As I am sat here looking at the screen of my computer I’m listening to the grunge/psychedelic band Allusondrugs. I’m sat feeling the intense February cold-snap these islands in the North Sea are undergoing. It is bizarre that not that long ago it was unseasonably warm here – weeks ago. I mean, we have had daffodils growing already and I wore a t-shirt the other day. In my weird desires, against the suggestion of my wife, I’m sat bare foot, because, in many ways, I want to feel this cold and socks feel like hiding. This cold reminds me that the climate is going to be weird for a while now, and while it is going to be weird for reasons that might be totally fucked up – ecocide, Too-Late Capitalism, socialism, techno-expansionism, fossil-fuel-agricults and that 10,000 year fucked up known as civilisation – the weirdness is sort-of ok. It is ok because this weirdness is entirely the space that moves fluidly between the body parts of the Leviathan that is fucking everything up, flowing down into its body, not as nourishment, but like a living entity that is both venomous and poisonous. It is a weird relationship to be caught in a sort of eroticism, with both partners killing each other in the process. And in a totally fucked up way, that weird relationship, right now, is ok, for now. Now I’m listening to the grunge/psychedelic band Love Battery. This is my first experience of listening to their music and I’m enjoying it. I find myself craving aesthetics that seek to mirror weirdness. Earlier this week I was sat in a cafe after what was probably the worst 16 hour day I’ve ever had at work – one which involved a lot of violence – trying to decide what to eat, while I was attempting to self-care. I found myself after a few minutes of looking at the menu aware that I didn’t actually feel like eating and that what I really wanted to do was paint. So I bought some cheap paints and brush, some cheap canvases, sat on a bench in a relatively secluded part of town and started painting. A couple of kids who looked the dictionary definition of liberal-hipster-kid cliche stopped and told me that what I was doing was “nice” and that they totally got what I was doing. This amused me, as, for the most part, I rarely totally get what I’m doing. But, whatever – it is nice to be acknowledged in any way. I have an online hater who I delight in their impassioned acknowledgement of me and my stuff; and it is a constant source of amusement to see them attempt to bash me by doing the “I’m an internet badass” thing. Thinking about love and hate brings me back to that erotic weirdness I mentioned earlier. But I digress. Back to painting. I was painting for reasons that escaped me and any meaning within what I was making was beyond me. I’ve recently taken to doing automatic drawing as a means of play when I feel the urge to do so. These paintings felt part of that psychic energy that is flowing in me. It is a weird space for me. And I find myself, through my somewhat-nomadic work life and my psychic-nomadic relationship to society and psychological state, full of weirdness often. This weirdness is what the mysticism I have been writing about recently, both on this blog and in a book writing project that I feel is near completion, is, in many ways (though not all), about. I have too many projects on the go, but I follow my desires. I’ve written a one scene one act play about the awkward space created through the distancing underway between ourselves and the Death that we are caught in, as we find our-selves located within the Leviathan that is fucking everything up. I’m still listening to Love Battery. My wife just commented on the cold, which I responded to in agreement and then kissed her hands. I have songs I want to record, including one I wrote about a friend who died back in January and I sang at her funeral. My life is weird right now. It is weird largely because, as I find myself confronted by the Reality of built-space that is this social ontology, I find myself compelled to dance and play and sing and fight weirdly – this might well be my personal “definition” (though a very indefinite one) of ontological anarchism. I just looked out of the window to see lambs and their mothers being moved from one field to another. That is another weirdness for me to deal with – I write about anti-civ stuff all the time, am fiercely anti-agricult(ure) and live in an area of the islands known as Briton to the ancients that is spatially dominated largely by farms. What isn’t dominated by farms is dominated by roads, which I drive on most days, using fossil fuels, where I often see the carcasses of foxes, badgers, pheasants and other animals I have a weird love for. I love them because I am becoming-feral, because I am becoming-animal, because I am in the weird space of having a furious desire for Life and am confronted daily by Death. Maybe if my life had been different I’d be different; if my mother hadn’t have died; if my father hadn’t been a drug addict; if my mothers parents hadn’t psychologically abused me; if I wasn’t bullied and abused in school; if I hadn’t had the brain tumour; maybe then I’d be different – of course I would be. I just went for a walk. My wife suggested we go out, saying that the walk would do us good. We enjoyed the flowers growing in the hedges and the bird song. It was beautiful. It interrupted this train of thought, while maintaining it. I’m gonna stop writing this now, as I’ve got stuff to do and want to read weird books later today. I’m not sure if I’ll write again later, or draw, or play guitar or piano. I will probably think some more today about the thoughts that I often return to. I’m in a weird space and in a weird way that is sort-of ok.
