The closer man comes in proximity to the core of this modern civilization, the more he changes into something else. Entry into the technocratic arena is limited to fewer and fewer archtypes…it’s institutions have transformed human societies into a multi mouthed tube funneling all living men into a single outlet: the path of the managed domesticant.
The man your age demands is a robotnik whose highest value is not self preservation, but preservation of his ego even as he is physically eliminated. As only a certain kind of man can live among the wolf, only a certain kind of man can live in the acme of the modern madhouse.
The men of the true core, it’s operators-the sociopathic aspies of silicon valley, the great reset cosmopolitans- are people who hate being human. They naturally gravitate towards the centrifugal powers of such an inhuman system, and they are by far the greatest threat to natural life and free movement that has ever visited earth. They bombard the brains of animals with magnets to turn on or off sections of their consiousness, beam video games into the vision of mice against their will, terrorize primates by disabling mechanisms of their brains that mitigate anxiousness and then force them to view grotesque images of being attacked by spiders and snakes.
They select beagles because they are the breed of dog mostly likely to trust even after being abused…they vivisect him and remove his vocal chords so his anguishes are silent as they set ants upon him, or inject him with neuro toxins. Cats heads are opened up for hearing aids and rats are filled with tumors and given psybicilin induced schizophrenia so system strivers can micro dose hallucenogens more effectively.
Satanism, divorced from arcane rituality finds a new life blood in technocracy. It’s core precept, taking a great purity and turning it on it’s head, defiling it, in this case betraying the the loyalty and forgiveness of the beagle…this pillar of the dark faith has found a true spiritual home in your society’s technophilia. The insatiable drive for new product requires sacrifices for the Big Arrow. Modern man, so forgetful of the ancient blood pacts, so forgetful of his obligations to his friends has surrendered their lives to research torture and now these vicious zealots of the industrial faiths seek to cocoon man himself into the artifice of a transhuman Chrysalis…so that he merges with microplastics and learns Pavlovian responses to their edicts. He will be their new dog, and they will tear him from the mountains and rivers of the ancestor until he becomes larval…he will reside in a pupa but never emerge as the utopian butterfly that the regime promises but instead will be consumed by a form of parasite, and devolved into a paste, a food source for men with wicked and soulless energies.
One day very soon, in a city like the one being built in the domain of elk and wolves, a child will be hatched from a plastic pod. Maybe this will start as a way to provide gay couples a surrogate child, or to overcome some form of vaccine induced infertility, but whatever it is cloaked in, this circumvention of nature which in this age is a goal unto itself, will soon enough become the consensus way to bring forth a human life.
He will never touch his mother. He suckles from a plasticene sack filled with lab measured bio nutrients derived from subsidized surpluses. His life begins disconnected from the human placenta and therefore, the tree of life with which it shares it’s shape. The natural world is designed with these repeating fractal patterns and you are part of this but your overlords are transhuman mediocrities and their desire is to obliterate cycles and circles and replace them with only the big arrow path…a smooth linear line that will ultimately transcend the barriers of God. They must decouple mankind from himself for only then can they raise him in rows as genetically modified human resources…and will him into being or destruction.
The techno slave society requires hatred of the biological process of life and death. Your life can not be allowed to be more anything than a source of production and stream of revenue…in other times you could seek refuge in quiet and personal moments, maybe you could live outside of the chaos, but now these luxuries, once afforded to even the lowest caste of men, are seen as potentially lethal to the cancerous technological networks that must consume the most fundamental prerequisites for inner life: space and time.
Bathala sits with you now, overlooking a small bend in the creek. You sit under a great Fir tree. He tells you he travelled to many places, many exotic surroundings, how he listened to the surf for hours and how nature makes a form of ambient music for you. He tells you that despite his love for the natural world he felt incomplete, that something always drew him back to the cities. That there was great work that would not let him rest.
He tells you he wanted to live a cabin life. To only hear the sound of crows and Moose ruts.
He tells you that he slept outside near the coast in Katmai. He had a dream: he was an old man, tired and frail…he made friends with a small wolf who came to look for crabs. He was very happy with himself that he left civilization behind and left men to their devices.
