Some Brief Words On Anarchy

Anarchy is inescapable.

Anarchy is what is.

Freedom is inescapable

You were born wild and repressed into believing the illusion that you are part of a collective, outside the multiplicity of living anarchy, a collective known as civilisation, and so are unfree.

The collective tame deny themselves the joyous tragic beauty of the wild.

The feral, the iconoclasts know this beauty, and delight in its splendour.

Whether it is the dances of deer and badgers, or the piercing touch of thorns digging into our skin, the beauty of anarchy, the passionate unrepressed, untamed energy of life is wondrous in its unrelenting transient dance, of Being and Becoming.

As anarchists we embrace our anarchy, our nihilistic nakedness, our creative-destructive becoming, and reject the systems of collectives and systematisers.

Traps, cages and all other technologies will be destroyed and transformed into creations of a ruinous and broken form – works of art as semiotics of chaosmic fury.

No-Thing will last; hurricanes, fires and earth are testament to this.

The acosmic flowing flux of wild-Being is all there is, outside of time and history to be conserved or progressed.

I tire of anarchist who chain themselves inside cages of ideology and history, and have little patience for them.

Like Diogenes and other great cynics and individualists, my main request of the civilised is that they remove themselves from my sunshine. But I also desire they get out of the way of the sunshine of other feral and wild beings, for their ugliness is something I find continually abhorrent and disgusting.

The trees that once stood are here no more, but they are unforgotten, and I, like my friends, allies and cohorts, am a forest and a night of dark trees, before the dawn and the new sun rise, whose unique glory is that of the rivers boundless flux.

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Chaosmic Heretic Dances

A gale in the night is a chaosmic orchestra

Whose symphony fills the landscape with an auditory flood

Shattering the still quiet with rushing gusts

The pounding of rain upon the body of the earth

 

Under the body of a community of trees

I found the splendour of the wild world

Outside of order and death

The subtle touch of leaf and rain

 

When that fawn looked in my eyes

I saw it look into me, confused by my adornments

It knew nothing of the masks of Man

Splendid in its nakedness, it danced away and left me behind

 

The silence of the machine is a deafening void

A simulacrum of sound, with nothing to hear

An explosion devoid of shattering, erupting yet again

This is what has become of the world of Men

 

Like Gilgamesh before, Man prostrates himself

Unable to flee the wild, he chops down the trees

Slaughters those who dance upon the forest floor

The violence of a coward devoid of beauty or splendour

 

“They are coming from the woods” he cries

And behind the metal of his axe he hides

Fires they will come and go

But we are in the midst of a violent shattering

 

Battles once fought rarely finish

The scars of empires have not healed

But all they fear is found in the dance

Of those who listen to orchestras eruptions

 

Being is transient, the river and winds flow

Death is the only eternal, the only permanency

Each sunrise is a new destructive shattering

This is the truth that each morning the bird sings

 

Mountain walkers laugh in the dark of night

And rejoice at the beauty of the dawn

Quake in fear, for we heretics are coming from the woods

We are the destructive fury of a storm

 

 

Radical Semiotics and The Need For Ontological Anarchism

My first piece on Gods and Radicals

GODS & RADICALS

“The repression of an individual by the iron machinery of the State has rarely been so powerfully depicted. Yet this is only the beginning of the story.” Fredy Perlman

Anarchists have beautifully and articulately expressed many of the same criticisms and theories of classical anarchist and economic theories (predominantly classical liberalism and anti-state Marxist-style socialism), on repeat, in an eternal return that can appear never ending (and can get extremely boring). What have received far less attention within anarchist discourse are questions regarding what-it-is-we-are-actually-opposing and how do we make meaning while trapped within the culture we supposedly oppose.

This situation is basically that which Walter Benjamin discussed in his essay ‘The Work Of Art In The Age Of Mechanical Reproduction’, where the perpetual reproduction of the same critiques, ideas and theories leads to their losing their unique existence and presence in time and space.

