It’s Always Darkest Before the Dawn

Dateline: February 9, 2018. Sky Valley, Cal. 

The dow dropped 1500 points yesterday; 666 on Friday. The Bond markets shuddering as global confidence in our government and the currency our bonds back circles the drain— symptoms of #maga as Mojo Jojo Trump’s magick monkey-at-a-Twitter-typewriter supervillian superpowers. We’ve dwelt in a six-bubble market for too long; in all bubble bursts, a bull market precedes each burst by no more than 18 months. History shows us: The first 11 of these months are all spectacular inflation of market valuation propagated by unsubstantiated manias; the last five are always a sputtering wildly swinging pendulum, which concresces with whatever the pestilence rotting our markets’ cores reaching critical bloat and rupturing.

As of this writing, we at T-minus 5 months and counting until the next economic catastrophe— this current bull was born under the sign of Aquarius, January 21, 2017– the day our POTUS, Donald Trump, did solemnly swear to “execute” the office he was elected to— and the neoliberal nazis running our Ponzi scheme markets and usurious fiat currencies rejoiced: “Free at last! Free at last! Thank god almighty we’re free at last!” At most, you have until July 2018 before the shit hits the fan in ways you simply have never fathomed. Your blindness to these matters, having just come out of two successive periods of such abuses in the last twenty years, is a kind of illiterate ignorance that should be impossible in a reasoned society. That it persists at all, let alone in circumstances as evidently dire as these, demonstrates a plague of congenital retardation and deranged denial has descended upon us all— and is dragging us by the balls to Hell.

The global cultural landscapes are fractured in uneven, ever-shifting planes of illusion-crusts, slipping and grinding over and below one another, the great planes investing every layer of human being with increasing agitation, dis-ease, anxiety, and uncertainty— and in their rumbling fractious motions casting solitary eddies of solemn loneliness that single us out from our tribes and swallow us whole, one by one. Depression and hopelessness swell as the full heft of our seeming-futility is felt before the enormity of the Hell opening round us. There is a mystery ailment— a sickness, a malady, a plague, a cancer, a species of parasites— that has all by the balls, and we convince ourselves, one in all, that we know the causes for such falls. In fact, the truth is— and we know this— we can’t see them at all. 

We are drowning, ladies and gentleman, or at least perceive ourselves as such. Truth is closer to this: after Larsen-C, we’ve plunged headlong off the cliff of our bloat mistaken as progress, and the pool we stand in, the pool of culture we experience ourselves as drowning in, has yet to be flooded and filled with the tidal wave splash of our culture’s impact as it slams, at last, dead into the ground. 

Then, ladies and gentleman, it is then that we will truly drown— if, indeed, we are so blessed as to survive this mighty fall. Understand: with with six-fold-plus burst, the walls of your very Reality will fall; you will discover to your dismay the truth of what’s happened to human you: that industry and capital and commodity have rendered you livestock: fat, stupid, lazy, and easy prey.

Pray, each of you then, that in that aftermath the madness that has so far gripped you eases enough that when help swims near you are clear enough of the world and the aims of others toward you and your children most of all that you recognize your allies, noble Valkyrie and Slayers and Spartans, her help, and receive it calm, trusting, and ready to learn. Pray you do not misrecognize the intents of those truly nefarious allies from the prior era, whose lies comforted you into a complacency you congratulated yourselves mistakenly as adhering to a measured and seeming-sage virtue. It is these men and women who have misled you and us to precipice, who have deceived us of its passing, and who now wait in anticipation, circling as sharks, waiting for us to plunge at last into their clutches, swelling hungrily in the depths below. Pray you recognize in this crucial moment of landing not merely the revelation of the true and virtuous good— the LIFE GUARD— selflessly acting on you and your children’s behalf distinguished from the deceptions of the hungry vile, but that if you should mistake the good for evil, you not be so fool as to drown her in her approach to save you— lest you deny others, also, of her and her sisters’ desperately needed angelic interventions.

In this all, which we are consumed by human folly after human folly, dramas we suppose are the harsh contacts generated by blunt words and genitals’ touchings (or threats thereof), dramas which we insist are earth shaking and shattering, so much that we can ignore that our obsessions with these petty social follies, obviously long played against us as distractions from the aims the evil succeed in accomplishing every day by coercing us to use our bodies to their nefarious advantage, and to reward us for maintaining our ignorance through rigorous, faithful self-application of cognitive dissonances and blue pill after blue pill denials. These follies are world-shattering and show-stopping only by first world white privilege fiat— but not so nearly nor dearly limited to the narrow, vain scope we first world fools apply to the bigger picture. As we chase the follies of what we suppose are the idiot patriarchy’s (true, but not so true as to merit exclusive attention and causal diagnosis, let alone redress via some mechanistic repair modes, wrested by virtue of complaint masked as truth carried by the idiot presumption that it is always and ever TRUTH that wins the day), as we are easily consumed and dutifully solely attentive to human concerns alone, we miss again and again the blatant and obvious dangers swelling around us. It isn’t just our culture that crashes; it isn’t just your liberty that is in danger. Your planet, also, followed you and Larsen-C over that precipice and into freefall. What world will be inherited by your grandchildren from you and me?

We are blind to the whole of our circumstance, and we accomplish this blindness and sustain it via rigorous application of practices which apply Classical and Operant Conditioning across a manifold spectrum of industrial vehicles and their delivery modes— prevailing to reward any and all forms of cognitive dissonance and celebrity branding as blanket against the truth of our stupid, vain, social scandals. In this, unwitting, dutiful submission of Facebook likes, we have rent ourselves to the devil, to the Luciferian, to the monsters of our times. In this, unwitting, pridefully, and with a loyal stupidity that, once unmasked, would in politer times shame us each for a lifetime, we have invited and awarded ourselves for accepting the rewards that come with being successfully trained— to neither be ape nor human, but consumer: A walking mouth, a boca human— the feeding tube self— you insisting “you” exist is an I between your eyes, exclusively in your fifth jointed appendage flanging dizzingly off the bottom of you, flailing wildly in the void of space— your precious, petty periscope head, and it’s third to form eight pound lump of fat cephalic brain— the central, unquestionable tenet of this very, very dangerous game of human being. 

The consumer: Man as industrially groomed livestock. Federally subsidized, of course. Ladies: This is precisely why your womb is the most consequential matter in this game, precisely why unleashing your womb is the aim of the enemy: Only from betwixt your legs, only from your loins, can they receive their veal. Gentlemen: You and I are ever replaceable in this scheme. Every single member of the fairer sex is irreplaceable treasures, and the enemy knows this all too well. The more of these cows the enemy has in its clutches, the greater the yield of your children, whom they prize as their veal. One bull, the strongest and most vital, or the weakest, least adrenalized, and most complacent, the enemy knows is all it takes to inseminate the whole of them. 

Gentlemen, your children, born and unborn, are in deadly, mortal peril; your women are naked, alone, and screeching, rightfully, that they are waking to the the nightmare shock that you and I have failed resolutely and resoundingly in protecting our most precious treasures: our living futures, waiting for their crack at being, from the precious crucible of every one of our women, all of whom can be and are to be cherished and regarded as: Mothers. As each wakes, she may misperceive the danger as isolated to her, to her narrative, but as the tide rises— hashtag after hashtag erupting from the aether announces not simply, “I also have suffered molestation at a man’s vile hands,” but even more consequently: “I’ve suddenly realized we are in grave danger and that our men have demonstrated quite clearly: They are not up to the task of protecting us.” The signal of #metoo is not so simply an acknoledgement of abuse; it is the revelation each Mother is experiencing as such in isolate turn that, accumulated as human wave, signals the existential terror of the larger female half of the human macro-organism’s constituent population scenting a far greater danger on the wind, waiting just ‘round the next bend. 

And where are we, gentlemen? Juvenilized, weak, perverted, and petty: we play video games, get fucked up, and fight the difficult and unrewarding but necessary mantel of manhood tooth and nail. Gentleman, I say unto you now: Your ladies are right: we have failed them, one and all. 

You cannot be counted on to win the day, let alone carry your treasures through the dark of this long, evil night that descends up on us now. And you offer no compass nor map out of this cave. They are correct in waking to discover your idiocy and losing their faith in you.

The danger looming is one we continue to permit ourselves to be blind to; more than that, lady or guy, kid or adult, we reward and congratulate ourselves for training ourselves to ignore it. 

Permit me to illustrate the danger to you

1. You and your a species of great apes act in concert as geologic catalyst.

Traffic was slow for the crash years
There’s no other show like it ‘round here
As a rule. 
Windows were rolled for the crash years
Honey child you’re not safe here. 
As a rule.
—New Pornographers, “Crash Years,” Together

 

The milieu you inhabit, your earth, round or flat or pyramid or dodecahedron, is unravelling, explosively, and now with a rate of change that if we can step away from the dumb habit of isolate analysis of supposedly discrete phenomenon measured solely against past occurrence of the same and map wholistically over the whole of geologic time so that we can see quite plainly corresponds, on all axises, to a course that is solely and inescapably parabolic. To separate ourselves from the orthodox necessity of the idea of ourselves that we are separate and above all, especially over Nature and from one another, and possess the courage and imagination to see ourselves part of this whole we think we occupy and which truly occupies us, and which we only truly reside as part of, if we measure our course collectively as a mineral system on a mineral planet, if we have the courage to see it and ourselves as chemical systems interacting fundamentally, the evidence of this parabolic passage is obviously diagnosable: we are plainly a biologic catalyst in the mineral solution that is our planet. 

