THE GOD
OF
SALT & LIGHT
or
My Captor, My Savior!
Logan Ryan Smith
Transmission Press
Sacramento ^0^ California
First Electronic Edition
Transmission Press, Sacramento 95821
© 2020 by Logan Ryan Smith
All rights reserved. Published 2020
Cover art: “Dragon Painting” © 2018 by Matthew Arnone.
All rights reserved. For more on Matthew Arnone,
visit: https://www.instagram.com/mstevenarnone/
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the author, except where permitted by Law.
The God of Salt & Light is a work of fiction. If you believe any of it resembles reality, you must lead a pretty interesting life. Lucky you. However, any resemblance is purely coincidental. All names, characters, and events are figments of the author’s excuse for an imagination. That’s it.
For Melanie…
for putting up with all these obsessions.
Ye are the light of the world. A city
that is set on a hill cannot be hid.
–Matthew 5:14
SUGGESTED SOUNDTRACKS
to the reading of this book
Anthology Resource Vol. II: Philosophy of Beyond by Dean Hurley
Digital Rain by Johnny Jewel
The Other Side of Midnight by Johnny Jewel
The Table of Contents
PART I
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
PART II
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
PART I
one
She cleared out the scum by inviting decay. When people came with their motor boats, shiny cars, beach houses, and fame, She cleansed the land of filth by proliferating rot. The Outsiders brought with them The Great Eye and The Great Eye abhors freedom. The Great Eye is a Soul Manager. The Great Eye brings Laws to everything under its gaze. She produces bone dust from Laws. We breathe it in only to expel it with each exhalation. Laws are temporary. The soul cannot abide by Laws. Only She fulfills the soul. Only Her body can cradle us in power. Only Her salt can wash clean our spirit. Only Her presence can assure our everlasting freedom. Our everlasting soul. Yes, She is a god. She is the God. Yet mankind is the Great God Destroyer. Since the beginning of time, mankind has tightened a noose around The Anima. So little of it is left. Our souls have darkened. But She is generous. She is righteous. And She will cut the rope and drown you in the Light. Walk into Her and let the Light in.
I wrote a little book. I’m still writing a little book, I guess, about the Sea. Not the ocean, but the Sea. The Salton Sea. I’m sure you’ve heard about it by now. After all that transpired. I’m still writing it, of course. It’s a never-ending vocation. One bestowed upon me by the power lurking in Her saline waters.
Some say the Salton Sea isn’t what it used to be, and when those some say that, I nod, agree, and offer gratitude for such truths. It’s rare I hear it, for rarely am I visited here where I sit atop Sun’s Dune, stationary, vigilant. But every other blue moon, some stranger clambers up to me, kicking sand, and says, It’s not the same. It’s a shame. It’s not the same.
And that’s when I nod. I might even sing for them. I might sing Her song so that their soul might know a moment’s freedom. Now, here on my perch, song is just about the only sound I make. Just about.
Today, I ask the Sea how She’s doing, quietly, almost to myself, digging my crystalized toes into sand made of pulverized fishbone, scales, and guts. This beach, sun-bleached white. Cleansed. Pure. No blood runs its rivulets. No flesh but fish on it rots.
Pelicans, gulls, and storks sweep over the Sea. Osprey scurry along the water’s edge. The dunes down the beach excite with the beating wings of sunning cormorants.
All this, even as the day dies.
A brief, hot breeze caresses me with the fetid stench of suffocated fish that wreathe Her boundaries and skin Her surface with an oily green iridescence. The scent of so much spoiled flesh is heavy as a soaked towel.
The sky is blue and wide open. To the east, the carved ridges of the Chocolate Mountains swallow shadow. The desert around the Salton Sea is thirsty, nearly drained of all color.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, for the incense of the Salton Sea never caused me to wince or cover my mouth and nose with a startled gesture. This odor, which irks the Outsiders so, is wholesome. Invigorating. It leaves the lungs weighted with meaning.
And this is how She answers me today: with such calm. I don’t need to ask again. I don’t need to speak another word until tomorrow.
I keep my station atop Sun’s Dune and let the hot breeze skate over me as the setting sun flows through me and refracts, throwing broken bits of rainbow down the dune, stretching toward Her lapping waters.
Today I feel effulgent.
Today I feel at one with my surroundings.
Today the Sea asks for nothing.
Today we are at peace.
Today is another day we remain free.
two
She speaks to me all the time. I’m not the only one that hears it. It’s that constant murmur. That drone. That lull. The Salton Sea is always talking. Of course She is. It’s Her mission to be heard. To fill hearts with Her song.
She speaks to me all the time and I’m always listening. Always. I could be sitting with friends around a firepit deep into the night, a million stars overhead, and Her dark purple surface shimmering somewhere out of sight, and I’ll still listen. My friends could be drinking, passing around a glass pipe, or playing a nylon-strung guitar while singing songs of the land, and I’ll still hear Her. I’ll stop my friends sometimes. I’ll put a hand out to hush a mouth or mute the guitar and ask them to listen with me. Eventually they understood those interruptions. They understood that they weren’t interruptions at all. They’d put down their bottle, put down their pipe, or put down their guitar and angle their chin upward and an ear toward Her direction. And listen. Just listen. She’d murmur along, never repeating herself. And when we were done listening, my friends would smile and nod, knowing exactly what She meant. And they’d begin again, lips to bottle, lips to pipe, and ears to the music of that old nylon-strung guitar. They’d move along into the night, a little more Light in their souls. But me? Me, I’d be there with them, but never wholly. No. No, I’d be there with them, but always part of me was with the Sea. Is with the Sea. The Salton Sea.
three
Most of us lived in Slab City. Although the stench of the Salton Sea drove most away, we chose to stay as close as possible. Though the prevalent scent of rotten eggs and some kind of unnamable decay had swept Law out of much of this region, that place, Slab City, was where we were most free. So there we stayed, in a desert land of shacks and shanties made out of wood, cardboard, tarps, and
sometimes the hoods or doors of cars. Some lived in their cars, pickups, or campers. Some lived in vans converted to shacks or rusted school buses. Some vehicles had no wheels and windows, but some still called that home. And all those homes sounded like buzzing fans, because of course everyone ran electric fans all day, trying to blow back the sun’s relentless reach. Whatever it took to live there in Slab City, the last free place in America, as all the signs and artwork said. Perhaps it was the last free place in the whole world.
People there were creative. And we all had a roof over our heads. Unless one decided to live endlessly under a canopy of stars. In that land, She let us live as we liked. So long as we lived near Her and listened. We stayed there under the massive sun that slicked our skins with sweat and dried our tongues up to shriveled prunes, because we could not leave Her. We could not afford to put too much distance between us and the Sea. Out there—out there in the world, away from the Sea, we’d drown. We’d drown breathing in Law that we could not breathe out. We’d drown in collared suits and bills and expectations never meant for mankind. How did I know this? For one, I’d been out there. I was once tied to Law. I was once disabled by Law. I was once a dog on a leash, fed, watered, and kept fat. But not fulfilled. And for two, because She tells me it’s so. Still, to this day, She tells me it’s so. Away from Her, it’s all chains. Near Her, it’s freedom. Pure freedom.
The dogs probably knew it best. Better than me? Perhaps. They skittered across the land that sparkled with all the busted-up bits of glass strewn across it. One side effect of a land without Law: things get broken. Especially glass things. But those dogs—we called them Slabradors—understood what the Salton Sea told them. Dogs, like mankind, are born free, but that often doesn’t last long. And those Slabradors may have been mindless mongrels, but their souls were not extinguished. You could see it. You could go right up to one of those dogs, growling and spitting all over, and if it let you, you could grab hold of that maw and look in those eyes and I’ll tell you what you saw: Light. You saw Light pouring right out of them. Sure, it wasn’t just the Slabradors. You see that Light in all dogs. But here, that Light in their eyes could almost knock you off your feet. So, when some people suggested shooting one, or carting one off and dropping it far away, I or one of my friends put a stop to it. It didn’t matter if the mongrel ate your dinner. It didn’t matter if it pissed on your shanty. It didn’t even matter if the thing bit you. The dogs stayed. All dogs were welcome.
Besides, the dogs knew who was pure. Who belonged there. They’d let you know. They might bite just about anyone, but if they don’t give up that fight no matter what—if we all pulled one of those bastards off some drifter that just showed up in The Slabs—we knew it was because they were impure. They were here only to take. Not to give back to the land. Not to commune. And certainly not to listen. And if they couldn’t listen, they couldn’t stay.
I’m not saying the dogs could have any which way with the impure, but sometimes I might have been tempted to just let them get their pound of flesh. Even if it meant tearing a hole right through the chest to get at the heart.
four
I’ve told you about my friends. Well, I haven’t told you about my friends. There was Jacob, our long-haired friend that harvested Her surrounding land for something special to smoke or eat. He was an artist with such things and showed an artist’s enthusiasm for it. There was Curtis with his all-black clothing and aggressive music that contrasted his amicability. Jasmine, who was artsy and opinionated. I never knew such a fierce tongue could prove so effervescent. Angela, meek, full of warmth and care. When the outside world threatened to draw us out of our Truth, she drew us near to her ample bosom, rested our heads upon her breasts and shooed the bad feelings away. And then there was Marcy. Curly haired Marcy in sundresses, spinning. Always spinning and smiling and loving and dancing and listening. Always listening. My Marcy, such a good listener. Her love was a kindness. Life is long, let me tell you, yet no kindness can ever be forgotten, for there are so few.
Yes, Marcy’s love was a kindness, rivaled only by the Sea’s. I know some may call that blasphemy, but I cannot spread untruths. If Marcy’s soul had taken a left instead of a right at the beginning of time, perhaps the Sea would have had a collaborator in the ethereal.
