh. It appeared as though East Jesus wasn’t the only place willing to resort to violent measures if people behaved out of line.

    To make sure that this was unlikely to happen, each encampment seemed to be marked by borders of half-buried tires in the sand, putting a whole new spin on the “white picket fence” ideal, as well as signs pointing toward the features of the town: the Range (an old stage where the talent shows were held), the town library, and East Jesus. I went slowly on the gravel, following every sign diligently until I came to a fork in the road. This wasn’t just any fork in the road either, it was a literal giant dinner fork that seemed to be constructed out of a piece of gray-painted wood that was settled between two diverging roads where travelers had to decide to either go left to West Satan—a location that I had been told was closed off to the public (oh, the irony)—or right to East Jesus. 

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    “Welcome to East Jesus! The carpets all around,” a man called out while gesturing to patches of carpets that wound through all of the artwork, “lead nowhere! They just allude to leading somewhere and some would say that they think they lead somewhere…but it turns out that they don’t. All artwork is touchable and if it falls apart just say it was broken when you found it. Or, you know, you could blame the artist for using flimsy materials!”

    He introduced himself as Mopar, a self-proclaimed wizard most likely due to his billowing gray beard and his magical laugh that seemed to reverberate kindly against every particle of sand. He stood at about 6’’2’ and walked around with a wooden staff that would jingle with every personal, colorful artifact he chose to keep with him at all times. It was obvious that he was baking in the desert—his cheeks were a deep red that contrasted playfully with his yellowing teeth—but he didn’t seem to mind in the least, especially since he never once took off his black leather jacket adorned with the words ‘No Human is Illegal’ for the duration of my time at East Jesus.

    He invited us to have a look around and come to him if we had any questions, but he also consistently hovered nearby, either out of a lack of trust or a newfound affection for us. “Feel free to explore, just know that I will harass you as long as you are here!” he said with a chuckle. He was both a groundskeeper and a makeshift tour guide when needed, and he quickly found his way into my heart because of his brash way of speaking to everyone that wandered on the property; he seemed to want people to know that they were welcome, but only on his terms. The questions he asked appeared intentional, meant to test out any wandering nomads to see why they were there and, for a lack of better words, to fuck with them. 

    In an effort to possibly solidify Mopar’s affections, my girlfriend began to praise the artwork around us, telling him that it was incredible that all of the artists that lived here were reclaiming all of the pieces of trash and creating something beautiful out of them. She emphasized how empowering it must be to be able to reclaim what society has thrown away, to give worth to what had been deemed worthless. To this Mopar seemed vaguely amused before roughly letting her down: “Reclaiming? No, honey, it’s seriously just junk. See that pile of trash right there,” he pointed to a tower of PCP pipes, rusted pieces from indoor fans, chicken wire, and old legs of fold-out tables with a watering jug hanging at the top like a trophy, “what do you see? Because all I see is junk and you know why? Because that’s just what it is.” 

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For more on 'Oasis of Junk,' please contact me at dylan.e.andretta@gmail.com