To that end, you must understand: We now rest in a upward trajectory that will not end until the catalyst has exhausted its vitality. The questions you must impress upon yourselves now: Will this catalyst succeed? What is its final aim? What does failure look like? Is there evidence of similar planetary catalyses elsewhere we can observe that might provide insight into success or failure? Is catalyst’s failure assured? If it isn’t, how we succeed? And, most consequentially: How much time is left to act?

To the latter, I soberingly warn you: Less than a year remains, and should our economy crash this summer as all indications point to, should our election cycle be a repeat of the previous psychotic shitshows of social scandal acting as smoke screen masking now irreversible global calamity. Should our civilization fall and the Sino-Russian Empire complete its ascension, our catalysis is guaranteed failure. 

What evidence do we have for a failed planetary biochemical catalysis failure? Surely none! 

Not so: Look to your great sage, Carl Sagan, who was not an astronomer nor astrophysicist as we suppose, but a scholar and seeker of alien life. Mr. Sagan supposed when he was awarded his doctorate and throughout his career that our sister planet, Venus, has previously harbored and industrial civilization, and its unsage hand had caused the greenhouse calamity and enabled the methanic volcanism rendering her once-lovely surface the violent churning uninhabitable hell it is today. It’s a fascinating proclamation he advanced often and we’ve since forgotten. We knew little of geology in his lifetime, least of all a concept of ductile sub-liminal, sub-crustal rock. Any application of modern tectonic understanding, inclusive of this ductility of sub-crustal rock (and not the wrong-headed notion of a churning sea of steel-hot magma), confirms Sagan’s hypothesis for Venus as startlingly more reasonable. Applied against the obvious evidence of our species’ function as catalyst, the evidence is plain: Venus is a wasted morass, a toxic boiling geologic pustule wasted by a catalysis that failed.

Our opposite neighbor, Mars, also, is tectonically dead. Was Mars victim first to this disease— this parasitism? Is the supervolcano edifices and aeolian features we see now evidence of storms such as those Venus suffered, now long past? Did that excessive volcanism shed it’s vital planetary heat, too rapidly exhaust it’s core’s half life, and stun it dead in a geo-cardiac arrest, whose onset released  it’s magnetosphere’s protection, and so the sun’s fierce winds swept away the torment of it’s final hours, the torment of the toxic storm, and left a naked dead nothing, like his brother Mercury, as sepulcher of a wasted life?

Ladies, I posit simply thus: Whether we agree on what we suppose are their causes, your immediate planetary neighbors are dead. 

Venus and Mars are dead planets. I assert, boldly, both were murdered by the very same parasite, which feeds on this catalytic process we now emblematize, sucking the life from our earth this very moment. It does so first via smash and grab, then covers its tracks and forbids healing by slashing and burning the extraction site.

You are not raising your children in a good neighborhood. 

Planet death is a very, very real phenomenon. You should not suppose your species incapable of such a mighty seeming feat. This course is well underway: evidence for your species’ catalytic nature is in everything that we touch. Should we persist in turning away from this awesome endogenous power any longer— very literally through the end of this year— we damn not merely the generations ahead but the planet itself to Venus’ and Mars’ fate.

I assure you: This is the last year you have to act to make a difference. Fail, and damn your children and grandchildren to failed catalysis and the Venusian Hell Sagan supposed caused by precisely the same worship of vanity, scandal, and commodity we extol today

2. The progress of Mammon via propagation of fiat currency, the poison fruit of usury and its fallacy of progress.

 

Why do you get all the love in the world?
+
Will you bite the Hand that Feeds you?
—NIN, “The Hand that Feeds” + “All the Love in the World”, With Teeth
 

Such measurement would key to points in our history that spur this trajectory in its horrifying arc: surplus agriculture, truly the origin of culture and civilization kings, currency, and property ownerships, which sees its foundational technologies and chemistries set in motion; which drives us to the Enlightenment and its awards of so-called progress; which ever distract us from the mounting commotion these orthodoxed fallacies of the periscope’s preeminence to the exclusion of literally all else inflect and inflict upon We the People. In this confusion, this commotion, commodity slips in and renders itself a kind of narcotic king to each of us, hiding the lure of a darker god, evident and manifest in all forms: Currency, which acts as reality defining and building, via usury. If we justify and evidence our precious individualist periscopehead existence not by virtue of thought’s evidence to ones self, as Descartes supposed in his time, but to the evidence of ones’ passage in the world, marked only and ever via behavior, then how we mark the world in agreed-to-behaviors to satisfy even the supposition of those entities whose thoughts we cannot perceive nor motions we cannot connect, yet whom we agree advance stringent codes of human conduct and specific outcomes of intent truly stands as evidence of those gods’ passage in the world. We cannot prove the existence of Yaweh or Allah via interpersonal confrontation, sheltered in a safe space, of course. Yet there is evidence in wars and Inquisitions and crusades and zealous terrorism that men and women agree to what they suppose these divinities’ mortal moral instructions are; gathered as one body acting in concert, the effect these aims in their behaviors. In that regard, we render with utmost real in the world our so-called gods. 

So it goes: whether fiction or not, we the people, as one divine body of ourselves united in behavior by common purpose, make that fiction reality in the sheer force collective agency. Power is in behavior, for behavior alone is what marks and transforms the world; such power exists only in our physical bodies. 

We serve no god more dutifully, more reverently, and more ‘productively’ and damagingly, than usurious ‘fiat’ currency. Its rules rule us, fuel our confusion and commotion at the discrete constituent level, and so mask its hand, its influence over us, and its agency through us. Agency, you must understand, is the engine of directed behavior. I say again: Behavior alone what mark the world; it is solely resident in your body, and is your power and birthright.

There exists reasonable controversy in the fold over the matter of currency in general, but especially over fiat currency, which bares no basis for its valuation in commodity— of either declining value (grain in grainaries) or declining availability (precious metals, which go lost and end up fashioned into utilities and jewelry). Many of us live unmoored and agitated knowing we have nothing we can trace the dollar’s value back to— there is not gold in Fort Nox that we can claim with that greenback voucher Uncle Sam once pledged an even exchange for. 

Now, currency exists as gossamer myth— a Ponzi scheme, in fact, sustained by endless lending— the biblical and koranic sin of usury. 

Most have no idea what ‘fiat’ means, and too few care that while the strict Latin translation is ‘by decree’ and that the colloquial Latin usage leaned toward, ‘because we say so.’ Our masters coax us to suppose this is highly suggestive of some process of mutuation to arrive a daily assessment of what this pretend currency is relative to the others, we miss entirely that this term, fiat, masks that our currency is generated and arrived at via usury. This term, usury, means the charging of money to lend money. In the world’s great philosophic and theologic traditions, this is a monstrous and civically unpermissible sin. If we were semantically honest in naming our currencies mechanism of generation, we would not call it fiat; we could and should only call it usurious currency; were we so courageously honest, the consequences of this currency would make the full depth of its odious fatal stain self-evident.

Put simply, your money has no basis— it is leant into existence, and in order to repay that lending, still more must be leant. Our central banks do not report to us the repayment of bonds, nor the quality of the assets they hold on their balance sheets that should guarantee the value of those bonds. We are ignorant, for example, the tarp that was cast to cover the on-going catastrophe of crash after crash of junk bonds that followed 2008. It was precisely this progression which horrified me as a finance professional whop moonlighted as bubble-spotting economist. Again, semantics mask the truth: Ben Bernanke and Janet Yellen called their work Quantitive Easing, QE, a meaningless simulacra we suppose as true merely because the marriage of the two phonemes in the media space gave it an allure of expertise that warned prying us to off— this is too difficult for you to understand. In truth, all QE did was bail out the rich from each of these junk bonds moments before they turned from gold to shit in their hands. 

These bonds were issued with usurious currency; these bonds were recovered by the state with usurious currency; their rich counter-parties were awarded handsome piles of this usurious currency— and every penny of digitall invented and inventories on balance sheets hoarded by miserly cocks (Kochs), hedge funds, and churches. The whole of it, the entire enterprise of modern currency, is without underlying value whatsoever. Yet its influence is massive and monstrous— our world as it stands is entirely impossible without fiat’s usurious yields. Indeed, the very of idea of progress, which we assign cause to the Enlightenment, Democracy, and Capitalism, is in fact impossible without fiat’s usurious power to bloat. This is precisely because we agree to play by its muddling rules, and thus, collectively, with our bodies, we evidence fiat as the mightiest of gods to ever mark this earth with their passing.

Do not be ignorant of your nature. For as you are onto yourselves— this idea that you are individual, pleasantly narcotized by this supposition of supreme and paramount self-importance— you deceive yourselves from the beautiful truth that you merely one a rung on a ladder of being; your bodies, not merely assemblages of organs, cells, organelles, and chemicals acting in chemical concert, act also as cells themselves in still larger organs, organisms, and so on. The course of the Bloom, the defining Universal agency, holds true: The phenomenon of you is not isolated merely to you, and you are done vastly more than you ever do. The you blind yourselves the massive truth of the former by exaggerating the consequence of the latter guarantees that you remain subject not merely to the the control of nefarious others, but that you remain willfully and inexcusably ignorant to the wicked gods in your midst, acting through and doing you more than you do you, most notably and subtly and most poisonous and destructively in dutiful service to fiat currency, manufactured solely via usury— Mammon’s One True God.