So this piece might…

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A Manifesto for Artistic Pessimism

My most recent piece on Radical Art Review

By Julian Langer

Romanian nihilist and pessimist philosopher Emil Cioran once wrote “only optimists commit suicide, optimists who no longer succeed at being optimists” and that “it is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late”.

In these short collection of words, this tragic thinker – who wrote books such as On The Heights of Despair and A Short History of Decay – speaks to something at the very core of life, especially within this culture – the need for sincere, honest and authentic pessimism. He wrote that “Chaos is rejecting all you have learned, chaos is being yourself” and, following from this, it is your-self I wish to appeal to in the words I present here.

“One must have chaos within to give birth to a dancing star” Nietzsche

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The fact that the vast majority of films present a near totalising…

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Resting With Wildlife Before Re-Joining The Fight

As I type these words I am sat in my garden in the middle of the British countryside, enjoying the heat of the summer sun, listening to the birds sing, with bees and butterflies dancing around me. This is a moment that can only be described as beautiful – but that fails to do it any justice. I am in a blissful state here and am love this space.

But I know what today is and what is happening around me as I type these words.

Today is the start of this years badger cull and this year the cull zone has expanded, so that it is right on my doorstep and happening all around me. The badger cull is a vile practice of ecocide and specicide, done to hide the shame of shitty agricultural practices that spread bovine TB, in the name of this culture, civilisation; history and progress.

I hate this culture and I hate the badger cull with a passionate fury that burns a wildlife at the core of my feral being. But today, due to circumstances that have felt me physically, mentally and emotionally drained, I am having to care for a loved one and take some self-care time, when I had intended to be out, doing what I can to resist the cullers.

Don’t get me wrong, I am happy to care for my loved ones and am aware that I need to rest. I just cannot not think of what is going on today, and want to fight back.

Today I’ve taken inspiration from and written about Fight of the Rebel Territory, in their activities against civilisation. I’m also thinking about the flooding situation in Texas and thinking about how, no matter how much civilisation expands the technosphere to mediate itself from the Real, wild-Being finds its way through, that anarchy is inescapable.

And I know I’ll be out to resist the violence of civilisation, through means of creative-destruction.

Right now though I’m just going to enjoy the wildlife in my garden and rest before the fight.

Lexicons: On My Choice Of Words

Writing about writing has somewhat of an almost schizophrenic feel about it, where my mind gazes upon itself and acts as an Other observing the actions it performs over a geographical totality. In this case the geography is my laptop screen as I type these words out for you to read. Even as I write these word I know they are subject to the account I am about to present on the words I use when writing and I end up in a perpetual loop of self-reflection, descending into the abyss of my mind, consciousness and life – a place I spend too much time in as it is.

Wittgenstein argued that the limits of someones language are the limits of their world, which appears true – I could paraphrase stuff I wrote about in Feral Consciousness and socio-linguistic nerd stuff, but I shan’t, because this is not going to be an overly in-depth account. Basically Symbolic-culture and ideology are one and the same, serve as means of mediating consciousness from what is Real (the wild/nature) and into the production narratives of this culture – i.e. the world of this-culture, and suck.

So if language is a means of limiting my world, I choose to not limit my language. This is partly because my experience of Being, the wild, is that it is a limitless spatial-field, apeiron as Ancient Greek philosopher Axanimander termed it, boundless in its topology. And as I choose not to limit my language, I choose not to attempt to conform to any particular aesthetic regarding lexicons – aesthetics and morals are the same thing and I reject dogmatisms of socio-normativity, embracing my feral and iconoclastic tastes.

Obviously my tastes in terms and concepts draw from post-structuralist, existentialist, social-psychological, radical environmentalist, existentialist and other vocabularies that come from certain cultural narratives around the creation of semiotic-fields, as well as the machinic production of knowledge. And anyone is free to criticise me for this choice – I honestly don’t care what other peoples preferences are on the matter. The practice of guerrilla ontology and eco-radical-iconoclasm, for me, involves the embrace of an anarchist-epistemology, where the basis of truth is immediate-subjectivity, which can utilise various means of knowledge-production as means of supporting its attack on this culture.

