“Holocene-trained humans are extraordinarily ill prepared to master anything, especially a planet.” B. Latour, “Gaia 2.0 / Down to Earth.” Lovelock Centenary Conference, July 2019.



The Green Man with vegetal hair and virtual eyes, is a continuum of becoming.
I can feel him like a feral animal on the prowl, scuttling back into intangibilities,
into the gray dust. There is no more settling in. To be conscious is to be equal
ethically to what you are conscious of.


On the steep climb up a red clay road, horseshoe tracks suddenly broke into a gallop,
running toward the smell of sulfur and blood lingering from when the centaur “reeled
away…his heart like a wild storm,”
(1) erupting from Iron Age Gods of Mining and War.


In old age the brain draws its synapses closer together for more intimacy and faster
calculations. Names slip into crevasses. Recognition sways to the caustic music of
Gaia’s Dance Macabre. Life and death are no longer the same process. Death is the
whole process.


One simple definition of organic life is self-organizing chemistry that can reproduce
itself, and pass on its genetic materials encoded as DNA. How would life be defined
for fabricated beings, whose organs are made of clever alloys? What is Life? would
be better asked as: What is existence? Not, What does it mean to exist, as meaning
is becoming confused with mathematics. Science’s nectar is philosophy’s hemlock.


Algorithms will fear to tread “where the unknown haunts us in our innermost self,
at the farthest point of being.”
(2) Hijacked by religions and institutions, spirituality
will reemerge as the essential incompleteness of a creatively evolving mind.
Necessary pursuits, such as art and science, may be subsumed by artificial
intelligence, but an always incomplete unconscious will remain beyond AI’s
capability to replace. What’s unknowable is the unconscious’s natural state.


In Yolngu mythology, “Time was created through the transformation of ancestral
beings into a place, the place being forever the mnemonic of the event.”
(3) A path
taken is taken, but to where? The past is an echo that has no calling. There's only
finding one’s own being-in-place.


High mind, deep mind, the Unborn Mind reaches a point of no return where
a company of rocks oversees a valley with rows of carrots and beets. Gulp
some water, then climb higher, to where a lung-gum-pa may race around a
bend, plowing me under to feed the future.


Old Stony Face is pockmarked, mottled and grossly overweight. As a man she’d
be an ugly Calibanian creature. As a rock she was one of Gaia’s virgins, dancing
and feasting until, too large to move, she hunkered down in the shadows of this
mountain’s lofty brow.


Humans who had migrated over most of the planet lost touch with each other,
each finding their own territory, to which they adapted their color, language,
economy, mythology, arts and technology.
For a long time, I only heard my
own breathing, crunch of familiar feet on hardpacked ground, and the buzz
of hungry insects honing in.


With the planet’s interlocking life-support systems brushing aside unnatural
boundaries drawn by our histories, the path forward is strewn with obstacles
and worn out routes. We may miss a sign, an existential turn, and step into a
pile of dung.


Every description of nature opens to a deeper level of knowledge.
Hiking today from the mountain’s sweaty brow, into the canyon’s
cool shadows, to a pump draining the aquifer's hidden moisture.


The concrete culvert sports a sign: “Fish Passage Diversion: Keep Out.”
But it's always too dry for this Steelhead salmons’ alternate route. Here
the intimacy between the earth’s waterways, its atmospheric systems,
and sediments needed for the ocean’s windward shores are ignored.


Was my bruised knee caused by two branes bumping into each other,
or by bone meeting terrestrial stone? Causes are not the aggregate of
information, but are born from interpreting effects. Is Big Data another
Absolute, just when my knee is beginning to heal?


Presently the AI enterprise consists of a comparatively small STEM-educated cabal
inventing, investing, philosophizing in midst of billions of people to whom concepts
such as posthumanism ignore the grit of their daily existence. No matter how much
data is collected, algorithms written, works of art made, we must not fail this planet!


Human voices ascend the mountain. Stone steps climb to where the path splits.
Gripped by a hawk's giant talons, a small rabbit is flying into a reddening dawn.


After an embryo refigures itself, it begins an indeterminate maturation entangled
with all other biological life “that know themselves to be part of multiple realities.”
Finally it appears in the world' But what does appearance mean if virtual realities
are given a substantial place?


Boots absorb heat-hardened soil, dust clings to their tightly tied laces.
A Zen Master shouted, “Emptiness! It’s not what consciousness is but
what it isn’t.” The arts gain a foothold where philosophers stumble on
the pedigree of their steps. Not before, nor too far ahead.


On the ridge, a barbed wire fence was cut and pulled aside. Behind it, an
overgrown trail leads to a precipice overlooking a valley. From here I can
see a world that doesn’t look like the charts of Earth-system scientists
plotting the temperature as it climbs toward heights not reached in the
past fifty million years.


Valleys are soulful, while mountain peaks, as in having a peak experience,
are spiritual, “From the viewpoint of soul going up the mountain feels like
a desertion.”
(5) Along this path, Robert Smithson’s “Spiral Jetty” is rising
from Utah's Great Salt Lake; or, rather, the water is evaporating around it.


Chunks of rock have sheared off the hillside, or are slowly wearing down to
pebbles. As cities spread out, the Hagazussa, who sat on the fence marking
town from wilderness, lift off and ride toward a future deprived of a future.


An atmospheric river streams voices not heard since “A recording of thunder
to enter abruptly after 63 to 70% of the agreed-upon performance time-length
has elapsed.”
(6) Cast off boots and rewire hominins for a Homo Cyberneticus
with lug-soled feet.

Today all paths are muddy, infinitively dimensional, unscalable variables, and
all “hominid ecologies”
(7) are extinct, on the cusp of extinction, tracked, caged,
or kept as neotenic pets.

Poor Frankenstein,
Square cement boots,
Only wanted love.



1. Homer, The Odyssey. R. Fagles, trans. New York, 1999. p.434.
2. E. Jabès, From the Desert to the Book. Barrytown NY, 2010. p.72.
3. H. Morphy, “Landscape and the Reproduction of the Ancestral Past.” In, E. Hirsh and M. O’Hanlon, eds, The Anthropology of Landscape. Oxford, UK, 1995. p.188.
4. S. Rowland. In, S. Rowland and J. Weishaus, Jungian Arts-Based Research and “The Nuclear Enchantment of New Mexico.” London and New York, 2020. p.80.
5. J. Hillman, “Peaks and Vales.” In, J. Moore, ed., A Blue Fire: Selected Writings by James Hillman. New York, 1989. p.116.
3. J. Cage, “Lecture On The Weather.” Performance Notes, B111. Commissioned by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation in 1975.
4. L.R. Bryant. Larval Subjects Blog. “Denaturing Nature.” May 24, 2102.
5. J. Weishaus. From, “The Coffee House.”