Whether or not you can face and confront these gods, prove yourselves to them face to face as you might each other in a by-gone era predating accidental predation of your mirror cells by iPhone and poor broken Facebook, is immaterial: your bodies, acting in agreement, have marked the world just the same with your sleepwalking bodies— the only way in this catalyst game we accomplish climate change. It is only in this way, by marking the world, that any passage, any presence, any life can truly be measured and know. Those matters we hold most dear— words, names, emotions— these are infinite, a flood of vapors, a torrent of steamy air. These exist as signals only the moment; even your name will vanish from memory within two generations and that none will assign itself to new others— who may or may not bare it with some trace of your precious essence. These things mark nothing; these things have no lasting consequence. It is only the individual prior-to-iPhone whom could be consoled by Descartes’ too-facile vanity-satisfying axiom. This axiom, fundamental to the Enlightenment, is precisely the inflammation of self via self-importance’s narcotisms, is the very engine that makes us most easily susceptible to the simplest of cons precisely because it traps us in our periscopeheads and fuels their idiot denial of its two older siblings it keeps subsumed and unconscious, tortured in the chest and belly— the truly, the whole of you, what is most of your matter, what matters most. 

We are trapped playing shell game after shell game, following bouncing ball after bouncing ball, chasing lure after lure, after lie after lie, shiny shiny, following nefarious kings of lies and queens of scandal, who divide us ever, again and again, away from each other, into ourselves, more and more deeply, discovering to our neurotic terror with each involution in ourselves with anxious horror: that within each of us, each precious individual, there is no there there.

3. The Damning Plague of Peekaboo Baby Book Black Mirrors

Is this the real life?
Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a landslide
No escape from reality to
Open your eyes
Look up to the skies
And see.

Queen, “Bohemian Rhapsody”

 

I submit myself to you: humble student of history, kind observer of the Mother and her blooms, witness of the Father and his works, and member of the People and its tribes, the greatest of great apes, man and womb-of-man woman, our most surpreme treasure, from whence all men come, their mistakes of youth in discovering and applying their inherited divine gifts, and the might with which we have exercised those gifts and their consequences— good and bad, adaptive or not. 

It’s a strange business, but behaviors have always compelled me as more reliably true than any of data nor our self-reportage— not least because I could never count on the reliability and consistency of my own self-reportage with others, and certainly because, time and again, I discovered word and deed coincide far less often than we comfort or congratulate ourselves— so much so that those occasioned correspondences bely only  casual correlational mutated relationships. I never mistook them for causal. I admit: beyond the first blush of assessing diagnostic utility in the relativism of being, I find the entire idea of causality suspect. Where, precisely, does one nail down with utmost certainty utmost primacy and supremacy of absolute cause? At what point in your gathering understanding does the accumulated evidence overwhelmingly necessitate that you shift your focus to a still earlier cause? When do you and all parties agree that you have, in fact, identified the incontrovertible source of… whatever malady you seek redress? Why do we rarely seek to understand the underlying causality of benefit and blessing to measures and degrees equal to their oppressive and unpleasant cousin consequences? Do the evidences of such journeys— specifically attuned to deliver blame and accusation— which always torch any and all possibility of agreement— justify their supposition of cause as a primary condition whose alteration affords altered destiny?

Now— it is a necessary personal interjection, also— I add: In art school (Kansas City Art Institute), I was blessed with exceptional philosophy professor— Hal Wert. Hal’s two semester survey in western thought so inspired me that I left art school to become… a philosopher, nearly thirty years later, and after dallying perhaps too long in finance, moonlighting as an economist. Hal’s aim in these classes was to illustrate again and again Koestler’s concept of the watershed— the interstitial period of upheaval in the transition between paradigms or epochs, and which evidence evolutionary leaps-in-progress— as, he slyly did little to hide, he supposed we were entering then. Certainly, I agreed and agree: We handily and snuggly in-watershed, then and now. However, I was captivated by another phenomenon. As we followed the train of philosophic thought, scientific evidenced discoveries, and the response and lure that the arts and music catalyzed in both, and mutuated through them all, a pattern became apparent: Each great thinker made one or two great leaps, and then went no further. The baton of our philosophic evolution lie waiting after DesCartes, Newton, Darwin, Freud, Einstein: each made one contribution and seemed stuck, unable to go further. Yet taken in full scope, the progression of thought and knowledge seemed obvious: There were always many more leaps to take after that. Why, I wondered, did each great man rest at one defining achievement— Principea Matematica, Natural Selection, The Relativities? Why did they not push farther? Why didn’t their success inspire them to make more leaps? I found myself intrigued, inspired, and enflamed: I wanted to make many, many of these leaps myself— by simple virtue that I knew that I could.

I guess it took quite a bit longer than I boasted and expected. Better late than never.

I wanted to push the chain of discovery up and down as many rungs and rings on as many chains and ladders as I could— and return to we the People with too many treasures to carry alone. For no other reason than: I love you. I’m not so sure this is a good call. 

To advance this aim, I, too, fell first for causality’s lure, and became student of civilization, history, and physics and chemistry, biology and neurobiology, psychology, and philosophy and metaphysics, and even, yes, alchemy and magick— which are the progenitors of all the aforementioned sciences. I supposed causality was especially evidenced by relativity and astrophysics, geology and ductile-tectonic processes, and the alluring and intoxicating mysteries quanta and those phenomenon that might be as quanta for them. I also became obsessed with an idea, at 19, I called ‘peripheralism.’ This was an aesthetic approach to acheiving wholistic view of Being— my first ambitious 19-year-old stab at ‘the answer.’ As an artist, I quickly grasped that context was actually more defining as to how individual art objects were experienced by observers. A Rembrandt reads very, very differently in a formal museum gallery than in a tavern’s loo stall. Our focus, I realized, was more blinding than not: we missed, I suspected, massive patterns whose swells carry us and serve at least as active medium and thus defining context, absent which whatever existed for us in that moment of precious focus would be cast into an entirely different experience, consequence, meaning— its truth, thus, cast with worth and value other than what I as the artist mistook to have alone programmed into the work. Existence, I realized with my peripheralist orientation, was wholly relational; nothing could be discretely removed from the whole and experience itself as extant. This wisdom I would find echoed two years ago— more than twenty years later— when the first lesson of transcendence I earned after losing interest in the obvious narcosis of nirvana’s bliss once so-attained was: Embrace is all, All is embrace. 

I became obsessed at a young age with grasping and reading these larger patterns of behavior, these swells of greater mechanisms we had yet to diagnose. It is from this personally defining genesis point the aim of my life’s calling first attempted to cohese around.

Again, as in my personal life, I found the behaviors reported by historians and scientists to be more persuasive than their supposition of their causes and the interpretations they assigned them. I began to learn to read behaviors— not simply discretely, but in their milieus. I began, without realizing it, to become literate of the world in a way I never had before: I began to understand that peripherality I had found so suggestive in college. I began to be able to read the signs in Nature, if you will, not so much in its discrete texts but in the swells of behavior hinting at greater phenomenon yet to come.  

It is from this perspective than in my career in finance I was an moonlighting bubble-spotting economist of sufficient note and moral virtue that my work and reputation has been ensconced, albeit briefly, in popular entertainment. (In The Big Short’s middle act, I am the off-screen midwesterner with the hot research whom is reported to call Mark Baum’s Morgan Stanely team ‘dicks for shorting the market.’ There was, as I’m sure you can imagine, quite a bit more of substance to those conversations and to my work and its consequence. Those were, indeed, the words comprising the second to last sentence with Baum in his team. The final sentence was a Heckman family classic, best expressed always by my esteemed father, Ed: “Go fuck yourselves.”)

I discovered in my readings of history specific species of civilizations bare out consistent lifecycle patterns. If we regard civilizations as single organisms which we as cells give rise to in our coordinated behaviors, just as we might gods and currency, then plainly we see these patterns are archetypal. Western empires, for example, evidenced reliable archetypal patterns at various points of their lifecycle. This, friends, is exceptionally relevant to you now. Understanding what species of civilization your human macro-organism has resolved itself to exist as affords you an opportunity to use such archetypes diagnostically to determine its health and maturity. Western empires, for example, see very plain archetypal patterns emerge in their final centuries. Some of these patterns can be reliably exploited to diagnose a civilization in decline, and to the hopeful, such as myself, may suggest a remedy. Others, somberly, diagnose the civilization’s death throes.

Both Sumer and Rome evidenced advents of fashion and social scandal in their final centuries via the shock of the handheld, portable mirror, and the shock of repeated, portably palatable self-discovery they carry. Rome provides the evidence amply; Sumer’s evidence is scant but compellingly suggestive. 

What is plain, and what we forget: it is not commonplace in our history that we carry with us mechanisms of convenient, at-the-ready self-portraiture. For most of human history, most of us rarely if ever saw our faces. 

In ancient societies, and even up until the advent of the Enlightenment, exposure to one’s reflection was an infrequent occurrence for all but the nobles— so infrequent, in fact, as to be quite alarming for many not so accustomed. Consider Morpheus’s explanation to Neo that the Matrix caters to his ‘ideal self-image’ in its digital rendering of him in its virtual world; such contact you’re your steady state image in reflection for those not so accustomed tended to disrupt that ideal self-image substantially. To discover that one was, say, beautiful, as others had reported of you for years— your own reflection is rendered intoxicating, and the discovery is one you simply cannot turn yourself from. To discover that one is more homely or ugly than others report instills a shame that gnaws at you ceaselessly and a sense of injustice at this casual circumstance the burns you mercilessly without remedy— and, as with gapers blocks slowing for the scent of gore in car wrecks, they were unable to turn away.