Spirituality holds a strange place in my psychic world.
I studied religions and spiritual practices throughout my teens, adopting some and discarding them, as they failed to provide me the complete truth I was searching for.
The one that stuck longest was Buddhism. But following my experiences during cancer treatment, it’s beliefs around non-attachment and the notion Being resides elsewhere, to be found in ritual, became to mean Life renunciation – philosophical suicide, in absurdist terms. And as I found myself having to confront what it means to be alive, I found myself turning away from this practice, as all my drives and desires are directed towards Life.
After this I explored Hindu practices, for a short period. My interest in Hindu myths is one that started in my early teens and lasts today. The deities and stories are ones I’ve repeatedly come back to. But apart from that short period of exploring the religions practices, I’ve only ever had a surface level interest.
In my book Feral Consciousness I critiqued symbolic culture, as religious-type dogma and psychic-mediation, but argued that we cannot deny that, through socialisation, it has become a part of our psychic-culture, which, for now, we’re stuck with. From this, I stated a case for the embrace of aesthetics as a means of going beyond our symbolic culture.
The mystical ineffable that escapes symbolic culture has been the focus of my interest throughout all of this, as something primal and wild.
And, while I remain sceptical of spirituality and religion (in the same way that I am sceptical of scientism and the spectacle of hyper-realist mass-media culture), I continue to find Hinduism interesting (in the same way that palaeontology and quantum mechanics interests me); in particular the Aghori and non-theistic Shaivism.
Radical monism plays a major part of my recent explorations.
For now, I don’t have a conclusion for this – but, saying that, conclusions are an ontological fallacy in-themselves.
I’m just going to see where this takes me. If delving deeper into this world that I’ve previously only dipped into provides me anything Life enriching and beautiful, then great. If not, great too (more fuel for the fire).
“A step lower and strangeness creeps in: perceiving that the world is ‘dense’, sensing to what degree a stone is foreign and irreducible to us, with what intensity nature or a landscape can negate us. At the heart of all beauty lies something inhuman, and these hills, the softness of the sky, the outline of these trees at this very minute lose the illusory meaning with which we had clothed them, henceforth more remote than a lost paradise. The primitive hostility of the world rises up to face us across millennia. For a second we cease to understand it because for centuries we have understood in it solely the images and designs we had attributed to it beforehand, because henceforth we lack the power to make of use of that artifice. The world evades us because it becomes itself again. The stage-scenery masked by habit becomes what it is. It withdraws at a distance from us. Just there are days when, under the familiar face of a woman, we see as a stranger her we had loved months or years ago, perhaps we shall come even to desire what suddenly leaves us so alone. But the time has not yet come. Just one thing: that denseness and that strangeness of the world is the absurd.” Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
Camus’s The Myth of Sisyphus is probably the book on philosophy that has impacted my life and has influenced my thoughts the most. And I’d recommend this work on absurdity to anyone.
Absurdity is something that underlies and flows through all aspect of Life.
This seems abundantly apparent now, but as an image distorted by a light causing us to squint so as to not be blinded. As such, a degree of humour is required, as we grasp at that which the light distorts.
Is it not somewhat hilarious that we, within the anti-civ community and those outside of it who engage in authentic iconoclastic mystical practices, attempt to use language to discuss the ineffable; that which language cannot bind; wild-Being?
Sure it might be seen by the herd of civilisation as the strange laughter of madness, but laughter seems the most enjoyable response – it’s the one I find most desirable.