This is not an attempt to justify my choice in lexicons, rather it is simply a clarification that does not attempt to be clearer for socially-normative reasons. Take this as you will.

Enemy of Meliorism: Anti-Politics

The delusion that we live in a post-ideological globalist-society seems impossible to maintain in the present moment. The Spectacle of Sander and Corbyn and communism fetishism, coupled with the popularity of far-right politicians like Trump, Clinton, May and Marie Le Pen, bring the narratives of socio-cosmological dualistic battles between the conflicting ideological bodies of the left, who want to propel society further forward into history and a romantic future, and the right, who want to retain/retent/conserve history as an ideal to aspire towards in the present and in the “future”, more and more into our daily lives.

Within this dualism, the onto-theological platform/battle-field is that of civilisation, history; a progressive narrative, defined by technological, colonial and ecocidal violence.

Marx argued that the man-kind produces history, through dominating nature, transforming nature and inso doing transforming themselves. This stems from his embrace of the concept of dialectics, whereby dualistic conflict between competing histories (thesis-anti-thesis) synthesise into progression and history maintains its idealised teleological trajectory.

We’ve all seen the waste product of the Marxist production of history, their revolutionary project. While they might raise cultish ideological icons up, as psycho-geographical totem’s to internalise their socio-normative dogmas, the history they have created is dominated by narratives of monstrous acts of genocide and ecocide, culminating in a present where megalomaniacs rule their totalitarian territories and nuclear war is looking increasingly likely.

The leftist church of history has succeeded in propelling this planet and civilisation to ruin, and has failed at being an oppositional force to those they sought to oppose, though perhaps winning some battles regarding pop-culture and everyday socially normative behaviour (to a limited degree).

The right-wing church of history is becoming increasingly vocal and active, amidst the collapse of the left, as we saw with the rise of the alt-right and recent events in Charlottesville. Their project is one of inauthenticity in response to existential despair over the emptiness of their cultures socio-political normative ideal – the Western dream, of Euro-American sovereignty, this culture’s expansionist “manifest destiny”, the projected trajectory of the project of history, has lead to nothing but ecological and socio-cultural ruin, as a rising tide of Islamism and Asian-Marxism attempts to claim and dominate the ruins of a biosphere and civilisation in collapse.

Neither of these churches, nor their iconography, hold anything of value for us, as we strive to live lives and survive in the wastelands they have produced.

But not enough is said of the space between these conflicting churches, which resides in the same onto-theological platform of history – that of the liberal-centrist orthodoxy.

A champion of liberalism and, like Marx, lover of the Hegelian dialectic, Fukuyama, in his evolutionist perspective on social-ontics – one which misunderstands evolutionary processes, taking them to be a progression towards an ideal, rather than adapting to the transient flux of the wild – argues that centrist-capitalist liberal democracy is the end point of history’s progression, the teleological ideal, and that history is at its end. This notion is one that would seem false, given the rise Islamism and Asian-Marxism, were it not for the ecological and militarian ruin that lies before us, as the body of the world we are immersed within. So, despite techno-utopian post-humanist/trans-humanist ideological romantic ideals, it appears this Christian eschatology holds true, though through negation of its own ideal.

And here we find ourselves, in the present, amidst the ideological apparatus of progressivism and the narratives of its modality. Within the geo-spatial vectors and psycho-geography of the end point of history, with dialectic conflicts of antifa vs nazis, US vs North Korea, Corbyn vs May and others propelling us further into the depths of history, as this culture becomes more-and-more immersed within the Spectacle of hyper-realism’s ideology, with the desert of the Real, and all the existential dread it brings us (to be perpetually technologically mediated from, through Symbolic narratives of idealised dogmas), before us, we are left in the despair of the now.