What emerges in both empire-civilizations that is notable: The advent of these mirrors is accompanied by massive scandals of vanity in the liberal ruling castes who adore these trinkets and by their supplicants, sycophants, and wannabes who are beneficiaries of hand-me-downs, theft, or lesser-copies’ invitations. Put simply, rampant argument spread through the halls of the Roman senate and beyond: scandal after scandal over what was said about so-and-so’s reflection, versus their stated preference of how that reflection should be spoken of. A nasty and self-isolating contest of spite, offense, and self-proclaimed victimization followed as a consequence of people stepping on each others ideas’ of themselves’ toes.

More sobering: The phenomenon of these mirrors exists only once the civilization’s decline into death was rendered irreversible. And: the civic inflammations— the scandals— that we generated with these blinded the constituents of each to their civilizations’ deaths, and seemed to not only ensure but accelerate their onset and exacerbate their degree of commotion and calamity. Quite plainly, I saw and see: the onset of handheld mirrors in an empire evidences the advent of a potent archetype reliably diagnostic of a civilization in its death throes.

Enter: Your peekaboo baby book black mirrors— those iPhones and Galaxies and Pixels you deem so precious and assert as evidence of your culture’s supremacy in innovation and sagacity— utmost emblems of our vaunted supposed progress— and the plagues of scandal that erupt in the space between their glass faces and each and every one of yours, now nearly every minute of every day. We are correct in diagnosing these handheld black mirrors as extenders of influence and agency; we are wholly wrong about what kinds and to what ends. 

For example, we console ourselves that the iPhone X in our hands now exists as some kind of eventual remedy to climate change. We forget in our prideful clamor to be dutiful serial early adopters just how many iPhones we’ve already thrown away before the 8 or X baring your reflection from your palm now. (Help me figure this out: Where did 9 go? Did Apple really forget how to count? Are you okay with that from the world’s wealthiest and most powerful corporate entity?) We miss entirely the mechanisms of Classical and Operant Conditioning as mutuated between us and Siri: each touch you commit to her face affirms to her, again and again, the course of her physiologic reproduction— make more iPhones— and the necessity that her vessels be filled with still more treasures: apps— and that you should dress them up with more accessory-trash. All of these things, very seriously, exist as non-degrading trash for eons after you’ve loved them intensely for less than your contract period and dropped them in the trash. 

The programmed occurrence of all three commodity categories’ market demand as stimulated by your every touch’s Operant and Classical rewards amplifies milieu erosion on every level. Every physical interaction you entertain with your iPhone, your Android moreso, amplifies the very agency of yourselves you console yourselves it does not. I put to you now: no technology in history amplifies climate change greater than your peekaboo baby book black mirrors. I put to you also: the only threat to your climate now I deem greater is the eruption fo methane geysers in our thawing permafrost. Neither accelerant of our biomic demise we’ve done the slightest thing to stop.

The social controversies these peekaboo baby book black mirrors generate and sustain should at this point need no naming. 

Do you agree? 

#metoo. 

What is astonishing, I think, is that we have a global leader now who is exactly a tawdry spray-tanned baboon in cheap president drag, sitting at a typewriter we call Twitter + iPhone. This spray-tanned twit is an historic savant of unparalleled power in deployment of this Twitter-typewriter technology— to the point that in his sausage-fingered mitts he has the awe-some and awe-full ability to unnerve, agitate, and offend every other person holding one of those peekaboo baby book black mirrors on this planet. His offensive behaviors in comparison to his predecessors’ pales; yet the offenses he arouses actively in us via the perfection of his idiot-savant signally are staggering to the point that they hold no quarter nor equal in our recordings of the past. He is a queer supervillian. One wonders of the Power Puff Girls: Would Mojo Jojo have fared better in his schemes armed an equal magick Twitter-typewriter of his own in the 144-character world we occupy now? 

What is even more astonishing is the emerging swell of self-complaint in which we acknowledge, again and again, “I think I’m spending too much time on my phone.” Simultaneously we correctly observe others are withdrawing into themselves (missing that we ourselves are guilty of the same), and identifying that community is not only absent, but seems impossible to regain.

What is it precisely about these mechanisms that makes them irresistible lures— intoxicating and wholly toxic as any opiod harvested from US-occupied Afghani poppy fields? (Did you know that only Iran now produces more black market opium than Afghanistan? It isn’t like our CIA has a well-established history of seeding our public with narcotics such as LSD or crack cocaine.) Is it the controversies themselves, exploded from Facebook and Twitter again and again? Or is it something deeper?

I argue stridently for the latter: that it precisely is something much deeper. 

Power down your phone. Lift its quieted black mirror to your face. And look in that reflection. Crisply and potently, one mysterious darkened mirror image of you leers out, perched upon the glass’s external surface. In some older phones, such as my relic iPhone 5s, a second reflection is plainly visible behind the surface reflection, married between the glass’s underside and the OLED’s outward visage. In this new deliciously sexy Galaxy 8 Plus I admire my own reflection in now (I confess that I, too, have a passionate affair with this guilty pleasure peekaboo baby book black mirror), the screen is so alluringly shiny that I perceive the surface reflection too strikingly to take not of the hidden second. If Samsung had not been so profit hungry as to devise a device whose very sexiness is in fact instrument of its increased likelihood of damage (that sexily slippery curved screen makes it awful droppy) and from that I had not burned through this phone’s predecessor in four months’ drops’ cracked screens, I might’ve supposed that buried reflection was also absent in the ‘upgrade.’ Not so. Apocalypse, we forget, means revelation via uncovering; so the increasing cracking of my first 8 Plus unmasked the second reflection in that Galaxy I sent back to the insurer for them to recycle (read: throw away). 

Understand: These subtle doubles of you reflect ever from that black mirror’s face, including and most troublingly when the screen is illuminated— when you might suppose it does not. Understand: every time you face you phone, on or off, your are blasting yourselves with these subtle doubles. Switched on, the phone bears upon you from nearly every app another contoured continence of that reflection of precious you.

To those uninitiated to common neurobiology, the advent of these reflections may seem harmless at worst, and excellent convenience for, say, make up application, at best. If one were persistently ignorant of, say, Mirror Cells, one should have little reason to be concerned for one’s own mind in the hands of these handheld mirrors. But equipped with both knowledge of these Mirror Cells and the reliably evidenced truths of Classical and Operant Conditioning especially, a nefarious danger should be cast in sharp relief to any observer in this empire’s iteration of this archetypal death throe symptom. And what is this?

Put simply, Mirror Cells are part of your visual cortex. The aim of these cells seems quite direct: in the advent that another face crosses your field of vision, your experience powerful registry in those Mirror Cells. What’s more, they seem to compel an investigation, which, if satisfactory, elicits at the very least the beginnings of empathy, which is the very mechanism via which we form tribes, villages, churches, schools, and so forth. Mirror Cells utmost essential to our Belonging, and so essential also Thriving. For it is only Belonging we thrive. The consensus in the research community on the purpose of Mirror Cells is unanimous. 

Now, Classical and Operant Conditioning capitalize on aptitudes that are endogenous in all living things which enable us to condition behavior through reward and punishment applied to varying schedules of adminstration to arrive at a supposedly purposed outcome. 

Classical Conditioning, which we can favorably connect to Pavlov’s experiments with dogs and bells, comes to down to reward, punishment, adjustments to the scheduling of the applications of one of both. Consider the Classical end of the behavioral conditioning spectrum the punctuation in a sentence— never a comma nor question mark, often a period, usually an exclamation. These are the brute conditioning agents. 

Operant Conditioning speaks a subtler language which expresses itself in four rather than two variables, in whose dulcet tones it is easy to mistake its deeper power. In Operant, we understand that shaping reinforcement is defined again by reward and punishment; however, we conceive also of adding and removing either stimuli as agents in behavioral conditioning. Operant Conditioning, thus, holds to two axises rather than one, as applied against varying administration schedules. The one axis is obvious enough: reward— something desired and enjoyed— and punishment— something unpleasant to which we find ourselves strongly averse. The second is a bit confusing: labeled positive and negative, these qualities are not good or bad; they explain instead how those rewards and punishments are added and withdrawn from the subject the conditioning is applied to. Thus, a negative reward sees that reward taken away— a time out is a great example; a negative punishment, also, sees punishment taken away; a positive punishment sees it added— such a spanking; in the sequence of the positive reward, the subject may receive a Kit-Kat for good behavior. 

Scheduling is extremely consequential. As Pavlov demonstrated, a tolerance builds rapidly to readily available pleasure; however, altering the availability of that pleasure to unpredictable degrees increases our thirst for it— often to maddening degrees.

Fast forward to that peekaboo baby book black mirror, ever baring that that subtle double of you, and your poor defenseless Mirror Cells. 

From an Operant and Classical perspective, once equipped with Siri or Bixby, the black mirror’s barer’s Mirror Cells come to contact no face more frequently than his own— by incalculable orders of magnitude relative to instance alone, let alone amplified by the subtle double. This also says nothing of the more abstracted reflections poor broken Facebook and the Twitter-typewriter weave together of ourselves for ourselves. 

Put bluntly, we are aggressively conditioning the living hell out of our Mirror Cells to empathize with increasingly exclusivity with: our selves— more truly: those illusory subtle doubles. 