There is an obvious seriousness to the discussion, which is why many can become upset by the laughter and why, often, sensitivity is required, if we want to keep delving into the absurd, laughing as we do.
We are absurd creatures, in many ways condemned to being doomed, and equally beautiful in our desperate acosmic strangeness.
Oozing blood red with Life, embracing animalistic passions born from love and hate, deconstructive iconoclasts practicing radical mysticism, agents of liminality and ontological anarchy, absurdists caught between tears and laughter, living in the Uncanny; we are those the fascists hate.
If we release “fascism” from its distinctive ideological-historical period (that movement in Italy), then fascism appears to be a philosophical and political movement that holds the (anal) retention of History and its narrative of (phallic) progress through empire. Fascism signifies the utmost sanctification of civilisation’s repression and neurosis, born from technological development and encoded into myth through the histographic cartographies of Symbolic culture. And as we release our flesh from the chains of civilisation, we become the embodiment of all fascism hates.
We who embrace wild-Being, seeking to relinquish ourselves from repression and the animal-ego-renunciation, who find beauty in the dark ineffable that defies encoding; we live within the energetic flow of Life that fascism hates before all else. Like Roman’s looking upon the druid’s who refused encoding into History and embrace the Uncanny wild, fascists (on both sides of the political cartography) will seek to depict as monsters the feral enemies of History – monsters to be tamed, caged or slayed (as all myths require. In our becoming-animal we become were-wolves who howl to the night – wolves fascists declare must be made into dogs.
At the centre of fascism, as in all civilisation, is the singular principle of “thou shalt tame”. And all that is outside of the territory, all that is uncivilised, is deemed as needing to be tamed. The land must be tamed and made nation. Beasts must be tamed and made domesticated livestock, pet or otherwise captured, or else be culled. Those categorised as degenerate must be tamed and made a Man in God’s eyes, civilised.
Not all civilisations opporate under the banner of fascism, but fascism signifies most the defining features of civilisation. This is why all totalising-civilisations, be they Marxist, liberal, libertarian, monarchist, theocratic, conservative, pseudo-anarchist etc., are all somewhat fascistic, if not outright fascist. They all worship before History, sanctifying the geo-spatial Reality it has constructed in its technological progression. They all distrust and ultimately hate those who embrace wild-Being and love the untamed, animal; those who, like Sigurd, listen to bird song to discover the mystical, rather than follow the encodings of the mythical of civilisation.
We those who defy this Reality, the feral, nihilists, untame anarchists, enemies of the Leviathan, enemies of History, enemies of the Word of God, lovers of bird song, those who feed the soil with their blood; we are those the fascists hate.
The wet of January was thick on the air
But we didn’t care
Because we were mountain bears
And we were the only ones there
We were the only ones there
And naked you stood before me
You held a branch in your right hand
In the left you held some heather
And you screamed the name of Man
And tectonic plates started shifting
As electronic voices hissed
This could never go on for forever
Though you did your very best
The stars started collapsing
Sinking deep inside the earth
They told me they were hiding
Hiding from their birth
And I felt my bones and muscles shift in peculiar ways
I became a werewolf and you started to dig graves
And the sparrow took your heather
She flew off in the rain
She was searching for November
She had forgotten her name
And none of us cared
We were the only ones there
No none of us cared
We were the only ones there
(Originally published on the website of Rewild Earth – Towards Post Civilisation)
“For the sake of its own efficiency and security, the System needs to bring about deep and radical social changes to match the changed conditions resulting from technological progress.” Kaczynski 
We find ourselves located in a strange place, an uncanny situation, disturbing yet familiar, horrific in its sheer comfortableness. This place appears to be, at all times, somewhere present, past and future, as we find ourselves caged in the great narrative of History, its progression and its being conserved. This place feels in many ways eternally-deathless, though it being entirely Dead in its being devoid of Life.
