“Finding an adequate language for post-anthropocentrism means that the resources of the imagination,
as well as the tools of critical intelligence, need to be enlisted for this task.” R. Brandotti, The Posthuman.
Cambridge UK, 2013. p.82.



Bear paws pressed into the earth, a small plane roars behind a ridge.
The bear is no longer there. The plane remains unseen. Existence is
a "doom loop." Moment after moment disappears like an open circle
of stones.


When we learned to coax dreams into images, we thought we would know
how shamans flew into their levels of being. Not seers as much as healers,
they would not answer questions, such as,“How many levels of reality are
you on at this moment?”


Clay was heated and shaped into domesticated earth. Then, she painted
the horizon on her skin with red ochre and walked toward the rising sun
chanting words that had never been spoken before.


The oldest of trees stand in mythology. The biblical trees of Life and Knowledge;
Yggdrasill, from which Odin hung nine days and nights; and the Cosmic Tree at
the center of it all. Its roots spread through the underworld, its branches embrace
the sky. At its base curls a serpent, and a bird with folded wings sits on its crown.

The snake is the convolutions of Anthropo’s reptilian brain. The bird is perched
atop the staff of a therianthropic man painted at Lascaux more than 12,000 years
ago. "He, dancer in the abyss, spirit, ever to be born. / Bird and perverse fruit of
magic cruelly saved."


What will your reality be when your nervous system is no longer sympathetic?
After millions of years of evolving various forms, organs, pigments, shapes,
will human flesh be happy with a digital pulse in place of a beating heart?

Will the impulses of electronic prostheses entrain “the sustainable ethics of
(2) emulating the phantom pain of an amputated limb? Or will
cybernetic implants have no causal memory, no positional history, no sense
of an eternity beyond itself?


Perhaps it was because weeds had risen wild as Gaia conducting heat from
the planet’s fiery viscera to its lively Critical Zone that a man who looked like
Po Chu-I walked past me shouted over his shoulder, “Read the original!”


We skirted foamy tide sliding in with clumps of salty weeds, sandpipers running
pecking for worms, as a “fishapod” emerged from the sea into oxygenated air.
Disoriented as to where and what it was, it turned and wiggled back into familiar
We too turned and walked back, to the parking lot. In the distance, someone was
fishing from what looked like a long stand of petrified hair.


The early morning sun paints an empty sky with fresh blood. Where yesterday
I had to wade across, today I’m walking on rocks thirsty for what doesn't flow
anymore. The wild is what slips from under a microscope, and disappears.


At the quantum level there is nothing that is not related to everything else.
Meaning, then, is humanity’s most elegant contribution to the universe. A
voice balanced in the morning mist, it carries the mystery of a uroboros
whose circular being hums itself into existance.


Like the humpbacked fluteplayer, Kokopelli, Anthropos plays in the bulge
of its brain “a language of substance which cannot be taken substantively.”

It is not only thick strokes of vibrant paint that make Van Gogh’s paintings
crucial in our time, but also the artist’s stubborn toil under a glowering sun.
Would an intelligent computer suffer rejection by its peers when madness
burns through the qbits of its brain?


In 2015, tools were found that were dated to before Homo sapiens became
a distinct species. With these tools they walked into a world that has since
been conquered by humans, yet remains unknown.


No GPS to guide me through this jumble of stones that looks like a corpus
callosum connecting a binary feral mind, last year a bridge was built over
this chasm. Heavy lengths of squared wood were carried up steep hills on
the backs of young men, opening a new path that loops back to the old.


Paleolithic cave art may have told stories that, when the environment changed,
and some of the animals painted disappeared, inside they continued to stretch,
twist, and prance across the walls. Were these paintings literal, symbolic, both?
Like contemporary religions whose stories originated in environments that no
longer exist, we don't know what they mean beyond the meaning we give them.


Before the sun warms the horizon, I put on a sweater, and consider:
Existence is easy. But “Becoming-imperceptible,”
(5) while the media
clones instant celebrities, takes courage.

To the smell of water that's sunk beneath earth’s gritty skin, plants
reach down. Their roots are drying; the mountains, too, feel sluggish.


As we cannot speak for nature, can we learn to speak with nature?
Does Wittgenstein’s statement: “If a lion could talk we would not
understand him,”
(6) fall within the probability of an AI system
that could falsify it? Understanding simultaneously expands
and slips away.


An art could be made by cyborgs programmed to compute unknown
causes, in which the present is the future appearing to be in the past.
Then what can’t be known will be for sentient beings to dispute.


As I climb the river’s embankment, from a jumble of rocks the arm of a dead plant
reaches out and catches my foot. I fall backward while leaning forward, recalling:
“Just think how amazing! Someone getting up and walking /on the water.”
Later, I muse: You can’t walk on water, when the water is gone. Theology
is becoming ecology.


Split-brained and Janus-facing Earth’s limited resources, in an apparently unlimited
universe we only have a limited reach because we refuse to recognize the duplicity
of ourselves.


One morning I wondered how I can live in a world whose changes are exponentially
speeding up. Not in, I realized, but as someone who may at any moment be grabbed
and digested by a flesh-eating plant. As the sun grows crops and cancer, this forest
is living and decaying.


How could they have painted with such acuity unless they embodiedthe animals
they were drawing in dark oxygen-deprived underground depths, where bestial
fat danced in stone lamps, “animating andaccentuating surface details that would
soon return to darkness.”

Now we tap algorithmic codes onto smooth backlighted screens, glowing flights
of artificial intelligence with the “incapacity to discern the secret humanity of non-
human beings.”

Will artists, subsuming their imagination to sampling machines, ask the same
questions of the wild nature racing across the walls of Paleolithic caves today?


Sleeping beneath its parched skin, this river can no longer write
an original word. Knowing this I can finally address my teachers.



1. R. Char, From, “Dead Bird-Man and Dying Bison.”
2. R. Braidotti, The Posthuman. Cambridge UK, 2013. p.90.
3. Po Chu-i (772-846) was probably referring to, “Five Spring Poems by Po Chi-i.” J. Weishaus, trans.
4. J. Hillman “The Therapeutic Value of Alchemical Language: A Heated Introduction.” In, Alchemical Psychology.
The Uniform Edition of the Writings of James Hillman.
Vol. 5. Putham CT, 2010. p.16.
5. R. Brandotti, Ibid.p.137.
6. L. Wittgenstein. The Wittgenstein Reader. A. Kenny, ed. Oxford, 1994. p. 213.
7. A. Ginsberg. From, Galilee Shore.”
8. J. Clottes, What Is Paleolithic Art? Chicago. 2016. p.103
9. D. Danowski & E.V de Castro, The Ends of the World. Cambridge UK. p.73. “To say that everything is human (as many indigenous peoples do) is to say that humans are not a special species, an exceptional event that came to tragically or magnificently interrupt the monotonous trajectory of matter in the universe.” p.72.