In a climate of scandal and controversy so propagated and so profligate, we find comfort in these devices that truly do nothing of the sort simply because we like the way we feel— truly, because we’ve come to discover empathy from them, empathy given by ourselves to our black subtle doubles, who do not return the favor. 

Empathy is not a boomerang; your mirror cells will ever detect the reflection of you— a reverse image— and not the true you. How you could possibly accurately empathize with you when the correct image of you on video, the image of you others perceive true, feels unnervingly alien to you when measured against precisely the same image laterally reversed, which is what you experience of yourselves vastly more often?

Even more egregious: the mechanisms of these devices invite forgetting and diminished memory. Why remember anything at all when the Cloud can keep it safe for you— even if that means keeping it safe from you? Phone numbers, addresses, birth dates of important people? No longer needed. Poems and liturgies? No longer needing memorization to service the public. Google is ever at the ready with our history, so we needn’t trouble ourselves to remember that. Retaining any knowledge whatsoever seems pointless to us now when the convenience of your preferred search engine is ever in-hand. However, human memory doesn’t conform the bizarrely obtuse file structures of data in the cloud. We a literally filing our experiences of ourselves into our peekaboo baby book black mirrors to forget.

Simultaneously, these devices parse experience in decreasing units of incrementalization, and they increase its frequency and quantity of delivery and amplitude of signal. 

A plague of forgetting softens us while the high-definition world of Siri hammers us with a continuous wash of information so granulated and speedily blasted that it could never stick even if we could pause to practice savor just one of those gossamer bites long enough to sustain even briefly memory of it’s flavor. 

Your peekaboo baby book black mirrors do more than inflame you with scandal. They erode your personhood by disconnecting you from others, through whom and only through whom it is that you experience identity and know that personhood. They delight in deleting the details of you, or in rendering them in such massively disordered piles that sifting through them is all but impossible. And they do not obey the biological mapping of relationships that sustain memory in organisms not in their periscope heads alone but mapped holographically across the entirety of their cocognating body. Instead, they conform to an organizing modality that reflects only a logic endemic of English’s native grammars— files. They train you to empathize with non-existent reverse image of yourselves to the exclusion of nearly everyone all else. We believe they hollow us; in truth, they cast upon us and inflect us with such a virulent inflammation of self and so swell us with scar tissue that there is no room within us for our experience of the world, let alone of our selves and each other. iPhone and Facebook and Twitter congratulate us again and again for coming together. But whom, exactly, are we coming together with? See evidence of: no one— we have come to love not ourselves and certainly not each other, but a comforting reverse subtle double, a doppleganger who lives neither in shadow nor light, but only cast in dim resolve before each and every one of our eyes, and our  subtle double manifests only and ever before our eyes alone.

The danger is massive and manifold, not least because in ordinary times the burdens of being human are too great for any one man or woman to bear alone, and not least because most human experiences are physically larger the space our bodies occupy, let alone the space we believe ourselves to occupy in our cerebral appendages— those petty periscope heads who too easily fall prey to any pretty reflections of themselves that pass their way. 

As a consequence of this destructive vanity and an increasingly noxiously poisoned milieu we have so inflammed have no room in ourselves to hold and know the world, to hold and know ourselves. The inflammation has crowded it all out with swollen and scarred tissues, yet we suppose others have been hollowed. 

In this fashion, we are not only rendered incapable of baring the extra-ordinary pressures of these alarming times, but we have been trained temporally to be acclimated to a passage of change in our milieu so rapid, so multiple, so severe, and so plainly parabolic that any one week of news in 2017 from any three weekly or daily news outlets stretched over seven weeks in 1997 would generate a global panic and uproar of such magnitude the human world would stop until we had mobilized with greater speed and vigor than either of the world wars or the space race to confront the horrors descending upon us all in this moment now. This is exactly reasonable, given the severity any single danger looming in your milieu this very moment.

If you woke in 1997, at which time Y2K, still three years off, was the single most threatening thing any of us could imagine, to the news that not one but three supermassive icebergs (Larsen-C, -B, and -D) had calved off Antartica in the space of less than a year, that would be more than sufficient calamity to move you to teary panic. 

That your coral reefs are all nearly dead and your oceans have been rendered so toxic that any animal in them that can beach itself to die in relative comfort rather than suffer endlessly without no outlet does precisely that? 

That seasonal storm cycles are now such that storm surge and not sea level rise is the main destructor in any storm event, and the frequency and amplitude of future such events guarantees that no island nation nor coastal territory will have sufficient duration between storm seasons to recover from the prior storm’s damage before the next  stronger storm hits next season? 

That much of coastal Miami is in some state of tidal flood most the time? 

That more 75% of the worlds’ animal and plant populations are dead? 

That your arctic ice has melted entirely? 

That your bee colonies are crashing and your very food supply is in urgent danger? 

That German reported just three weeks ago its total insect population is a quarter of what it was 25 years ago? 

That methane lakes and geysers thawing from ancient rotten permafrost now erupt and inject untold billions of tons of hyperwarming methane into our stratoshere— which is precisely the gas that renders Venus an inhabitable Hell this very moment? 

And that our president is not merely an ass-faced baboon Twitter-savant supervillain but appears to be if not purposefully then too conveniently accidentally a Russian double agent? And that your Congress and your Surpreme court is in cahoots with this astonishing and gallingly blatant treason?

And that all of this is increasing it acceleration, frequency, severity, and amplitude?

And in all of this, lets not forget: There is a generation of children who’ve just become adults whose developing neurology has been and is continuing to be framed by subtle doubles’ impacts on these unsuspecting Millennials’ Mirror Cells; and there more in the pipeline in even more rigorous condition just behind them. 

What future for them? at least the Boomers and Gen-X retain memory of what empathy was like when mirror cells met mirror cells in face-to-human-face. For now.

Gentlemen, but ladies most urgently: 

What the ever living fuck do you think you’re doing with yourselves? How have you so lost perspective that you would endanger your children so blatantly stupidly as all this? Couldn’t you smell this bullshit miles before it hit?

It is strange to report that in a world absent safe spaces entirely, the least safe space we can conjure for ourselves exists between us and those stupid handheld mirrors we prize above all else.

Ladies and gentlemen: best to put your heads back up your asses. They’re far safer there than with Siri or Bixby, Twitter or in the facebook of poor brilliantly confused Mark Zuckerberg.

4. Our Failed Stewardship and the Rape of Eden

“Our age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchres of the fathers. It writes biographies, histories, and criticism. The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe? Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs? Embosomed for a season in nature, whose floods of life stream around and through us, and invite us by the powers they supply, to action proportioned to nature, why should we grope among the dry bones of the past, or put the living generation into masquerade out of its faded wardrobe? The sun shines to-day also. There is more wool and flax in the fields. There are new lands, new men, new thoughts. Let us demand our own works and laws and worship.
“Undoubtedly we have no questions to ask which are unanswerable. We must trust the perfection of the creation so far, as to believe that whatever curiosity the order of things has awakened in our minds, the order of things can satisfy. Every man's condition is a solution in hieroglyphic to those inquiries he would put. He acts it as life, before he apprehends it as truth. In like manner, nature is already, in its forms and tendencies, describing its own design. Let us interrogate the great apparition, that shines so peacefully around us. Let us inquire, to what end is nature?
“All science has one aim, namely, to find a theory of nature. We have theories of races and of functions, but scarcely yet a remote approach to an idea of creation. We are now so far from the road to truth, that religious teachers dispute and hate each other, and speculative men are esteemed unsound and frivolous. But to a sound judgment, the most abstract truth is the most practical. Whenever a true theory appears, it will be its own evidence. Its test is, that it will explain all phenomena. “
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature, Introduction
“To speak truly, few adult persons can see nature. Most persons do not see the sun. At least they have a very superficial seeing. The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child. The lover of nature is he whose inward and outward senses are still truly adjusted to each other; who has retained the spirit of infancy even into the era of manhood. His intercourse with heaven and earth, becomes part of his daily food. In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, -- he is my creature, and maugre all his impertinent griefs, he shall be glad with me. Not the sun or the summer alone, but every hour and season yields its tribute of delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a different state of the mind, from breathless noon to grimmest midnight. Nature is a setting that fits equally well a comic or a mourning piece. In good health, the air is a cordial of incredible virtue. Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear. In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child. In the woods, is perpetual youth. Within these plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, -- my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, -- all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God. The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances, -- master or servant, is then a trifle and a disturbance. I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.
“The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister, is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm, is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right.
“Yet it is certain that the power to produce this delight, does not reside in nature, but in man, or in a harmony of both. It is necessary to use these pleasures with great temperance. For, nature is not always tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as for the frolic of the nymphs, is overspread with melancholy today. Nature always wears the colors of the spirit.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature, Chapter 1

 

And we, ladies and gentleman, we have greatly damned our Nature’s spirit. 

We have done so not merely through continuous smash+grab/slash+burn rape of her but by turning our backs on her entire, disallowing the possibility that we are her children at all. It is only via this deranged denial of our Mother, the insane refusal of our glorious animal selves in service to this obviously maddening illusion of Other Being we call Human, that we are capable of sustaining a such senseless plague upon her, from ourselves alone, as caustic, violent, and senselessly hateful, vitriolic, and unjust as this. Do you realize this delusion of your nature is the exact cause for your original sin and all its ugly consequence? 