Stripped of our existential authenticity, our primal-animal nakedness, we find ourselves mediated by technology and trapped in the machinery of the constructed Reality we call civilisation . Like Ancient Rome, climate change, disease, the availability of “resources” and other non-machinic problems appear to hold greater influence over the fate of this machine than the wars or economic narratives, which are mere aspects of its production, do .
The machine appears from all angles to be collapsing, but yet we find ourselves caught in it’s parts. Robotic police are no longer mere science-fiction . Suicide machines now offer individuals a “peaceful” way out from the “chaos” of life within this constructed Reality . But in many ways this is simply the continuation of the same narrative we’ve always known within civilisation — with police being nothing more than extensions of the machine and life within this culture being a type of mechanic suicide, whose “order” grants the peaceful comfort of death, away from the “chaos” of wild-Being.
This narrative begun with the advent of agriculture in the neolithic . This narrative is the history of the machine — it is History. The birth of History saw the birth of God . And now the death of God appears to have taken on a whole new meaning to that proclaimed by Nietzsche.
The messianic digital-cybernetic deity of AI cult Way of the Future is the emerging face of God made-new; God updated . This cult, born out of Silicon Valley culture, its mythology shares the techno-utopian narrative of individuals such as Elon Musk , in that it views Gods will as being that the machine that is civilisation further abandons itself from the flesh of this world it has sought to violate, through its attempting to divorce its body from the earth, towards Mars . And with God being made here in Mans image, as a cosmological inversion (much like the inversion of the collapse we are witnessing, with multiple systems falling ontop of each other towards ruin), civilisation is terrified that the robots of the machine will need to install the same moral codings that have to be instilled in all domesticated people, turning to History to save themselves from the wrath of the ruin of the Future .
The “paradise engineering” of the construction of this onto-theological Reality is also found in the religious cult of transhumanism . This gnostic culture teaches transubstation of the flesh into the machine, through moral axioms around “perpetual progress” and a practice of “practical optimism”, whose practicality is merely an extension of the logic of civilisation, the same logic whose conclusion ends with ruin. It intends to try and upload human-consciousness into a digitised cyborg form, preserving the self of an individual, their memories and thought patterns, in metal, wires and electrical currents .
This notion stems from a vulgar-materialist machinic-biological conception of what mindedness is, seeking to extend the concept from machinic-biological into machinic-engineered. It attempts to reduce mind and consciousness to brain and cognition, through an eliminative-materialist theological narrative, which denies Life, seeing all as simply dead-matter. But if we allocate Life to being a very function of matter, in a hylozoic conception of the Real, then this reduction doesn’t seem to fit what mind appears to be. Rather, mind becomes an aspect of flesh; not just flesh as our immediate embodied-being, but flesh as the Being of the world we are immersed within, are extensions of and find ourselves, in moments of existential authenticity, caught in the flow of. This notion of mind = flesh presents a panpsychist picture regarding consciousness, irreducible to the machinery of techno-utopians.
But we find our bodies trapped within the constructed Reality of the machine, of civilisation, the Leviathan, in buildings, towns, cities and all else it builds. Our consciousnesses are directed towards its pathways, digital and non-digital. We cannot know how this collapse will pan out, if it will transform into something worse, or if we will see its demise within our lifetimes — though I’m personally optimistic (not in the transhumanist sense), in that I believe near-term total collapse is the likely trajectory of History (we will wait and see). So what do we do now?
Anarchists are advocating abandoning the “digital utopia” . Primitivists advocate rewilding practices . Both groups advocate sabotage, though often in different ways. I think we need all three and more. We need a radical re-embrace of flesh and rejection of the machine of History, in any and all ways that entails, as acts of guerrilla-ontological attack  against against this constructed Reality and individual reclamation — as nihilists refusing the will of God and stabbing him in the back. And, alongside this, we need to consume this body of the machine, through usurpation of its narrative towards an excellerationist trajectory regarding its narrative — using the weapons of the enemy against them.
This is not stated naively, nor without awareness of the sheer horror of the encroaching desert of the Real this Reality has brought about. Nor is it stated believing that “we can defeat this”. This is not about winning or losing, as such terms are only relevant to the narrative of History. This is about finding what it is we wish to do right here and right now, in this present location. It is about asking ourselves who we really are, what it is we love and what it is we are going to do.
