You walk with Bathala, Roberts and his bear towards their camp near the edge of a massive forest. You can see only a few feet into its dense array of trees that shut out all but a few rays of sunlight.
He tells you that forests are complex and sublime mysteries. Modern humans know as much about forests as they do about oceans- almost nothing. A forest is a breathing, live entity. A wild tree behaves and lives differently in a forest than it does in a manmade row or alone in a sidewalk. Here trees recognize their kin and help them. There is a parent tree, an old tree that can draw nutrients from the deep reaches of the ground and have great command of fungus, the communication network of the forest floor. A single teaspoon of soil contains miles of filament, the material that acts like a fiber optic line to carry vast sums of information between them. They use this to talk to other trees and help each other. They can send extra nutrients to a tree fighting an infestation of insects or recovering from an injury.
Deep within this forest there is a 500 year old stump cut down a hundred and fifty years ago that is filled with fresh chlorophyll and his roots live because his friends supply him with nutrients, water and sugars. They budget their resources to keep their friend alive in some way. You remember that there is an inconsolable Orca mother who swims with her dead calf for months. Elephants will bury their fallen family members and stand with them for weeks and cannot be comforted. Wolves who lose even a lower member of their pack mourn them in somber howls each night, and are subdued and sad for an entire season.
Trees are no different. He tells you men of science can’t make sense of this because they don’t understand that life is not machinery that can be reduced to a series of endless basal impulses
As you trek up a rocky path, Roberts shows you a crop of trees on the side of a small hilly meadow. There is a large spruce, a pine tree Roberts and his son named “Blue Pine”. He tells you how his son was an Eagle Scout and they used to come to this spot years ago and noticed that Blue Pine was besieged by blight and very sick.
He reveals how one night his son could not sleep and was kept awake by the feeling of some presence. Something talked to him in a whisper, not one he could hear but rather one he could feel. He wandered outside his tent and saw Blue Pine, who was then a very drab deep gray, marred by many dead brown needles. He knew it was Blue Pine that had asked for help.
On the next hike Roberts accompanied his son. He knew a man named Burt Schneider, who was something of an expert and brought him along. He had learned to listen to the trees from an old colleague who had pioneered work on this subject. He believed that there are frequencies that can heal and transform and that men could harness this power.
He tells you that Blue Pine told Burt he watched the skies for decades and wanted to be blue again, like the sky. They visited Blue Pine for months. He tells you that they all became good friends, and that after a while they could feel his presence, a brightness as they approached. They concentrated together and as his old blighted nestles were reborn they became blue as the noon sky.
He tells you many men of science reject this and don’t believe him…but that they are unfit to study such splendor, because they are of incorrect constitution. They say they are curious but this isn't remotely true. They are strivers, motivated by prestige and wielding petty authority…they don't even really observe nature so much as they ignore it looking for some measurable metric to gauge for grant money or contracts.
This is science in your age: some foundation sponsored status slut in your kitchen telling you that your beloved old family recipes are nothing more than a series of macro nutrient and chemical signature combinations...while smirking. As a class of people they hate nature, as they would labor at the bottom of its totemic hierarchies. Modern man is physically and spiritually beneath the creatures he studies. It makes sense then that the bulk of their contributions and efforts are aimed at reducing nature and overcoming features of natural life on behalf of their industrial paymasters. They live comfortably in labs and offices inside offensive and monstrous cities. They could have done research in the service of natural understanding. Inter species communications. They could have decoded whale songs. There should no dogs inside of a kill shelter. They should be trained to detect cancers, respiratory diseases and pre-diabetes. Dogs should be given their natural mantle of protector as medical personnel and guides. Instead we have armies of insurance billers and chemists who spend lifetimes and millions of dollars developing drugs for the side effects of other drugs. A 10 million dollar machine to do what a shelter dog would do and feel joy doing. Firemen had to pretend to be live victims in the rubble after Mossad agents demolished the Twin Towers because the rescue dogs grew despondent and depressed when they couldn’t find people to help. But they languish alone, euthanized by the millions while we remain dependent on machines we can’t afford, that unlike dogs, are completely indifferent to our lives and our deaths.
He tells you this is a great spiritual plague…The sycophantic domesticants who gravitate toward scientific endeavors in the modern age believe humans to be the sole species that makes moral decisions or experiences higher emotional ranges.
You know of many dogs who stare longingly out of windows for their deceased owners to return. One went a train station every day for years waiting for his master who never comes. Someone feeds him and walks him, but this is not enough him. He yearns for his friend.
A desperate and starving wolf hunts an exhausted caribou, each expending their last precious reserves of adrenaline for a final push for survival, they live beyond themselves in these moments…they reach sources of strength and mystery that long inspired the best of men to emulate them.
The cubicle trained race of pansy office urchin, hydroponically sustained under indoor lighting, who eat prepared foods on designated feed breaks could never conceive of such a life. They are far from the Great Father. They live a small existence. Their Iliad is customer service disputes, bike trails, Segway tours or forming a manner bund but for the purpose of Comic Con attendance…their great triumphs are new years’ Keto resolutions and short sabbaticals from internet porn.
This is their understanding of will.
He tells you not to listen to such men as authorities on the behaviors or place of animals in the true natural order.
The modern man is heir to the work of titanic men of vision and resolve who dot history. But now he denounces these men as they contradict the trendy ideologies of his masters. Modern man is a flinching coward, and completely subservient homebody. Faculties, boards and various needy individuals are voluntarily indentured to the technological plantations they would never dream of leaving. These slave fags insult animals as lowly and primitive.