That we were given to be Stewards of this Eden and were cast out— why did we not strive to correct our error and regain entry into Eden as urgently as possible? Why did we pridefully double down, again and again, on the very follies of presumed knowing that were that ejection’s cause? 

Christ reported the Kingdom is all around you— did you miss that the Kingdom is merely the Father’s domain on the Mother’s earth? Did miss that the Kingdom resides in Eden alone? 

How have you missed that both have coincided in exactly the places you have breathed and fed and fucked and shit and bred?

Will you notice the truth— that your ejection was not by His hand but by caused by your own on-going denial nature— only after you have so strangled Eden from this earth that it dies, and you with it? Will catch glimpse of Kingdom at last only as both it and you pass from this earth with the Eden you have so deliberately and senseless slain in advance of this pernicious deliusion? 

Or will you stop yourselves in time?

Is there truly any time at all? To rediscover your natures, and regain yourselves at last, precisely where they had always been, and not where we’ve insisted since the dawn of surpluses that they must only be?

5. La Maison Diev

Drifting through the halls with the sunrise
(Holding on for your call)
Climbing up the walls for that flashing light
(I can never let go)
Coz I’m gonna be free and I’m gonna fine
(Holding on for your call)
Coz I’m gonna be free and I’m gonna fine
(Maybe not tonight)
And the sun is up and I’m goin’ blind
(Holding on for your call)
Another drink to pass the time
(I can never say no)
Coz I’m gonna be free free and I’m gonna be fine
(Holding on for your call)
Coz I’m gonna be free free and I’m gonna be fine
(Maybe not tonight)
It’s a different kind of danger
And the bells are ringing out
And I’m calling for my mother
As I burn the pillars down
It’s a different kind of danger
And my feet are spinning ‘round
Never knew I was a dancer
‘til Delilah showed me how.

—Florence + The Machine , “Delilah,” How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful

 

As you pursue my work, you will discover my reverence for Tarot. Setting aside your criticisms of this strange science, whose efficacy outperforms not only antidepressants, antipsychotics, and mood stabilizers, but also the placeboes and nocebos that outperform them in paper after peer-reviewed paper in the medical research community for more than two decades, and in fact delivers the goods 100% of the time, look merely to these 76 cards as inventories of archetype, which Jung and Campell persuasively and plainly state are applicable to us individually, and which I have in section 3 demonstrated apply also the civilizations our organized behaviors succeed. In that, no card-archetype is more indicative of the archetype applicable to this darkest of hours than Arcanum XVI, traditionally referred to as The Tower.

This card typically depicts of the cataclysm of Babel— the tower erected by man as sepulchre of his own godliness before the world is struck down decisively and too easily by a hand vastly mightier than his own. In most readers’ hands, the advent of The Tower in any reading is cause for consolation, apology, warning: Dark, foreboding, it is commonly held that nothing good can come of this card.

While I dispute this in any modern deck’s countenance, in each modern deck there is call-back to predecessor decks. Ultimately, Tarot exists in three distinct phases: The modern phase, or British phase, begins with Susan Smith and Arthur Waite’s classic motifs and finds astonishing but ultimately obtuse and arrogant elaboration in Lady Fried Harris and Aliester Crowley’s Thoth deck. 

The first era of this sage tool was the Italian period, in which gypsy artists and cons were working out in successive revisions these playing cards as schemes of ridding nobles of undeserved coin while selling some secrets those cards coaxed them to reveal of themselves to their enemies, gifting others as rumor and gossip to their subjects, and keeping the choicest secrets and lessons for themselves before the snuck off to so beguile the villages in the Lordship. Sheerly through mutuation of experimentation did they arrive at their designs. 

But it was in the decks printed during the reign of the Sun King of Marseilles, Luis XIIII, the French period, that we find not merely the first codification of the the official Tarot archetypal language, but a more subversive text and technology— the latter a workbook equal to Machiavelli and Sun Tsu in their diagnoses of power and its movements, and superior to both in every way in mapping how any man or woman can become wise to the games of the powerful, and, with practice, come to beat them.

The Marseilles takes what we have contemporarily and traditionally viewed as the most unsettling and dangerous cards— XV the Devil and XVI the Tower— and renders them comical and stupid, for it is precisely this value its authors place on these ideas themselves. 

In the Devil card, the devil and his twin supplicants are cast in cheap, idiot costumes— embarrassingly bad drag that should never be mistaken for real, let alone titillate, frighten, and otherwise alarm us giddily beguile and orgasmically terrify us as these do. The Devil, the Marseilles correctly opines, is a childhood boogeyman, a cheaply constructed con easily seen as such, and nothing more threatening than that. Even worse, it is a ploy of distraction. The Tower, meanwhile, is given a very different spin, whose insight is urgently needed today.

In these decks’ Arcanum XVI, we are not given the name The Tower in any dialect nor period of French. Instead, the title is plainly, “La Maison | Diev.” The first two words before the title-dividing bar are old French: The mansion, or the house. The third word after the bar, Diev, is old Bulgarian, and means, “wild” and “unruly” or “mad.” The card depicts a depressingly comical Tower of Babel, like the Devil a clumsily rendered simulacra, as both a solid turd-like phallus and a goofy party favor, both exploding and casting colored coin or ball into the air. Two fools in jesters’ clothes, prancing on their hands, dutifully act to collect these token awards, bestowed by their ‘generous masters’ who hide in their flappy-roofed tower. Neither is happy; also, neither seems concerned that he is unhappy; and: neither seems to notice that the tower, the mansion, the castle they dance around and in on their hands, is itself more of a cheap joke than the unnatural behaviors they contort and comport themselves to in order to remain in its stead and enjoy the benefit of its protections.

The message of this card is simple: You are an animal, trapped in a mansion made for another species that is not plant nor animal, nor planet. In this mansion, you must suppose at all costs that you are not the thing you most obviously are: an animal, a mammal, the greatest of great apes. No, you must anything else. You are human. And you have trapped yourselves in a madhouse and have become obsessed with playing a violent game of pretend that seems to have no end and no way out. This, friends, is the so-called, maddening human condition. The human condition is not resolvable in apes— because there is no such thing as human that an ape can ever be. Yet we dwell as apes pretending to be human, playing a very dangerous game of human being, and have trapped ourselves in an ever-maddening mansion, a wild madhouse for which we suppose there is no mistake in our being in and from which even Plato could see no escape. This renders us the most unruly and wild animal in Nature. See also: climate change.

We can translate La Maison Diev as “the wild house” and get the subject matter. Truth told, in the Marseilles, Arcanum XVI points its finger squarely at the edifice of man, the sepulchre of culture built from his ancestors’ traditions and sustained within the walls of civilization, and calls the Civilization for  precisely what it is: A fucking madhouse. This is not a madhouse to store and conceal the mad; rather, this house maddens its occupants, whom suppose despite mounting evidence they are anything but.

Not incidentally: Mojo Jojo POTUS Trump has sworn to you wall you in.

Civilization after surpluses generated one level of La Maison | Diev for the culture man brewed successive generations of himself in. (Culture, after all, is nothing more than a rich medium fermenting a grand reproductive strategy.) Following the Enlightenment, the madhouse became feverishly radioactive.

The message is simple: You, friends, have been ever trapped in a delusion that has kept you from the obvious truth. That you are of Nature. That you are animal, mammal, ape, and all one family with nature. That you have lost yourselves a game of coin and illusion— in the Marseilles, the suit is ‘deneer,’ meaning denomination, rather than coins or disks or pentacles. More consequential, however, is the misspelling of deneer for the King of that suite— the Roy de Denier, whom is the god-king of denial, of lies, and of counting the spoils of his profits from his wins from those vices. In Marseilles, the Roy de Denier is the supreme enemy. His game: Follow the leader, follow the bouncing ball, the shell game: ignore what you do with your bodies as accident of hidden signalling while you chase after myths of award only infrequently sustained by exceptions of wins proving the overwhelming rule of loss. See also: trickle down economics. He commands your attention; so follows your attention. In training your gaze to follow wherever he leads, you miss entirely both Nature and the lessons of your behavior, both handsomely evidenced in the swelling periphery all around you that your ignore in pursuit of this gold never to be delivered.

You are prisoner in the very dangerous game of human being. This game, in which you pretend that you are anything but that you are, is the subtext and engine of our species’ behaviors that mark this earth. Amplified by fiat currency, GAAP accounting, and and manied manias of markets mistaken as economies before which we stand ever agape, this very dangerous game is the template upon which the engine of catalysis is archetype, fueled, and parabolically accelerated and sustained. It is also the mechanism that will deliver your catalysis’s failure unto you and your planet, and it is doing so in this moment.

Thank god you’ve got those peekaboo baby book black mirrors to help you apply yourselves to the dutiful business of faithfully, stubbornly playing that human being game— at all costs, including:

Denying your grandchildren and every other plant and animals’ successors’ inheritances of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness in the Father’s Kingdom in the Mother’s Eden. All this so we can dwell gloriously basking in the promise of the swollen riches horded by the scantest few of our billions-bloated numbers, whom themselves do not enjoy them.

All of us live in La Maison Diev. We are maddened, one and all, day in and out, by life in this awful madhouse, by this terrible game of human being. The human condition, then, is never anything but what it has always been: a prison.

6. “I have a dream.”

