Oil on Canvas
Increasingly, I find that most scientific research as to the status of species’ existence is motivated by pharmaceutical farming and mining interests: To locate enough active genetic information to scaffold grow anew an organism — that passed through the world too soon for complex reasons, involving human aggression and co-optation of habitat — sufficiently, to extract compounds that can be developed further, marketed, and sold as prescriptions to quell or at least salve human suffering.
Are we humans so afraid of our own individual natural deaths over time that we kill off the life in us, among us, and without us? This is all on the level of the unconscious, where we stare into the Void and cannot bear to feel that g-d doesn’t love us, that we have failed because we haven’t been successful in the new world — where success is counted as full participation in the illusion that money will buy one’s ticket to paradise; that one is to achieve individual rapture at the cost of all else; that notions like moral complexity, freedom, integrity or wholeness, necessity of the wild, interdependence, justice are just plain stupid, or useless.
We self-assign our careers supposedly willingly and go about our business of acquiring credentials, jobs, and money. It’s possible that in proportion to the extent we pursue, we acquire and accumulate, that we then begin to fill up with comfort, the illusion that things piling up at the behest of malnourished egos is the way to escape the gaping Void at our heels. Comfort is the life-numbing quest. It replaces the capacity for wild life, that is, the life from which and for which our genetic materiality exists. If one doesn’t use a muscle it will atrophy, as half dead from comfort, we chase down truly living things, kill them, rip them open, and look to see what life there is, what life is, we think this is the only kind of death. We are desperate behind our masks of calm. When we laugh it is not from the belly seized with delight, of language, of all and anything that lives fully. We begin to hate life itself, mistaking it for the enemy.
There is no enemy. There is darkness and we have always been afraid of the dark. Look into the eviscerated animal for as long as you may, you can not ever recover your own precious life unless you embrace the shadow dance. Let the dark in and let it twinkle.
Also, watch the film with Willem Dafoe, The Hunter. ~ Donna Fleischer
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keeping in mind the words of the poet Pierre Joris, ". . . I make the arrogant claim that the poet is possibly the last, in Robert Kelly’s words, ‘scientist of the whole… to whom all data whatsoever are of use.’ . . . The prerogative of the poet is to steal directly whatever is of use, without needing to theoretically kowtow via analysis, explicatio, critical cloning or proof of pc allegiance."