More Susurrations from the Earth

Sometimes it seems I can only write when I’m otherwise incapacitated: at lab meetings, on trains, in waiting rooms. The following bit was forced out of me (by me) on the LIRR the weekend after moving to Asgard.

2 parts of me (3?), the piece which is the purely human bit, the abomination of nature, which like puzzles and reading and zoning out and into itself.

& the piece which is a part of everything, a borrowed bit of consciousness, trapped in the bioelectrochemical labyrinth of the brain. It feels EVERYTHING and it very different from the emotions of the social creature I am (carrotted in at the top of the page, my handwriting seems to whisper as the street trees did on Friday, “There is never any end to the pain it channels because the planet is dying,” the trees respond knowingly without emotion “We know.”) When & how & why did other people shut this voice out? I can shut it out by ploying, plying, and playing with the human bit, but when it fails, I fall. I fall into it. I go deep down into that place in the earth where it weeps.

(An aside) Is there a piece of it which is me? Lauren Thompson? No. I don’t think so.

**

I have spent a lot of time & energy trying to become functional. I have equated functionality with sanity. This turns out to be a fallacy. Just because I do more with my day doesn’t mean it’s imbued with more meaning.

I do lots of things people do, but I do not feel like a person. I am still playing pretend. I am more thought & body than human. Thought & body alone do not make a person. It is this socializing, this bargaining, this compromising with the group consciousness piece, the empathy piece, empathy with the great thing, not face. Faces & and bodies are terrible things. At one moment calling that strictly human piece, the strictly human pieces, the pieces which reward themselves, the masturbatory regions which like to light up with their own cleverness.

Art. Faces & bodies appear art to us.

And then, at the wrong angle wrong moment (most angles, most moments) they reveal themselves as naked masks of muscle and fat, repulsive tubes of flesh, nothing more than limbs and torsos with very little power at all, doing nothing more than what organisms do (a horror for us to see!, for we take so much more than other organisms & to be reminded of our crimes is unthinkable).

Stop imposing. Stop imposing.

Stop dressing. Stop dressing.

We are less than animals.

We are less than nature.

With nothing left to listen to except the soaring progress of our own destruction…(there is nowhere in nature left where man’s crowning “achievements” go unheard with their grinding for more than a few minutes at a time. And even these places are rare.)

How has man’s internal dialogue changed? From the raucous sound of his own living?

I am wearing human skin, but I am an alien in th

I feel as though I am a bit of nature dressed up as human. I want to go home, but there’s no home to go to. This battle is so uphill.

It will not be the same.

**

From later that day:

It’s really important that You make media to infect people’s thinking, to come around to where You are.

Man takes all the e sucks everything from the earth, resources & energy, & gives back nothing but waste & suffering.

He needs to learn this dark truth about himself.

Instead of standing outside of nature, he needs to a fuckin’ vortex of misery, he must rejoin the planet’s ecosystem, a nomad no more.

There is no place to wander to next & You have nearly used up everything here.

Change. And know, death is not the worst thing.

**

I originally intended for this place to be a realm where I put flesh on ideas whose skeletons have formed in conversation, but this restriction seems to limiting now and strains against the intention of growth. That said, this passage presents fetal ideas, unfinished, and defenseless. They are not rules by which I live and their stark deviation from generally accepted sanity is acknowledged…but the, as yet indescribable, resonance of their truth leads me to believe their pursuit will prove fruitful regardless of their veracity: they speak of something worth examining.