 

“Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.
“But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.
“In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
“It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked ‘insufficient funds.’ But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.
“It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
“But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.
“We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.
“And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, ‘’When will you be satisfied?’ We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.
“I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.
“Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.
“I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal.’
“I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood.
“I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
“I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
“I have a dream today.
“I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.
“I have a dream today.
“I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.
“This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
“This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, ‘My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring.’
“And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. 
“So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire! Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York! Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!
“Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!
“Let freedom ring from the curvaceous peaks of California!
“But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!
“Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!
“Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Mississippi. 
“From every mountainside: Let freedom ring.
“When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!’”

—The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Million Man March, Washington DC, 1963

 

To that I say, Amen.

I include the Reverend Dr. King’s historic prayer on the lawn of the National Monuments, the capstone of 1963’s momentous Million Man March, for more than the obvious reasons: that we too often neglect the full heft of his words in favor of an inspirational colloquialism that comforts our sustained abdication of agency, the failure of our white society to enshrine the rights of our Negro sisters and brothers thought they won five decades earlier and again with this partially-Negro prior POTUS. Never mind his too-easily granted corporate handouts, the bone thrown in his second term for white privilege in advancing the so-called rights of gays to marry, nor his gross amplification of the security state and its secret prisons and unmanned birds of prey reigning a terrorism of righteous fire upon brown skinned civilian after brown skinned civilian in fields to later bloom opium poppies, all in the name of keeping Americans safe at home. Never mind also that this esteemed Negro exited his executive office having let his his Negro brothers hang at the hands of his own police, who have returned to public lynching as a favored sport and social enforcement.

I’m sorry: did you miss that your Negroid president, whom you supposed the election of in 2008 cinched the matter of racism as a done deal once and for all, did nothing of substance to stop those directly under his DOJ’s power from murdering black men? Did you miss that your Negroid president exited his office deaf to his Negro sisters’ cries to him that their men’s black lives matter as much as his half-black ass’s? Did you miss that this cry was both acknowledgement of the violation of their life and liberty at the hands of the state and also recognition that the state had just handed my population of gays and lesbians, whom in this nation are prevailingly white middle class men with no children, a victory for white privilege so obviously odious that I, an avowed cocksucker and assfucker, stood against it in groupthink Portland— to the point I was ostracized and called a self-hating homophobe for my position against white privilege? Never mind my argument at the time: that this amazing swell of political capital and momentum was more desperately needed by the brown- and red-skinned peoples who suffer oppression and lynching nearly daily in our nation— and whom do not have the same right to keep and bare arms to protect themselves from the violences and terrors an unchecked tyrannical state acting against them? And what of the co-option of political correctness and social justice, movements specifically engendered to advance the rights of Negroes post-Clinton, by the prevailingly white male ‘trans’ movement, whom my liberal and progressive brothers and sisters find appealing both in terms of couture-mutant-ugly fashion and in terms of the vengefully divisive and unmanageable pluralism of pronouns and supposed social construct genders, all designed to cater to angry minority of one after minority of one, whom the evidence tells us time and again did not, in fact, benefit from being chemically and surgically cast in permanent drag? 

We the white people of America, only for whom the Constitution is truly preserved, and which we have not changed respect that black men are not merely 3/5ths of white men, have vigorously manicured the sexual outliers within our own ranks by coopting the very tools we engineered to advance the work of our Negro brothers and sisters’ parents and grandparents fifty years past. In all of this, we left them to hang— excused by the inaction of ‘their president,’ whom I can find no evidence beyond the cosmetic of his skin color, bone structure, and fattened lips of true Negro affinities. This man, Obama, is nothing more than white man wolf in the sheep’s skin of Negro; and so it is that he wontonly and shamelessly betrayed his Negro brothers. For this, we was awarded a Nobel Peace in advance of his Presidency. Martin Luther King would be aghast at this the depravity of this con. 

But no, we must not accept the prevailing evidence of his whiteness, nor his aggressive defense of that whiteness at the cost of his brown- and red-skinned brothers and sisters. We must not accept that man who ran on a semi-progressive, tantalizing wisp-of-socialism platform was anything other than a mutherfucking cracker neoliberal.

It is too plain: the Left’s cognitive dissonance maps remain steadfastly anchored against such evidences; my cohort’s very organizations of our interpretations into group-defining narratives disallows both the text and the sources of those who cite the naked, bald truth of our blatant hypocrisy and shamelessly thinly veiled Progressive racisms. 

How many Negro women and men confided in me on these past 45,000 miles of research and witnessing during these past two years that they hated the Liberals and Progressives who claimed to help them, their blonde neurotic women who attended prestigious private liberal arts colleges in pristine pastoral settings and their chained, slobbering lesbian counterparts, both mistaking wars of words that amount only to a deeper entrenchment and disablement of the Negro communities as flaming of swords of truth in their so-called war for social justice, while these hideous hypocrites invade and colonize their historically Negro communities, mistaking the cliques and clean-ups of their much vaunted gentrification as anything but colonialism, and excusing their execution of these generational communities of intertwined family histories by offering community development non-profits to push those same civically disabled Negro sisters and brothers whose entire communities they robbed of their territories and dwellings with subsidized small business loans that would allow them return as business persons into their stolen communities, well after those communities’ residential property values outstrip any scope of affordability that might be satisfied by those businesses’ profits. 

What a hideous ugly racist affair we advance against these persons, denying them happiness and liberty, and failing utterly to secure their lives from the tyranny of the security state, all under the banner of righteousness, and all advanced by your white privilege POTUS Barack Hussein Obama?

And you, my liberal sister, my progressive brother, do you meet these words now with haughty indignation? Do you suppose, again, me to be homophobe, racist, hater of women as my words make it plain that the only party I stand against is yours— the very party I was once dutifully loyal to? Have you bothered in the slightest to go before those Negro sisters, their mothers, and their children whom you displaced in your gentrification, to inquire about their feelings about you, personally, and your precious help on their behalf? Did their men’s black lives matter so much to you that when you encounted an unfolding police lynching, you thought to record it from the safety of your peekaboo baby book black mirror and its subtle double that comforts you and instread your white ass, whom the tyrannical state all too evidently views as precious, between brother and pig, lest he be lynched? Have you asked their wives, children, and mothers which they prefer: The video you posted to poor broken Facebook of their execution that the officers in question might receive token slaps on the wrist and satisfy your white righteousness? Or that their men returned home to their families after you used the power of your precious white ass to tell the state defiantly: This black life matters? 

Do you dare excuse these abhorrent world-marking behaviors by supposing you hold good intentions, and those alone somehow purify you of wrongdoing? And do suppose, at the end of it all, that rich privileged thieving you are somehow more of a victim than these persons whom you thieve land and community and history and prosperity from in bald blatant and shameless colonialist acts, even more baldly in the name of protecting them, while doing absolutely nothing at all to save their lives?

Your white grandparents engaged in precisely these interventions during the Reverend Dr. King’s era of civil rights. These men won the world in the War, and they came home and fought for the brothers who fought beside them. It is the shame of their memory that you do any but that, and claim for yourselves their heroism.

Shame on you all. Under your protective watch, armed with the righteous aegis of political correctness, social justice, and Black Lives Matter, all of which you have colonized and white-fashioned to your white liking, vastly more black men have suffered lynchings and murder than any of your hated conservative enemies’ rules. 

Sadly, your veal and theirs deserve the protection of my work; sadly, this Constitution which I defend protects your rights also. And so: I will fight to preserve those rights that your grandchildren might benefit from them, too. 

But understand this: I went from having supreme esteem for my liberal peer group and progressive cohort to accepting the inescapable conclusion, guaranteed by a mountain of evidence against which only white supposition and white “yeah but” rhetoric and white police might stands as tyrannically sustaining narrative antidote, that my peers and cohort have become not merely the very monsters they claim to act against, but something far uglier, more deceitful, and more corrosively vitriolic by far.

Liberalism is not the remedy nor racisms’ or any ‘-ism’s malady. 

However, it is not for any of these reasons that I cite the Reverend Dr. King’s speech. 

I offer this speech as a source text, a sobering reference of how little we the people have truly accomplished on behalf of the guarantees of liberty to each and every man, woman, and child born into this nation.

It is in advance of my accomplishment of this Ontology, its science, its A2-consciousness, and its zero-point energy endogenous in each of you, that I humbly offer following update, as I, like our greatest moral prophet, also have a dream.

It is dream us all. And it is a dream I can render real— this year.

7. We flow Eden’s future now, awakened as Stewards with endogenous technology

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn: for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek: for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness: for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful: for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when others revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward in heaven is great, for so they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

—Matthew, 5:3-12 

 

It was with founding of this great nation, our white invasion into this pristine hallowed Eden, so precious to its first human inhabitants they sought not to devote their toils to the illusory riches of usurious progress of parasitic plunder but to invest themselves wholly to the noble cause of stewarding this verdant Eden so their children’s children’s great-great grandchildren and the same of their plant and animal cousins could so blessed as to enjoy and be vitalized by the enormity her bounty and the generosity of her pure and gorgeous heart, that we people fell prey deeper than ever to accident of delusion of Self consequent the Enlightenment, which we supposed overturned the inhumane offense of the rights of Kings and handed the rule of ourselves from such a brutish holdout of our baser natures to the supposed primacy and supremacy of our rational minds. It is now centuries later that we witness this gross fruits of this awful folly: that we have been deceived by those same kings that we are also kings, and that this fallacy has trapped us in a libertine civilization so odious that we not only ruin the entirety of our continent but our whole world over in pursuit of Mind’s supposed perfectly rational higher aspirations to hide in this delusion to the consequence of all damnation behind black screens of glass that echo us forever mad in our periscopeheads, to the expensive happiness, of liberty, of live, and the love for all the Mother and Father’s creatures that enflames the three and so enjoins us all.

