Fragments/Journal: Primitivist Nihilism
If seen as animals we are pathetic creatures, one can imagine the figure of man as rotting away, with neither capacity for defense or a life-taking violence. We have no fur or hide to protect us, we are effectively bare organs without a biological shield - eternal infants of nature, the curse of Epimetheus. Yet this is also our greatest strength, our nature.
Within this alone we can see an abstract form of violence which necessitates itself as human conflict. We are divided from our bodies, this is our only source of power over dominion. Unlike the wolf who senses the tree to his left as he trots staring down the prey to his right, and is born with an inherent drive to live and control a territory. He knows instinctively that his strength lies in corralling the lone prey, driving it into fear, and back towards his family. He is gifted the natural traits which allow for a humble thriving, the necessary violence within a small territory of rolling hills before the mountain. The earth speaks through him, he is one with it. A great map of the forest is written into his whiskers and the pads of his paws - a radar-like zoning of his body between objects captured by the ears allows him to run through the tiniest and shadowed sections between trees, where men tend to be consumed by their own image. And as the most religious say, He who has ears... A self-valorising abstraction of territory is both impossible and unnecessary for him.
...
Here we may sense that the smouldering of ruins is our own connection with earthly law, our whiskers and the pads on our feet. All of the perversion of a reconnection with nature begins to reflect itself in the totalism of natural law; both the accelerated destruction and hypergaudy identification with its symbols, as if Anglos turning nature's beauty into a freak show. We were never meant to bury ourselves within the earth, but rise from it - or at least bury ourselves in it without any hubris against the natural form and our own being. A quietism of awaiting decay in a lone forest grave would be the only appropriate suicide, as opposed to the willless denatured being of the curse of eternal struggle against a boulder and sunset. The suicide of our collective spirit is the ontology of our time, one which forms without dialectic - and this is worse than any mechanized genocide. Thus one can imagine the Great Extinction as a sacrifice to embarrassment: the low animals choose to commit sexual suicide before the statues of Praxitiles rather than being domesticated by giant stone figures with the genetics of hairless rats. Our own law disgorged to that which was supposed as our divine and legal dominion.
The paradox of the human realm is that it will never come close to the complex lines existing within nature: the pluming clouds over the sunset, the monstrous rock-face peering into our being from prehuman geological warfare, the rolling fog over the forest canopy which only increases the height of the sovereign ash tree. The single appearance of a fata morgana is forever superior to any megacity. Beauty is not even a worthy discussion, and one cannot help but notice that abandonment of simple tools only increases the ugliness of escape into rational, lined abstraction.
War is a recognition that the greatest works of human beauty must fall to ruin; divine sprawl, the architecture of nature's demons. Their lingering begins to scar the natural remains of our spirit. And so the dogs take flight across the Volga because our age needs no Melanchoetes, Theridamas, Oresitrophos... And we cry out for our lost masters as they devour themselves. We, the hybrid-feral coydogs, wait alongside suburban dumpsters to scavenge on whatever wanders out of the forest. And even this is now being overrun.
Within this alone we can see an abstract form of violence which necessitates itself as human conflict. We are divided from our bodies, this is our only source of power over dominion. Unlike the wolf who senses the tree to his left as he trots staring down the prey to his right, and is born with an inherent drive to live and control a territory. He knows instinctively that his strength lies in corralling the lone prey, driving it into fear, and back towards his family. He is gifted the natural traits which allow for a humble thriving, the necessary violence within a small territory of rolling hills before the mountain. The earth speaks through him, he is one with it. A great map of the forest is written into his whiskers and the pads of his paws - a radar-like zoning of his body between objects captured by the ears allows him to run through the tiniest and shadowed sections between trees, where men tend to be consumed by their own image. And as the most religious say, He who has ears... A self-valorising abstraction of territory is both impossible and unnecessary for him.
...
Here we may sense that the smouldering of ruins is our own connection with earthly law, our whiskers and the pads on our feet. All of the perversion of a reconnection with nature begins to reflect itself in the totalism of natural law; both the accelerated destruction and hypergaudy identification with its symbols, as if Anglos turning nature's beauty into a freak show. We were never meant to bury ourselves within the earth, but rise from it - or at least bury ourselves in it without any hubris against the natural form and our own being. A quietism of awaiting decay in a lone forest grave would be the only appropriate suicide, as opposed to the willless denatured being of the curse of eternal struggle against a boulder and sunset. The suicide of our collective spirit is the ontology of our time, one which forms without dialectic - and this is worse than any mechanized genocide. Thus one can imagine the Great Extinction as a sacrifice to embarrassment: the low animals choose to commit sexual suicide before the statues of Praxitiles rather than being domesticated by giant stone figures with the genetics of hairless rats. Our own law disgorged to that which was supposed as our divine and legal dominion.
The paradox of the human realm is that it will never come close to the complex lines existing within nature: the pluming clouds over the sunset, the monstrous rock-face peering into our being from prehuman geological warfare, the rolling fog over the forest canopy which only increases the height of the sovereign ash tree. The single appearance of a fata morgana is forever superior to any megacity. Beauty is not even a worthy discussion, and one cannot help but notice that abandonment of simple tools only increases the ugliness of escape into rational, lined abstraction.
War is a recognition that the greatest works of human beauty must fall to ruin; divine sprawl, the architecture of nature's demons. Their lingering begins to scar the natural remains of our spirit. And so the dogs take flight across the Volga because our age needs no Melanchoetes, Theridamas, Oresitrophos... And we cry out for our lost masters as they devour themselves. We, the hybrid-feral coydogs, wait alongside suburban dumpsters to scavenge on whatever wanders out of the forest. And even this is now being overrun.
Comments
Post a Comment