Communication is the reaching, interactive address of subjectivity and is relative to a time, all the way down.

We get perhaps more artistic, more primal in our representations when we are obsessed with death, with mortality, with reckoning

with the fact that nature is neutral and cruel, yet we feel the call to fight against it, rage against ending,

and so we build machines and consume earthen offerings and potions and concoctions of the manipulated earth to ward off death and meaninglessness,

and yet still the end comes, despite our hospitals and our shelters and our sanitation systems,

our methods of commerce and insurance. In fact, some of these protections are being systematically shut down for the express purpose

of ensuring some die and some get to fool themselves into thinking they’ll go on surviving by means of building more and

more of the machine that now not only fails, not only is being destroyed by its makers, but will be swallowed back up by the very material

from which it was constructed in the form of storms and violence and heat and freeze and breaking glaciers and bombs

and rising seas and burning forests and shifts in land masses and the territorial pissing art we’ve appointed to the transition team.

In the end none of us could stop this. Our consciousness seeks to protect itself; it just has not yet tapped in acutely enough

to the terrestrial, material consciousness in a way to recognize that it has limits in that when it extends itself in an unbalanced way

it then shapes its environment in such a way that it changes the conditions in which it arose. The tragedy, of course, is that

there have been conscious creatures, prophets who have cried to cry out for balance, it’s just that their cries were too often misheard. Their words

have been misunderstood, silenced, censured, abstracted, institutionalized, immaterially gnostitized,

flipped to be interpreted in a way to completely subvert and misuse them for vile gain, unending growth at the expense of anything or anyone else.

This is worse when it is known deeply that one is doing it. Many, however, are scared or less minded, out of sync with

the material and its laws and limits, on a gradient of awareness. The action that follows from varied layers of conscious drives

is only an imprecise measure of culpability at this point, for even those who’ve known, who said something, have not been able

to stave off devastation, and some leaning toward that better way will gravitate towards more foul forms of justice in the search of balance,

but balance at this point, given the physical circumstance, is not likely to scale out to look anything like what we’ve come to

recognize as life. It will be alien. We must learn to absorb this new reality, to blend-in in a way that favors wisdom, peace. But we must also be willing to face

the harsher possibilities and yet still advocate for life even if it means our death. What comes after that for us may be nothing

or it may be everything. Perhaps this beautiful yearning and work for good, even ending in disaster, continues, but even if does not it feels more pure than other

options of cancerous greed and stormtrooping and conniving and living in luxury in the face of suffering, leeching off that

suffering by inciting jealousy and false dreams of perverted gain, celebrity. It will still be better than the depravity of murder and rape

and hypocrisy of speech and deed, and war, and profiteering off wrecking other life forms and the very life giving balance

of the earth. Perhaps consciousness will arise again on this planet before the solar meltdown coming in four to six billion years

vaporizes it all into an even newer layer of being in the universe. It may discover this conscious time’s hieroglyphics,

emotions etched into the earth. By that time will it have learned from our mistakes and maintain a balance more in tune than we have engineered?

Will it simply be a new tragic ballet of Wisdom in search of a company of graceful dancers with too few dancers able to learn

the routine, the flowering of the daily chorus and symphony on the face of the earth, yeast and pollen drifting in the air stirring up

the effervescence of shared and communicated and perceived conscious life, or will that dance be an unqualifying exchange and

letting go?


Inspirations: The Rapid Evolution of EmojisAn Insurrectionist Manifesto by Ward Blanton, Clayton Crockett, Jeffrey W. Robbins, and Noëlle Vahanian. Panpsychism via Peter Sjöstedt-H