They were all my friends. I called them my friends, but they called themselves my disciples. I didn’t see anything wrong with it, and neither did the Sea. I’ve mentioned already that we would sit and listen to Her. That I’d interrupt to make sure they did. And that they listened and felt their hearts pump to Her rhythm. That’s what they did. They listened to Her sing. I did the same, but I can interpret it. I don’t know why, but only I can do it. The others could listen and feel what She meant, but not hear what She said. You understand what I’m saying?
And that’s why I wrote my never-ending book. The one about the Salton Sea. My friends asked it of me. And so did the Sea. In fact, the suggestion happened on a harmonious occasion as we sat on the bone-sand beach, sharing a glass pipe filled with something made of this land. As I’ve stated, that was Jacob’s particular genius. Cultivating the land so that we could ingest it, inhale it, absorb it so that we may bring it into our bodies and our souls.
One night we were passing around Jacob’s glass pipe, the moon hanging low over the Chocolate Mountains in the east. Angela strummed the nylon-strung guitar, her singing voice so soft it almost disintegrated the second it brushed past her lips. Then the Sea rose up into the sky and crashed upon my outstretched feet, lying on the beach as I was.
In a jolt, I sat up and told my friends to hush. And so the Sea spoke: It wouldn’t be like you’ve thought. Not so many are pure. Not so many will come. You will not be lost. You will not be forgotten. Write a book about me.
I turned to my friends and in the light of the moon their expressions told me they had heard. Not only that they heard, but that they understood, the way I had come to understand Her. For the first time, I did not need to translate for them.
So they heard and they told me that I must listen to Her. I must write my book.
And what was I to do? Deny this request? I was listening. Of course I was listening. I live to listen to Her. Besides, you already know the ending to this scene. You saw all the news reports, though they may have been quickly obliterated, refuted, and brushed under the rug of the Great Eye and the Law. You know the book I’ve written. You’ve at least heard of it if you haven’t read it. And if you haven’t read it, never fear, you have every moment, until your last breath, to make up for that.
Forgive me. I digress. But it’s for your own good.
Aside from experiencing their first direct communication with the Sea, my people also understood that this would be the last time they’d hear from the Sea directly. The first, last, and only time they’d hear Her in Her own words, and not through me. It saddened them, but on the sand, under moonlight, and next to Her, we were all filled with too much bliss and Light in the moment. We all knew that this was enough for them. This would be all they could handle, for their souls were not as deep and not as wide as mine.
I feel as though I’m bragging, but I assure you, I am not. I’m merely speaking Her Word. And Her Word was that I write the book and distribute it. That’s all. She asked nothing else of me. And I knew it was true. I wouldn’t push this Truth on anyone. They would have to come to it.
So on that night, the six of us rolled around in the sand, holding and caressing each other, coupling, decoupling, and loving each other in the moment with all the essence of our beings. That night, under fresh moonlight and beside the rot of the Sea, each breath, each touch was pure ecstasy. That night, Life, Light, and Truth accounted for every ounce of our being, all the way down to the atomic level. That was a night of such perfect acceptance, all levels of reality felt its current of energy flow through them and change them.
That was the night I got Marcy pregnant for the first time. Like the two times after that, she bled the child out betwe
en her thighs before end of the first trimester. Angela wiped the blood away from her with wet, warm rags. All of us held Marcy throughout that horrible night.
We believed that the Sea stole her womb away.
five
One day Jasmine and I ran toward those Chocolate Mountains I’ve told you about. We split off from the others baptizing their toes in the Sea like they’d done countless other times. We ran away from the smoke in their lungs and toward those mountains carved into the sky. Because they seemed so close. We ran for what must have been miles until we collapsed into the sunbaked land, having shortened the distance by no measure.
Panting. Aglitter with sweat. Laying in the dirt. I saw my right arm rot away to bone, like a stop-motion film. I watched those bones crumble, bit by bit, and get blown away only to fill the infinite cracks of Her land.
The Sea murmured behind us. Twinkled beneath the sun’s blazing gaze. Birds soared overhead, anxious to meet Her.
I laughed. I laughed because it wasn’t frightening! It was a vision! It was a story told through ecstatic hallucination: you are of this land, you will be of this land, you will fill this land.
I told Jasmine what I saw. I told her what it meant. She agreed immediately: it was a good omen.
As we lay there, dirt caking our backs, our buttocks, thighs, and elbows, Jasmine recited poetry to me. Sea poetry. Though I’m the one bearing responsibility for Her Word, sometimes I think it’s a shame that Jasmine wasn’t chosen. Like her namesake, her words were floral, organic tendrils that trailed off the tongue.
As she spoke her poetry I caressed her brown skin, listened to the Sea accompany such sweet words. When I had had so much I thought my heart may split, I put my mouth to hers and swallowed down the perfume her words left behind.
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