“I consider them to be symbols and I leave them for the symbol minded” George Carlin
My interest in anti-civ philosophy, past just being an anarcho-kid in my late teens looking up stuff online, initially developed out of my interest (or rather repulsion towards) social-constructivist and symbolic-interactionist arguments around the construction of the self, and (again my repulsion towards) Freud’s work Civilisation and its Discontents. Following this, I explored both post-structuralist and green-anarchist, including anarcho-primitivist, materials on the self and on symbolic-culture. This, as well as my relationship to technology and “nature” shifting, led me to write Feral Consciousness and pursue other similar projects.
Feral Consciousness was published by Little Black Cart (most of my readers know this, but I’m including this to clarify for anyone unfamiliar with my writings), who I obviously have a great deal of love for. LBC are an absolutely tenacious project, in their relentless pursuit of publishing challenging and thought provoking materials, particularly ones that include spaces of self-reflection/critique within radical spaces. And because of this they get a lot of hate and bad press thrown their way.
Now last year LBC published the eco-extremist journal Atassa, because (as I understand their reasoning) this is a journal about a movement which is a breakaway one to the anarchist movement LBC is part of, which takes a post-Kaczynskian post-insurrectionary-primitivist-anarchist approach to action and discourse. The journal got a lot of hate, as did its writers and LBC, and I wrote this piece to voice love and support for people I know involved in this project.
Now Atassa 2 is set for release soon and just its cover is resulting in controversy amongst the liberal-leftists who claim the name anarchist –
Scott Campbell is heavily involved in the organisation Its Going Down and seems to have made it his personal vendetta to “take down” Atassa and anything linked to eco-extremism. This seems to stem from an unconscious-racist dynamic of Campbell’s brand of liberal-radicalism, whose colonial narrative seeks to dominate all into its Euro-American moral dogma, rather than actually challenge this culture and its means of maintaining authority. It is liberal-leftist PC whitewashing of the world. It is ugly and bigoted – the left was always just the other mask of the same beast.
As Rhyd Wildermuth (my editor at G&R) pointed out on his Facebook page, the image is of an indigenous sun wheel, not a Nazi symbol, though it was almost certainly chosen to be confused over and provoke a reaction –
“Anyway, there’s a crusade starting against a fellow publisher (Little Black Cart) for the cover of their new journal Atassa. It displays an indigenous sunwheel, which is like a swastika.
The cover is obviously a bit Charlie Hebdo, provocative and purposefully baiting hysteric over-reaction. LBC was banned from an anarchist book fair in LA for a previous issue, and they got attacked at the anarchist book fair in Seattle last year.
Whatever you think of the content of their books, they are doing something the left should have been doing a long time ago: pushing back against those Robespierres who only accumulate power to attack rivals, not the rich.”
In their uploading the image onto their Facebook page, Atassa include this quote –
“The importance of boundaries and the circle and cross motif cropped up frequently in the decoration of ceremonial gorgets worn by Mississippian chiefs or priests in sacred ceremonies. Figure 3 depicts such a gorget, and it shows that the space beyond the orderly sacred circle was filled with horrible anomalous creatures who embodied the chaos and power of the outside world. By mixing the Underworld (a serpent’s body), the Upper World (an eagle’s wings), and This World (a panther’s head), the creatures violated the separation of the planes that was necessary if balance was to be maintained. Moreover, the representation of male and female genitalia in the circular and elliptical designs that covered their serpentine bodies suggests the equally terrible consequences of mixing genders. Such monsters offered people a terrifying reminder of the need to follow prescribed social conventions to save their world and themselves.