The economy they serve demands a multiplication of the indolent and stupid at the expense of the strong and the beautiful.
He tells you this is unacceptable.
The trees grow quiet and you see several blue jays flee their nests and perch in rows on the leafless limbs of a tree. Their chirps are sparse and urgent. Doctor Roberts and you both look up and you now see a large swooping hawk in the distance.
He pauses for a moment. He tells you that these blue jays live with an awareness that few in our time will know. But also that unlike you they can see their enemies, and they must be bested in physical space to be taken. Your enemies hide themselves and obfuscate reality. But soon they will reveal themselves. Every day millions of humans squat in the high rise and contort their spines and souls for mere survival…but even this is too much for his masters to allow.
He tells you that modern human societies are a Basinski disintegration loop. In it man himself is transformed, degraded into a pitiable creature divorced from divination, his ultimate fate a metamorphosis into a something inhuman…a new creature…a myopic, buzzing neuro drone, a flesh vessel for the big arrow’s baleen markets niches.
You ask him what goes through the mind of someone who drills a whole in the head of a cat.
He tells you that researchers are desperate to show animal’s will and love to be nothing more than some type of Pavlovian response. This supports their view of animals and by extension mankind as nothing more than cellular machines motivated by easily explainable base level desires, which of course they aim to control and market to. In their world, the only true mysteries left are the undiscovered mechanisms that can be uncovered and revealed through scientific prophecy….by them.
Experts will have you believe that the vulgar and redundant consumers in Dovato commercials have higher internal lives than a bottle nose Dolphin, or a 3,000 year old olive tree. It’s absurd, but they buy expensive social disease drugs and express their spirituality in the safe, market friendly language of vocal fried babbling and "Live, Laugh, Love" decor.
He tells you it can’t stop. You can’t leave or get away from this…You can’t even flee to the forest because they will come for you. They will come for the land in some way because the people who study life professionally have a material reward system predicated upon dense human spaces and the expansion of the economy. They rationalize their destructive tech-craft in grandiose and altruistic vernacular but they are nothing more than big arrow handmaidens and satanic flunkies who extol the rancher over the wolf. The stem research over the child. They demand depletion and eradication. There are men that believe straight rows of human designed timber constitute a forest, that the captive, hand fed big cats in the zoo can continue the spirit of a species, his dim and poorly camouflaged iron prison a passing for a “habitat”.
But deep down they know that like animals, humans want more than the trough.
He tells you that the same system of industrial destruction also peddles a mendacious form of spirituality for you. They have created safe oppositions for you to join, in the same way they Astro-turf pseudo environmental movements to allow endless plunder and replication of consumer colonies. The way that veganism, while understandable in the face of factory animal torture, in reality provides a cover for the lucrative monocrops and gender bending pesticides desired by Big Ag fags.
These Spiritual But Not Religious TM Hot Topic identity outfits carry the trappings of the beliefs found in many ancient environmentally friendly cultures. But it is a trap, this devotion to Mother Earth TM, funded by the MacArthur Foundation and slickly depicted in Humans of Flat animation is content to let you play dress up and sing rain dance songs for internet weirdos and yoga moms while it forces you away from nature, and to give up the actual wild for its simulacrum.
When they talk about sustainability, this has nothing to do with nature, they are talking about sustaining the growth of the Techno/Industrial system. But they can’t tell you this.
This Corporate/NGO borne cult has many off shoots but all Mother Earth TM or Loving Science! cults want you to believe that you are a bastard child, the child of a singularity or a single “mother” that must be worshipped and deferred to…and who best captures this omnipotent, authoritative mother figure than the newly emerged female bureaucrat, the Rothschild errand girls who staff the G20 black masses and Grove conferences.
He tells you they are men who believe in wilderness. That your true mother is a snarling wolf and a psychotic elephant who tramples cities for her calf and that you have a Father and that Father is a Great Spirit and he expresses his nature to you in the great species that you have watched terrorize man
The mother protects you at all costs but the Father is BLOOD and it is to the Father that you will return and be judged. The Father gives you your purpose, gives you your name. It is quite telling that the father is absent in the origin stories the single mother cult and all of its permutations. They would have you believe that you have no father and that you have spontaneously appeared from the inner fat folds of the steatopygic fertility mud figure. This is a politically correct masturbation fantasy hatched in the big mama hut of some Gender Studies Clan and promoted by the masters of the modern economy because they desire it’s endgame, which is you, living the life of dispossessed Africanized village boys who machete each other between bouts of boredom and pussy begging. Them: The Big Man, who own all the goats and control the land, with harems of insufferable schizoid den mothers who yearn to once again show you the female future…in your own entrails.
You reach a clearing with several canvas tents. There are several trucks with large animal trailers attached. A man steps out of one of the trucks. He's s six foot tall, muscular, lean and broad shouldered. His well-built V tapered physique visible through his slightly rumpled Bush shirt. He has impeccable posture. Immediately one can tell he is s a man of significance within the operation. He is clean shaven, wears a black bandana across his forehead and aviator sunglasses. His shorts stretched over his mid-thigh, a noticeable teardrop muscle above his knee displayed his incredible conditioning. His boots are a well-worn brown leather, caked with trace amounts of mud.
Roberts goes to the truck and briefly tells him how they found you.
He nods his head and walks toward you, extending his arm.
You shake his hand.
He tells you his name is Hugo.
This gets better with every part. If this doesn't make you want to stop being a bugman, nothing will.