A Minor Pop of Sound and Fury

I’m slowly regaining a desire to write. But as a warm-up I’d like to clear my throat with this mostly second-rate rant on the state of the world.

I think we all come into this world like molten lava, with no settled opinions, shifting our gaze, shedding old forms of thought, constantly growing. I equate this molten lava with passion, and the fluidity of learning, and we still feel it in any question that burns, questions that interest us beyond any practical utility.

But we’ve also been born into a culture that systematically attempts to channel this molten energy into particular shapes and forms, where it cools and hardens into certainties and dogmas. This includes the hardened conviction that it’s necessary to quell the passions of children, and stabilize them into practical shapes that can help maintain the social system itself.

To me this looks like the work of the predator performing another of its “stupendous maneuvers” (Castaneda). Like some great wrestler, the human species is flipped 180 degrees on its back, where it submits to justifying the repression of its own young as a way of maintaining the inorganic life of the system itself. And so the social system stops being merely a tool for the promotion of human potential and becomes instead an end in itself, justifying the human sacrifice this requires.

This molten lava metaphor is supposed to represent the liveliness of the ever-growing human soul. But of course, the molten lava metaphor also suggests the dangerously destructive qualities of a human being, who can’t be corralled into working their fingers to the bone in support of this mechanical system of control we call our nation or our economic system.

And so we can watch the slow degradation of human intelligence in me and in most people as we age.

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Kingswit

Short story posted in Subtle Mud, called Kingswit.

In a post-apocalyptic world, but one where ecosystems have regained their balance and people have become scarce, shy of technology, shy of one another, shamed perhaps, three travelers come upon a man they know vaguely from various encampments. He was a man people avoided as if he had rabies — he was sick with the disease of mind that had destroyed the world. They could recognize that easily. The man had been brutally beaten and left paralyzed by wandering tribes, who are themselves susceptible to the old disease. One of the three travelers stays with the paralyzed man for a few days, until he puts him out of his misery. And it’s about the guilt this causes, the poisons it stirs to the surface.

A second tone poem of sorts mentioning Seldon is also added to the site, and here’s an excerpt from that:

Sometimes I wonder if this is a different earth, if there were no survivors after all, and this is all there is to the great beyond. I think the survivors walked through a curtain of some kind and everything smells and feels differently now. The earth has grown larger again, too vast for a journey of several lifetimes. That’s what happens in the absence of technology. A weary, wary and quiet anarchy reigns now.

Now and then you pass an outpost where they still use a diesel truck to drag tree trunks; but most of them have become rusty bones hidden in the brush. 

There’s almost a taboo about technology now. It holds the embers of the previous world.

There are only a handful of people for every 3 days journey. People are shy, an inherited shame I think. Maybe in other places the power vacuum has been filled by warlords. But in my experience nobody wants that kind of power now. Power is another ember of that lost world.