From the sleepy rivers and fetid swamps that represented the pathways between This World and the Underworld to the dark arboreal embrace of the forests beyond the pale of human habitation, the outside world that surrounded the Choctaws was home to many terrible creatures. Those who ventured beyond the circle’s safe confines could expect to encounter monsters like the Nalusa Falaya, the Long Evil Being. Its beady eyes, set in a small shriveled head, peered over a protruding nose and searched the night for hunters. When it spotted prey the monster crept up behind the hunting parties and called to them. Those who turned to look fainted from fright at the sight of its face, and Nalusa Falaya pricked them with a magic thorn to transform them into evil beings. Less dangerous was the Kashehotopalo, which juxtaposed gender and species in a truly hideous form. Perched on the legs of a deer, a man’s trunk extended from the waist and was topped by an evil-looking head. From its wrinkled mouth came a woman’s cry that terrified all who heard it. Other creatures infested the thickets and waters around the Choctaw circle, creatures that with one glance could force travelers to lose their way or draw them into pools and streams for a bewitched life in the Underworld.”
-James Taylor Carson, Searching for the Bright Path: Mississippi Choctaws from Prehistory to Removal, pages 23-24
Now I’m completely onboard with critiquing eco-extremism, as I have done here and here, and I have a love-hate relationship with Atassa and the individual who appears to be the main person involve in it, as I articulated here. But as I stated in my original Some Words For Friends post, witch hunts are ugly.
Symbolic-culture and its means of psychic-mediation fuck us up enough as it is and the “anarchist” world would do well to let go of surface level vulgarities and obvious provocations, if it doesn’t want to continue the narrative of totalitarian-liberalism it is embracing in the present. There is undoubtably something we can learn from eco-extremism and the Atassa project and excluding eco-extremism from discourse through unreflective rejection appears to only come from bigotry and prejudice. And, alongside borrowing a meme from an Atassa fan page, I’d like to point out that eco-extremists have killed far less than Marxists have, yet anarcho-kids are generally happy with maintaining relationship with that discourse (I still wear my old Che shirt from when I was 16) –
Perhaps it is pointless of me to write this, to respond to Campbell’s ridiculous “fascist” comment and to have articulated a pre-emptive strike against the witch hunt that will probably continue. Perhaps LBC would have done well to have learnt from the events of last year (though I imagine they rather enjoyed the controversy). I remain perpetually revolted by the left – the make-nicers of History, make-up artists of the Leviathan.
All I ask is that anyone reading this leave as much their symbol-mind prejudice from their exploration of Atassa and eco-extremism, and take it for what it is – flawed, often ugly and sometimes disturbing, but worth exploring and including in discussion.
Time is an elusive and deceptive phantasm, slipping beyond our grasp until we find ourselves grasping at nothing, before finding ourselves encaged within its bars, cut off from the timelessness of the present.
Relativity, quantum correlation, time entanglement and superposition, and other truisms of science all (to the degree that scientific truth reveals anything) reveal that time is, if nothing else, fuzzy. But the phenomenology our immediate egoistic experience, while perhaps encoded in the myths and Symbols of History, progress, civilisation; means we find ourselves ultimately condemned to the transient dances of the eternal return of the present. And so, we find that the linear trajectory mapping out Historicities, personal, political or otherwise, places us outside ourselves, seeking to divorce us from our flesh, our bodies, our living-animality – as before domestication there was no History and no “real” time, as non-domesticated animals, with no machinery/production, can really only waste time, and time wasted isn’t time spent (because time is capital as-reified-Being).
But we find ourselves ultimately in a state of cosmic-contradiction, akin to that of superposition. This contradiction is the one that finds us both trapped in the alienation of time/History and mysteriously, immediately outside of it, free from its clutches. Which is not to say that bodies don’t decay within the transience of the present, presenting what we call age – which is ultimately just illusions regarding the Sameness of any identicality within the spatio-temporality of flux (the river of Heraclitus) – eternity is at the core of all myths of the Leviathan and its machinery, with all eternity being the eternity of time and the encoding of civilisation. No, this is the claim that neither the past nor the future exist.
The concept of time is a force that divorces us from relationalities and into structures. Zerzan wrote in Time and its Discontents –
“Time necessarily flows; without its passage there would be no sense of time. Whatever flows, though, flows with respect to time. Time therefore flows with respect to itself, which is meaningless owing to the fact that nothing can flow with respect to itself. No vocabulary is available for the abstract explication of time apart from a vocabulary in which time is already presupposed.”