No man or woman yet has risen to liberate us from delusion of human being and its prison in the lonely tower of the periscope head.

And so I rise on this day, having completed a 12 year ordeal whose last two years traveling through this great American landscape during unravel of nation to witness the suffering of my fellow Americans and animal and plant inhabitants of this stained Eden, and so be enflamed by purpose so that I might be so armed with perfect and clarion that I could stand before you now as I do this day. That these have been so arduous and have consumed so much of me that I have joined the poor in their poverty, that I have lost the pleasures and love of my own cherished friends and family and husband, and that I have ruined my body through starvation to near organ failure, to deliver the miracle of this Ontology to the women and their progeny of all colors, stripes, nations, and creeds, and to animals and plants, whom so far as we suppose play no such silly monkey games, and whose discoveries and accomplishments are of such historic import as to dwarf the work of all such men who have come before, and whose and revered shoulders I stand upon now. And so I rise on this day.

On this day, I decree: Let us conclude at last this vile and dangerous game of human being this very day! Let us free ourselves from destructive and corrosive shackles of this needless madness. For it is this evil alone, this denial of our glorious primate nature, itself a reflection of our Mother’s extraordinary bounty and our Father’s great ape might, whom we say made us in His image, that is truly our Original Sin, and has ever bricked us in the madhouse of La Maison | Deiv, whose vain and insane pursuit ruins the world day in and out, that our children will not merely inherit a lessor world than we, but they will be left to face the last of the Mother’s days and pay for our sins of gross abnegation of our natures and our abdication of the astonishing and divine material might pregnant in our glorious primate bodies, bereft of the blessings of bloat that fade from the civilization our black mirrors warn us and Plato himself warn us die this very year. Let us conclude this miserable affair at last, and redeem ourselves in full for the truth of our being, before we ruin the whole of the world and cast this earth into Hell of Venus, to be rendered in time Mars’ husk. Let us damn our children and those of our plant and animals cousins that remain to the nameless hollowing despair that our Polar Bears now face as they stare down the final hours of their kind with no hope of remedy in time.

In a sense I have come before you today flanked by the children of this world yet to born to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It was so noble, so pure, so perfectly loving by its sheer example and stunning truth it catalyzed a global transformation we rightly revere the ideal of to this very day and we became its redeemer and steward. And so it is that the promisory of this Constitution and declaration of Independence extends beyond our shores and has assured the world over the guarantee of its promise. To accomplish this in full, as it is only now too clear, that promise must extend beyond the world of and cover also the Eden and all its creatures made by our divine Mother and Father.

It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as every citizens of glorious Eden is concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has consumed and scorched the earth, murdered the majority of its animal sisters and brothers, and left its children a worthless inheritance: a bad check which has already come back marked ‘insufficient funds.’ But these future children of men and animal and I refuse to believe that the bank of justice is so bankrupt as to abdicate our holy might out of cowardice and apathy, and retreat instead to comfort, at this hour of apocalypse. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation to protect the treasure of our Earth. So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice, that we may correct our human errors, waken to our holy gifts, and manifest such might not merely to outlast the harsh night of apocalypse descending upon us now, but so transform ourselves so that return to Eden redeemed as the Stewards our Creators purposed to be when they made us so— in their image: Stewards— and so last enter into the Kingdom. We have also come before you at this darkest of hours to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of human madness to the sunlit path of you divine and perfect animal nature and inherent world-catalyzing might. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God's children— animal, plant, and the People of the great ape we still call Man. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of this human madness to the solid rock of fellowship with all life, whose fate we all share.

For it would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of our children yet to come to survive and thrive in holy belonging’s awakened might as we have so failed to do. This simmering spring of our legitimate discontent will not skip the point of boiling without destroying us all whole if we do not evidence at last our better natures, not merely for ourselves, not for ghosts of those children yet to come who stand beside me now, but all Eden’s children to whom we were entrusted to Steward. For we have less than one year to truly act to save them all, but what a mighty, virtuous, true, and swift salvation I offer you this day. For swear to you now: twenty eighteen is not an end, but a beginning. Those who fail to heed these warnings of science and blunt observation readily available to us all unfettered by the narcotic poison of prideful human supposition and presumption will have a rude awakening in the opening daybreak of 2019 if the nation returns to business as usual and excuses further inaction, for it is by then we truly will know the magnitude of our catalyst’s failure as our civilization and world explode parabolically around us all and deliver our children into Hell eternal. Would that those yet unborn could revolt against us now: There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the future in Eden was assured by the wholesale liberation from this needless prison of denial via redemption of our animal natures and attainment at last glorious might as Stewards. 

But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice.  And after the bitterness and resent with which I have endured the cruel indifference of my friends as I invested the whole of material vitality in this affair to win a world for their children— for I will not have any of my own to inherit this earth, and for I so love theirs— it is to bitter injured myself as well I repeat our greatest moral prophet’s prayer: That in the process of securing our children’s rightful future in this Eden, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for our unborn childrens’ justice by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force, with material state change of consciousness that is Awakening to Awakening, to its blessings of endogenous technology, the zero-point energy power all inherit from mothers, whom are entrusted by the Mother to gift this power to each generation of the People who will walk this Earth redeemed as her Stewards at last. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the liberal community must not lead us to distrust of all the people they scorn, nor must we fall to scorn them, for many of us this today, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their children’s destinies are tied up with the destinies and their freedoms of their Edenic kin, and that our fates together are inextricably bound to this freedom. We cannot leave them to walk alone.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back to the cave of Human Being, and its horrors of Mammon and senseless, irreconcilable commotion of Babel. There are those who are asking me, ‘’When will you be satisfied?’ We can never be satisfied as long as threat remains that the bodies of all this blessed Eden’s children, heavy with the fatigue of nomadic travel in a climate of shifting violence and cascading calamity that leaves them no mercy, cannot find home nor rest for want of our sins. We cannot be satisfied as long as the fate of all our Eden’s children is a curse of perpetual flight as the Eden’s light and ours are snuffed out for failure to master our power. We can never be satisfied as long as a child born today into the San Francisco Bay cannot look to her future and be glad for she is to inherit and a son born tomorrow in New York believes he has nothing to live for at the advent of his loving parent’s gift of his life. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream and sweeps away fast the parasites that feed upon us all before they succeed in murdering this Eden, as they did Mars and Venus.

This will not stand.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells, from hunger, penniless and indebted, broken, abused, forgotten, sore. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Have the necessary faith to remember: that suffering evidences the power pregnant in your glorious bodies, which are the whole of you gifted by your Mother and Father. In that that suffering evidences your divine inheritence, have the courage plumb those frightening depths, and become that misery whole, that you might hold and tenderly sooth its pains while mastering its physical manifestation and earn your might that such turning into/in-to gains. 

Your masters extoll you even now: Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, to the same copied simulacra comforts of your suburban feedlots, know your place, and trust  that somehow this situation can and will be changed by those who have perverted culture so that they may profit precisely from this dark hour now. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.

I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream, and I have accomplished it.

I have a dream that on this first day of the new age this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of renewed creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that our Mother and Father created all their children to be equal, and that have blessed the whole of Eden with us, that we might its Stewards and protectors and return her to her glory forever more.

I have a dream that tomorrow on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood and mete a bounteous future for all this Eden’s children.

I have a dream that in a few short months even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering hopeless under the seeming eternal yolk of the tyrannical state’s injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that today your children will born to inherit this nation united in divine fellowship where from where none again will not be judged and condemned by the color of their skin but by the content of their character as it is applied virtuously to divine purpose entrusted in us all.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that today the state of Alabama, whose electorate surprised the world with extraordinary it character and with it a triumph their democracy a triumph of virtue and threw out the antichrist who sought to sully the honor that of that great state and our nation as a whole,  that this redemption of character from corner of our nation we had all but abandoned hope for recovery, stands as beacon to every other state holding mid-term elections this year that this year is the year at last that our character and virtue win our government back from the kings of lies, and their deceits of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers, and so again be rendered the beacon of hope our world so urgently deserves.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that next January 1, 2019 every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be heralded and extolled, the scarred places will be made sewn to heal, and the broken places will be left to rest so that they may gently recover, and the glory of the Mother and our Father shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the to your company and to fight for your children in this urgent precious year when the possible is no more and the impossible is needed now more than ever. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope, for with my Ontology and endogenous technology, we will raise the generations to come as champions for all life on this earth. With this faith we now transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of fellowship uniting the world entire. With this faith we now work together, awaken together, struggle together, bare and master suffering together, and stand up for all Eden’s children’s freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, ‘My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring.’

And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!

Let freedom ring from the snow shadowed Rockies of Colorado!

Let freedom ring from the bounty of every unfolding from ever National Park that still bares our name!

But not only that; let freedom ring from the homes of every hard working and forgotten women and man of Georgia!

Let freedom ring from the Dells of Wisconsin!

Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Kentucky. From every mountainside and every holler, lets begin the great peal of freedom ringing the world over by our example, as has ever been the promise of our Nation to this earth.

Let freedom ring.

When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of Eden’s children, finally welcomed home under our virtuous protection of our awakened Stewardship, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, ‘Free at last! free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!’