The present now is what the idea of progress attempts to flee from, what history/civilisation flees from through its very being.

What the end point of history and the desert of the Real reveal is that the notion of multiple and competing histories, the basis of much of postmodern thought, which served as an alternative historical narrative to those of the Enlightenment progressives, is a farce, and that histories battles have been between different heads of the hydra that is civilisation, the Leviathan – offspring of Typhon and Echidna. Each time you cut off a head another two sprout, through militarism, ecocide and discourse, and the Leviathan keeps on consuming, with Athena, born from the head of Zesus, is not here to provide a golden sword.

Striking at the heads of this beast only serve the project of history and civilisation, meliorism, as means of perpetuating the progress towards ruin and the expanding desert of the Real, while mediating the players from their actions through the spectacle of hyper-realism. And while obvious enemies are found within competing histories, those of fascism, communism, techno-progressivism, the activities of those oppositional to the Leviathan and its relentless violence should not be that of violence towards its heads, which will only serve to sprout new ones. Rather our activities are better served, if we actually desire what we desire, creating points of destruction against the body of the monster and undermining history itself, to bring it to collapse as fast as possible.

This is the iconoclastic project of the feral, as enemies of meliorism and history.

This is a rejection of the false promises of progress and the false dichotomies of leftism and rightism.

This is what eco-radicals of radical environmentalist, eco-extremist, guerrilla ontologist, eco-anarchist, naturist and any other milieu who share in the desire for the end of the Leviathan and its violence must engage in, in pursuit of our desire for a living thriving biosphere and a body we can dance upon as living beings, wildlife, naked before the setting sun.

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(Please excuse where the image came from – the meme just seemed appropriate)

Fire In A Untame Place 

I am a fire in an untamed place 

Light and heat to nurture the grace

Like a badger caged in the night 

You might thrash and bite out of freight 

But you feel through these feet

My roots run deep 

A tree to shelter from the storm

A fire to keep warm

But I won’t dissipate into ash

If I go you know I’m coming back 

The eternal return of the whisper of the wood

In these concrete landscape you know we stand where forests stood

I’m sat in a tree by a river

Who knows what boundlessness will deliver 

In this place of signs without symbols 

With no identicals or anything to resemble 

Each gust of wind is unique 

So abandon the bleak

Because you are the wind and the fire and the rain and the roots of the tree

Born condemned to be free

Immersed in the world, full of what is beautiful and wild

So run free child 

Dance upon the earth from your birth for all that it’s fucking worth

Like a song bird in flight 

Singing to chase away the night 

A Language They Don’t Speak

Sometimes this culture’s shit gets too much and I want to scream “FOR FUCKS SAKE STOP FUCKING STUFF UP BY TRYING TO NOT BREAK SHIT”, but I don’t, because to do so would create unnecessary hassle, which I honestly can’t be arsed with (so I mutter it internally until I’m with the trees and the birds and scream with them.

I’m becoming more and more like the birds who scream at the top of their lungs in horrified hellish rage every morning at daybreak, trying to warn people of the truths, speaking to people who do not speak the same language as me and the birds and the trees – to borrow from Kurt Cobain.

Wittgenstein argued that the limits of our language are the limits of our world and I’m getting pretty fucking sick of language and words written on paper, telling me what I can or can’t do, or say.

A hug is more honest communication than your words and the grammatics of your ideology, your behavioural encoding, trying to bind and bound me to the structures of your territory. A punch is also. An explosion is more honest than the words of a bureaucrat, a politician or any other priest of the Leviathan’s theocracy.

The wind, rain, flame, shaking of the earth, seas rising, tree roots breaking, beasts thrashing, birds singing, hares dancing, and other wild articulations are more beautiful still.

The pen is not mightier than the song of the jay.

Even these words fall into nothing, before the transient dance of the transient-nothingness of immediacy and phenomenological-physicality.

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