INTO THE WILD (2007) is a film by Sean Penn based on the real adventures of Christopher McCandless, who abandoned his possessions, gave his entire $24,000 savings account to charity, and hitchhiked to Alaska to live in the wilderness.
09/07/10 | Film

Into The Wild

by xTx

Once upon a time I lived in the mountains. In the snow. In the wilderness. By the beach. No. In the woods. In the mountains. In the snow. Between water and wind. In the wild.

The cabin I lived in was made of sticks. The cabin I lived in was made of twigs. The cabin I lived in was made of bricks and mortar. One little piggie busted his ass to build that cabin and I took it from him by force. A pair of gardening shears cut his little piggie arms and legs off. Then a pair of gardening shears cut his little piggie head off. Then I huffed and puffed on this sparkly bong I had and ate myself some bacon.

I delight to come to my bearings—not walk in procession with pomp and parade, in a conspicuous place, but to walk even with the Builder of the universe.

The cabin life was a lonely one. It was like Walden without the introspection. It was a means to an end. The end was my sanity and a hate for the whole human race. The means ended up not as well as I had planned, but what are you gonna do when you’re young. Youth is wasted on the young, and I was no exception.

At first my brother came with me. To the cabin made of twigs, sticks, and bricks. He didn’t help kill the pig—that was my doing. But he did profit from the bloodlust. It was all very Little Red Hen and the bread-baking thing. I loved that story. Fuck those animals who wouldn’t help. You eat your homemade bread Little Red Hen, let those lazy shits starve the fuck to death. Except in my case, I gave my brother the cooked pig. It was mostly because, unlike those other animals, my brother could rape me.

It would be of some advantage to live a primitive and frontier life, though in the midst of an outward civilization, if only to learn what are the gross necessaries of life and what methods have been taken to obtain them . . . For the improvements of ages have had but little influence on the essential laws of man’s existence.

In those days I learned to live off the land. My brother laid around the cabin dreaming Atari visions of fingering Sandy Hess who lived down the street from us when we existed happily in our former life. The cabin had no electricity and no Sandy Hess. Sometimes he’d go get messed up on these wild roots we found and come stumbling back to the cabin and finger me. In the asshole. That was fine and all, because I liked it much more than getting raped. Except for that one time he infected my chocolate starfish with poison oak. Oh my lucky stars . . . why are you so unlucky? I bathed my asshole in cold creek water for hours at a time. It was torture. He stood on the shore and tossed rocks at me. Like I said, he was bored and resentful to boot. He lasted 3 years in the cabin before splitting wood, metaphorically.

The solitude and lack of rapesex was a welcomed respite.

I never knew about Oprah. I knew Phil Donahue. I knew Big Time Wrestling and Superfly. I knew Barry Manilow. I didn’t much miss them. Or him. I went about my daily life. Which was basically trying to survive. I had penned many a wild animal and tamed them all and taught them to fuck for my protein supply. You may think this an easy task. But try first to build a pen from which both small and large animals cannot escape. I wished for a while I hadn’t killed that genius, that carpenter pig, let me tell you.

In short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will only live simply and wisely.

So after the incredible pen was built, I had to lure and trap the wild animals. Raccoons at first. Then opossum. A deer. Squirrels. Rabbits. Frogs. A small bobcat. Now, this trapping stuff was hard. I ran naked through the woods, my body caked in mud. Camouflage. Hunting. I loved it and hated it. I hated the hunt, I loved the catch.

I especially loved the kill.

Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make life of equal simplicity, and if I may say innocence, with Nature herself.

You should’ve seen all the freaky animals birthed in that pen. I had to grab them before their warm, wet, deformed selves hit the ground or the other animals would eat them up. I’d take them and put them in my Freak Pen. I swear, some of the combinations that grew up in there would’ve rendered me a millionaire back in society. I probably would’ve been on “That’s Incredible” or in Ripley’s Believe it or Not, staring into space at the circus freak show or something. Too bad I simply waited around until they were big enough to slaughter and put in my belly.

I had no cares, no worries. I had my protein in place and a fire in the hearth.

Eventually I made a pair of pajamas out of all the freak animals’ skins. When I wore it, I looked like a Sasquatch. See, I was 6’8”. Lucky for me that pig built a huge cabin.

I’d wear the hair pajamas out in the woods and in time discovered that the animals weren’t afraid of me. They would see me as their kind, or at least that was my opinion.

One day I ventured far very far so far off from my cabin and came upon some humans in bright orange vests. I say “humans” because at that point I had been living nine years in the cabin, alone, raising freakish animals, eating their flesh, and dreaming of my brother, whether or not he was fingering Sandy Hess, getting jealous of that and actually missing his cock his rooster his thing tearing up my rectum while he bashed my face in with twigs, sticks, bricks, wall of clean cabin blood and all. I forgot to speak. I could sing, unintelligibly, but no words. I pissed and shat where I wanted. I ate dirt. Didn’t bathe. Forgot who I was.

I found in myself, and still find, an instinct toward a higher, or as it is named, spiritual life, as do most men, and another toward a primitive rank and savage one, and I reverence them both.

The humans shot me. Yes they did. I couldn’t blame them really. I was a Sasquatch, of sorts. They thought so too. Until they discovered my hair pajamas were removable, the flaps at the front and back upliftable, and that I wasn’t a Sasquatch at all. They had shot me in the back. Missed my lung. But I could feel it I knew that I was torn clean open inside out. The blood mixed with dirt smelled like newborn freaks hitting the ground of the pen and suddenly I wasn’t scared.

Funny what smells can comfort you.

When they turned me over they exposed my ass, spreading my cheeks they spat, I closed my eyes and thought of my brother and smiled as my eyelids slid back as the pounding started everything fading slowly gray becoming grey becoming whatever.

What a man thinks of himself, that it is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate.