work under major construction—forgive the mess:
Objects —the things that object to us, we subjects, strike at us, at our perceiving mechanisms in the first place, in their very existence to us, to our perception with something like an appealing-potential-narrative: lacking anima (inert, without inertia) but imbuible with it, with some potential, some ability to become potent as masculine actor as impregnator-progenitor or pregnagable as feminine actor, by the perceiver’s very act of noticing them for their potential. The perceiver, thereby, is a perceiver-projector, an animator of the inanimate who, as an object objects to him via his perceiving mechanism, animates it with potential for use as such an object as strikes him. Why and how an object strikes him is a matter of unconscious categorization driven by inherited perceptions as well as learned perceptions of category. What are those objects to us that have no categorical significance—who do not sign to us automatically their potential use? They are inter-categorical anomalie, and thus, they are curiosities. They have a hopeful-threatening sort of appeal to our mind; not inert, but with inertia of mixed potential valence, and thus are in their own category; uncategorized potential—danger and opportunity both.
This must mean that objects (of which we also, inevitably are to one another at times) that speak to us, commandeere our attention—put our nervous systems ‘at-tension’ and call us to resolve such tension, amongst the bevy of others, they all—we all— present potential for animation to the animal who operates in the world as such.
Animals being ambulatory creatures unmoored by roots, who act and see the world as a place for action by default, as they must do in order to procure their sustenance and to fulfill the sugary commands of their pancreai, unlike their planted counterparts who garner theirs from roots—a more limited form of searching for one’s dinner. The animal is hereby ‘the roaming stomach.’ Even his childlike play-acting is, at bottom, embodied preparation for the more mature action of manipulating the arena of objects that object to his stomach-mind as food or as tool for procuring it. Better put, “animal is the roaming stomach that views the world as categories of objects-as-tools for procuring sustenance”—the hungry, roaming tool wielder. That he manipulates, uses his own body, the hand in particular, the ‘mano’ (the attached meta tool, or the ‘tool that uses tools,’) this makes him man as-such. Hereby, to manipulate is to treat the world as hand-haver and user and to be such a being as I describe herein: a tool user by default of his own bodily orientation to the world around him. Man sees even his own self —for he did name himself after all— as a tool.
And he sees his parts, his organs, the systems that comprise his system as a whole, as imbued with spirits, or spirit-functions. The hand manipulates, the mind contrives and tells stories about his being, and his bodily organs loses)))))) him with desires over which he seeks to wield control, most often failingly: for who can control so many evolutionary systems on top of systems on top of millennia? All of his stories are stories of hunger and overcoming these tyrannical systems’ desires (the driving anima that animate him as a whole) for life and sustenance. He is animated by these and in so being, he projects his egoic view onto the world, acts his act in his arena in exchange for (or, in demand of) his organelles’ satiation, satiety, and safety.
His pancreas is one such driving anima. Named aptly the organ of ‘all thought.’ Pan: ‘all’ and Thought: ‘creer’ or ‘to think’. Thinking being the root of creation, or the inventiveness of the creative mind—creative in the sense of food-getting. The pancreas indeed controls insulin and thereby the blood sugar levels that signal to our stomach via ghrelin production, hunger (dominates thought), animates all animals with anima (hunger instinct for the class of life form that must ambulate in order to feed itself.) and motivates them to perform the predator behavior common to all animals (those possessed of the spirit and curse of a stomach and the legs to pursue its interests).
This is why we reduce or inflame the idea of Spirit as we do—in order to understand our role on stage, larger: into god himself or smaller: into inert matter (a return to unconsciousness); seen as a stage, and ourselves as actors for that recursive curse—consciousness, possession of the demon of hunger; animals feel hunger, they project their curse into all objects; things to be animated and eaten to satiate that self same awakened beast. And why we feel as one of many; for animation if able to be spread, affected and affecting, must mean that all animat-able things are ‘of spirit,’ ‘anima’ whether hunter or hunted, animated, part of this whole—we animate our circle of life, and interact (inter-act) with those who see the stage as we do; with a belly. “All the world’s a stage,” Shakespeare was right in the deepest sense, the sense of shared hunger—that’s the animal spirit—hunger for resources: sex, food, and safety to enable these. All these animals have another thing in common: they are not anchored, or rooted, to the ground. Their nutrients do not come to them—they steal away from them. These animals are free from roots—they have free will, but they are also in this way cursed: to pursue all their lives long, and cursed, some of them, to know they’ll die to boot. Detached from the umbilical of Mother Nature—estranged from the uroboric knowing and plunged into disconnected, enlightened, separated knowing (thinking, awareness) of hunger. To know someone sexually is to think of them cognizantly—and to think is to use the mind, the mente: from mentir: to lie: to story-tell. And why does the lying mind tell these stories? Because it no longer is being. It is now experiencing, as an ego, as an independent animated spirit, separate from the uroboric mother—from unconsciousness, into consciousness; self consciousness, and therein it no longer is—is in the story, but is outside of it, and, in order to cohere to reality as a creature born out (outside) of nature, to function in its new, more independent ex-perience (exogenous to the spirit of nature) as opposed to its former dependent in-sperience (endogenous to the spirit of nature) existence. Even existence implies ‘ex’ or ‘outside of.’ We cannot get around the fact that our consciousness is a separation from unconsciousness, and this is what all of our stories are about: fitting back into nature’s god as the fallen angel—fallen out of heaven (oneness with nature) and into consciousness (separation from nature). Lucifer, the enlightened one, is all of us. It is the spirit of separation-consciousness; awareness of ourselves as ‘other than’ unconscious nature. So man can be seen (or can choose to see himself) as fallen from nature-god-un-consciousness, or, sprung up from it.
To fable our heroic ancestors as those who separated heavens from earth is to recognize the spirit of consciousness separating slowly ourselves as egoic separatists from the mother. But it is also to personify the heavens in place of realizing our earthly roots, and it is to misjudge the date of our (we conscious animals possessed of this anima I discuss) arrival on the earthly scene. We are later born than as to have arrived so early that our ancestor might have pressed the earth from the sky. That pressing is no more than metaphor for pressing our existence out of pre-animalic unconsciousness into consciousness…an exaptation, a second order consequence of the cycle of nature (nature sometimes having created animals whose brains get hold of psychedelics and thumbs in perfectly plightful concord once per Kalpa—once per Consciousness-Revolution cycle).
And so, we ambulatory animator-projectors project stories onto everything we see
Mono, Monkey, face, White’s of eyes, communal species, collaborators, fellow story-tellers. Tribal stories are a collective coping mechanism for existential (pressed out) animals that are no longer in the story, or wholly consumed inside the story itself, and who thereby are no longer ‘at home’ in the belly of the unconscious mother, the world womb, the ouroboros. Thus, we are compelled to re-orient ourselves with stories, via the only counter to this greatest of griefs, this separation and expatriation from that god-unconsciousness, that being god-ness, via, our mind: our liar mechanism, our story maker upper that seems to solve our key problem, hunger, and thus imputes its own power ability (quite falsely) to be capable of telling a story instead of in exchange for its supper, in exchange for its broken and disassociated membership, its lack (its ‘god shaped hole’) of being whole in the unconsciousness (and therefor it’s inability even to worry for itself, for its ego—for it was not separate and had no identity as ‘self’) of being.
Ego death then, can only be temporary for any animal. Induced by psychedelics —initiatory reminders of former connectedness— a plunging back into, psychically, the great mother’s womb of un-ego, un-individuated experience, once the mind remerges from the plunge, it is in an environment that in its every sign (for it signs to him)
She lost them in the great divide between she and herself, the surprise impregnation, the splitting of her legs. Ever wider hips she’d have, and a temper for fair and obvious reasons. Spirit intervened, the sperm-ghost, the god of divine, making Mary, true mother of Adam —for there was no male other, no Yang— divinely pregnant again (for a overthrowing needs a new god, and then for him to leave so the new priests may rule in avarice again for a while, a long while).
We and the animals are named this because we seem to bit be animated and to view the world not as an outcropping of it, but an actor, animated animator. And animal is an anima, a spirit who perceives and thereby projects, an actor who instead of feeding, hungers—a curse the trees and rocks do not share.
We are not a thing until a more conscious being (part of reality), something that sees us as object: sees us, first, and thereby takes objection with us; we occur to it as something -some thing- through which it’s animating orientation, it could prescribe a story, conceive of a narrative—thereby it can conceive (“to capture inertia with being”) of us —that to say it does conceive, it does animate with story.
Sacrum:
Hambre: Ham, the hungry one (Shem, the thinking one) (what was Japheth?)
Divide / Divine / light + rye from dark / water / mystic : unconscious water dragon to conscious eye (“I am I”): Neumann, pg 105
So do lesser animals have existential dread? Degrees of consciousness / differentiation?
Babies are in the ouroboros—unconscious. So do they need cursed to consciousness? Are they yet ‘human’ if they haven’t yet inherited the curse of consciousness / expelled existence?
What of spirit? Is the spirit of the stomach ‘unholy’? (Hermès puts up his appetite in exchange for the spiritual food of praise)
Is the ‘holy’ spirit the spirit that constrains man’s appetite? The masculine cultural constraint from the god in the sky? Is this why we made a god of the sky? Is the sky, ‘steam-like’ spirit / essence, akin to our conscience? Our ‘thinking better’ of our most natural desires?
Honor they father and mother: balance thy ego with the unconscious urges and do well by your forbearers as you’d have your defendants do well by you. Mitigate adolescence as an individual and as a culture by following the examples set by them, their advice being to avoid full identification with ego —narcissism at its furthest degree— perhaps over-identification with god through a messianic complex, endless tool using / technology / pursuit of understanding everything (the combinatorially explosive problem of making all that is unconscious conscious with finite ‘knowing’ resources—brain capacity), eg the pursuit of AI as powerful ‘helper,’ being another tool for marching in this hubristic direction of undertaking to know everything (everything “god knows,” basically), an obsession with dividing nature’s pieces into ever finer parts in aim of death avoidance and its portending signs of cultural decay: masculinily archytypified by the Judaic (Christian, only) God’s place of heaven, but equally attributable to the Great Mother’s calling us uroborically by spirit from the unconscious grave, and for a third, we could consider the Hindu Kalpa and its apocalypse, the cyclical rising of the spirit of Kali, eating her child back into unconsciousness from its moment of birth—a jealous call back to safety in the unconscious womb.
If consciousness drawn out to its fullest extent is a complete separation of man’s egoic experience from the Great collective unconscious formerly typified as the Great Mother, then developed in the psyche for epochs of time into the masculine independent separatist ego-spirit of the father, (as I skip an explanation of adolescence) and finally having arrived at its current state, that of orientation to god the father in further pursuit of ego stability and in compensation for infinite disconnection from its natural motherly safety in unconscious roots —perhaps achieving this by connecting the collective unconscious by way of an artificial general hive-mind, or by some radical permanent means of psychedelic ego-dissolution—soma even: in all cases a male way of managing this disconnection back into the female. Perhaps the uroboros has a robot tail, and hovers above the tower of Babel expectant of its coming to fruition. …if all this, consciousness back to unconsciousness via tech or madness or war or all three;
then why can’t we recognize this pattern and pull back from the brim? The temptation is too great? The fear of death becoming ever more horrific the better we make life? The fear of everything going so catastrophically wrong and of our softened egos bruising too unbearably purple for our delicate, decadent tastes?
Yes. The truth hurts too much to admit, and the ego has cause to hide its sins under the carpet, and even ultimately to walk the plank and offer his phallus in weakened resignation, folding back into unconscious mother sea, and in his long walk out, preferring to scramble to maintain order and to protest, when his own moral failings, his own shortcomings of his eternal mandate of balance, and honor to mother and father both, brought the spirit of chaos to his door.
So it’s pull back from the brink or to stare into the abyss, it staring back into us, and chew some glass, risking our very existence. …to boldly go where no man has gone before. We’re following fucking star track’s slogan —its siren song of the dead—- into the darkness. We must hope there is light ahead. Otherwise we are surely nihilistically walking the plank, sure of our fate and embracing it, pressing it onward, and the few on behalf of the many—perhaps doing so in observance of the general populous’ willingness to dive, to death, reabsorption, and innocently enough, primarily driven by fascination with the light.
Who has a better plan for the future? We do need a plan, surely. One is the great reset.
The ultimate problem our existential dread drives us toward solving is Being, ‘life outside of the unconscious and not knowing everything as we used to, through unconscious/ pure collective consciousness, but knowing everything all the time, at once and every instance, perfect knowledge (an attribute of mother god projected onto the ego-spirit god, father god in the Great separation, the god of light dividing from the dark, coming to consciousness, dreaming his own accidental dream—-that being what we are, his experiencers: all-knowingness). So how do we act going forward without perfect knowledge to manage this separation from mother unconsciousness? If the tale of the Tower of Babel is true, then the pursuit of ultimate knowledge is fruitless and ends in starting over.
What is starting over? Psychological re-envelopment into the unconscious uroboros? Starting the fight for consciousness over again? Finding ourselves in a state of newborn privation and beginning to fashion tools again? Masculine consciousness resurgence? Perhaps the chimps left over will follow our rise and start anew, and find all of our clues and misinterpret our stories just enough to ruin it all once again…and they’ll leave their great stories as well. Save the chimps! Save those ‘on deck’ as our contingency plan for failing completely!
Feminine leadership: If / as we kill our male cultural heroes, and assign them their death sentences whose stipulations include being permanently forgotten with the gods before them, based not on their great physical and psychic victories: of consciousness over unconsciousness, of tricks and hunches having worked rather than not having worked, but rather entirely upon their then-inconsequential and culturally acceptable nay wildely valorized philanderings—primarily characterized with negative valence by modern moralists (moral modernists?) which are necessarily built atop these very great if grievous men and their great achievements—their very progenitors, for their better and their worse …and as we promote women and thereby the pantheon of classically feminine (consider masculinized femininity here…) attitudes (also for better and worse, mind you) women into positions of power and to whom we dane to hand power’s corresponding command over the collective of humanity by various means (policy, coercion, and otherwise), shouldn’t we expect the longings deepest buried in her subconscious and unconscious in her to drive her down the path they most deeply (archetypal) desire? And isn’t that path the oldest path of the great feminine—the great-and-terrible mother; toward a return of the enlightened masculine egoic differentiated individual to the unconscious collective uroboric state of oneness and indifferentiation? With its rise, are we not seeing a symbolic castration of the male, a folding back into the mother right before our eyes? And isn’t it that spirit of the collective rising up against masculine heroic hierarchy busy at its project of tearing down those statues of those heroes?
And if we are to make a new god, the ultimate Jewish god, the god of the tellers of the best story, a story that took over the world by its perfect transmutation of culture and nature, its recasting the lots of the great parents, the god who alleviates all guilt, allows for ambiculture and dissolution of the individual, lulling him softly into the collective unconscious; and if this new god follows the path of the gods of old; that of solving the problem of everythingness, but in so doing, hubristically forgetting the evil spirit of the vengeance of Cain, of satan himself, hitching a ride in his knapsack on the forever road to heaven, will he realize early enough that he must indeed give him the boot? Will the new god kick the new satan out of the kingdom of heaven, and will the resultant man, stupefied but still redeemable, even if only by his own abstract sense of hope or despair, or even in his cleverness; will he accept the spirit of the father and redeem mankind? Or will men mate with that crouching cat of sin sitting at our threshold for a while?
The man bent on good does bad in its name, and the man bent on bad perverts the game, while the man of wisdom sees what is going on and quietly writes his peace on papers that must be discovered only later, in the secret places between rocks of the ages, scrolls he must leave behind, and only artifacts for the reemergent man, battered and bruised by ignorance and thus pliable enough to read and to understand and to again prophecy about an ordered future.
Indeed the maxim “hard times make strong men, strong men make good times, good times make weak men, weak men make hard times” is true. Indeed our need for a hero to follow, to worship in emulation, the mimicking creature that we are, exists and presses us forward, boldly, with masculine spirit—but therein lies the recursive problem: that same spirit is the independent ego, and its insecurity with and overcompensation for what it has necessarily pressed into its subconscious in fear of addressing his separation from the great mother, heaps the weight of eternity, knowledge of time, and despair of death onto its shoulders just as he aims his bow correctly as to hit the target – a proper avoidance or hamartia, the sinful musing of the mark—the honoring of the commandments of old as to maintain order amongst his fellow man, the devil on his shoulder whispers his truest terrible curse: “nothing is true, all is permitted.” And this undermines his noble aim and weights his arrow, and as that phallus flies through the air, in its bowing shy the target, upon impact plants man in his ever-fallen position. If indeed eternal recurrence, counting even we enlightened ones as planted things in its cycle, churns us forth, forever treating us as tumbling pieces, scattered wayward in time, or if our more chimp like late brothers always save the day by longways playing the house’s side of the table on behalf of the hungry bellies fire-fascinated seat of consciousness that comprises all of that latent I’ll-named junk DNA; whatever the next step in the story has in store for consciousness as such—complete darkness, full reabsorption and a long awaiting of the first honey bee, or a heroic moral man, either saving the god of old by reinterpretation, or by slaying him, finally, slaying his own moored conscience, the ancient wisdom of his fathers, and by making a new story, writing his own morals, by wielding a better more fascinating storyline (unlikely to be one in distasteful shallow antagonism of the old god if indeed it must be rich in order to speak deeply to man—to inspire us) and thereby veering us away from despair and solution into the mother, or after having plunged through it —nihilism, antipathy, rabid unstable neuvo-moral gods unknowingly fighting a battle that’s already been fought, and fighting once again the archetypal dragon and defeating her (maybe these two are the exact same battle), capturing the re-cognized treasure, a new concept of the future, after having fought a long dark night of the soul in her belly. A hero must emerge, then, no? Is not Nietzsche’s ubermench wholly dependent on its own mimicked hero narrative—the very thing it aims to transcend? The anti-nihilism I understand, but the anti-Christ I do not. Christ for us defines the ultimate hero, and thus; where would an anti-guilt, anti-moralist (for that is what Nietzsche meant by anti-Christ) get his foundational story? It seems that this requires a complete death of man—for even the last man, that tightrope between man and übermensch, will carry in his breast his story, and that story will be one built on the ancient archetypes that have shaped his very consciousness, and thereby the patterns which he may, and in exclusion of those he cannot, recognize in order to shape that “self-“ directed future he pursues. His planted roots, however high his branches yearn to reach, trip his feet at every lunge upward.