So given time being located with a discourse that presupposes its own existence, time is revealed as the dogmatic axiom of a foundationalist construction of Being – a machinic entity, a blockage in the living flow of wild-Being.
But given the state of empire we find ourselves geographically immersed within, it cannot be denied that, in our superposition, we also find ourselves encaged in time/History. And we find ourselves at the ending of one year and the beginning of another – though I feel disgusted by discussing this in the terms of beginnings and endings, time and History, for pragmatisms sake I shall.
2017 was a tough year for many. Many, perhaps most, thought that things couldn’t get worse than 2016. But 2017 came and kicked us all up the arse.
If Trump and Brexit and other entirely arbitrary socio-political narratives weren’t enough to strike fear and horror into your hearts, regarding the trajectory History and progress seems to be going down (in its fumbling attempts to avoid collapse), well then the destructive fury of hurricanes, earthquakes and wild-fires, escalated by the effects of civilisations violence, brought many closer to the existential nightmare before us, as ecological collapse means a far more chaotic (to use the language of the false dichotomy of chaos and order) world than any of us have ever known.
And we’d be complete fools if we were to believe 2018 is going to be an easier year.
It seems almost poetic that as this past year ends and this new one begins, Storm Dylan will visit this island in the North Sea that I live upon. And ecological collapse is here, right now. This is the mass extinction event and regardless of any socio-political scheme, project or whatever thing culture tries to create to keep itself going, who it elects or who it impeaches, humanity, as in civilised, domesticated biological-humans within the machinery of the Leviathan, is fucked. 2018 will, I believe, bring us all far closer to this truth. And it feels Kaczynzkian to say that civilisation can’t have its cake and eat it too – especially given the media coverage he has had with the new Netflix series (which isn’t actually too bad).
But 2017 wasn’t a bad year for me. In fact 2017 was in many ways fucking awesome! Sure there has been personal struggles, everyday stresses and the crap that just goes with living in this culture to piss me off. But 2017 was the year in which the book I’d poured myself into during the last 2 years of my undergraduate degree became published, seeing a huge personal dream realised, which I’ve done talks on across this island, seen in book shops I love, and which has brought more people than I expected to contact me about with love in response to. 2017 has been the year during which I married the woman I have loved and been companion to since I was 15, who has stuck by me these 11 years and deeply cared for me throughout my cancer treatment (and we had a glorious wedding). 2017 included my managing to find employment that I find personally enriching, with no self-betrayal, so that I have the financial means to survive this culture and engage in activities that I want to engage in. In 2017 I have been able to give more of myself to struggles I want to support. It has seen new friendships, as well as the ending of old ones. It has involved laughter and tears. And I am grateful for the experiences of this past year.
As 2018 comes ever closer though, while I am excited for personal projects, I cannot deny the dread I feel regarding what I believe is to come. I’m not looking forward to the further collapse of the biosphere, though I do see beauty in the destructive fury of wild-Being. I am not looking forward to the return of specicide projects that I feel tugged towards attempting to sabotage. I don’t care about arbitrary socio-political issues, but I don’t want to see those that I love struggling because of their violences.
I guess I will just have to take each present moment as it comes, as we all do in actuality.
The becoming-feral of green nihilism and the emergence of animal-becoming through radical mysticism as an iconoclastic force, outside of time/History as a means of attacking and resisting the Leviathan, through revolt and rebellion, is what I have to offer now, in this present moment. These dances are what interest me in this present moment. I’ll have to see if 2018 moves me away from this or closer to it.
I’ll end with a happy new year, as it seems fitting, and I’ll say that I hope your 2018 is full of wild life-enriching experiences.
I suck the venom from out my veins and spit it on the ground.
Bluebells and sycamores push through the concrete.
Rain drops barely visible by moonlight fall free in the wind.
Flesh returned to the body free from the prison of tombs and eternity.