One day he sees the wolf on the beach. The wolf is afraid and runs away from him. He looks behind and sees a drone humming towards the wolf, pursuing him. It fires euthanasia darts and kills him before flying away.
He sees his small friend crumpled on the sand, his cream colored fur being soaked by the foam of the encroaching waves.
He then awoke to the thunder of a sea storm rolling in. A dark and mysterious collection of clouds hung over every point of the horizon. There was no hiding. Nothing could stop what was coming. He knew he must return to the cities.
He joined Hugo and the others in their explorations. He tells you that they have done much good, that they have a fierce loyalty to each other, that a wolf would not be ashamed to call them a friend.
He tells you a handsome man commands incredible resources if he tries. That he bangs out MAGA moms to fund animal rescues and buy drones. He recalls how he blew up a dolphin hunting vessel from aboard a boat he chartered with money given to him by the wayward lover of a big arrow CPAC man.
He tells you when he was in Mindinao they called him poga poga man. It means “very handsome”. That's why the women love him in San Diego and why he has a gym to bedroom pipeline of fitness milfs and yoga moms who lavish him with the fortunes of their former and often current husbands- Bill Mitchell phenotype project managers who wear cargo shorts and stretch titleist polos, staff sargeants, salesmen and Navy dorks. He says these women tell him great secrets and officer gossip. That he hears everything because he is handsome and cleans up well.
He looks to the direction of the construction of the Smart City and back to you.
He tells you that you can’t imagine anymore what it's like to be in the head of the people who live in the corners of a city like this. He tells you that demoralized people don’t even try to escape captivity…that zoos cages must have iron bars, but the cages of men are cowardice and fear. They just keep going on as though nothing is wrong. He tells you animals are not like this.
He tells you this is why the Pandas are gone. That they need space and their forests are being bulldozed for rice terraces and distribution centers for the Silk Road. That everyday the Economy must clone a city that exists already everywhere.
Pandas know that they can't actually live in a cage.
They won’t mate with the people watching them. Pandas are higher life form kept in a small enclosure and surrounded by Discovery Channel paparazzi, without any private life and this is unbearable to them. They have dignity and will have none of this. They will not raise their cubs to suffer the fate of being reduced to this one path…that of pacing in their concrete pods, essentially living the life of a Guangdong yuppie.
So they often don’t.
This is why Orcas fins droop and they become manic and murder their trainers. Because they have dignity and know the value of life. They are better than you.
He looks at you and his voice becomes calm and gravel.
He tells you that the Smart City humans are a flesh suit for brands, and in a significant sense, not truly alive...Completely craven and sad people fancy themselves as “independent” but live in inhumanely scaled, Lovecraftian metropolitan entanglements…their minds little more than pastiches from media companies and advertising algorithms…He tells you that these soggy brained droolers who have never had a truly original thought will insult herd creatures as being stupid and not thinking, but that this is pure projection. Gentle bovines and herd animals don’t “think” because they trust…they live without the thought of betrayal and thus live with a dignity and spirit that humans are usually bereft of.
Once a thought occured to you when you were reading a book about Pleistocene era animals. The ones long extinct, the remaining specimens only trapped in the La brea tar pit, in the ice of the Siberian tundra or under a shell of amber. Every living creature has inborn traits, the trait of a Dalmation very different from a house cat. A mountain Gorilla very different from a Tiger of Porpoise. You wondered what happens to this spirit, this force of animation when the last of them perishes, when the last Kauai O’o, looking for a mate he doesn’t know dosen’t exist, sings a song…for no one.
What happens to the spirit of extinct species? Does it leave for the great ethers forever…or does it wait….to return?
Bathala tells you that you will soon have an answer.
But first you must ask what is this life you live now?
You remember you talked with a pothead friend who saw Alan Watts videos and now thinks that all distinctions are meaningless because we’re all made of stardust and just the universe experiencing itself through many vantage points that are all equal.
This type of thought would never be had by your ancestor because this type of inane thinking is a pure cope of the soft, unworthy modern pudding man, cloaked in profundity to say he is the equal of a planet or a great tiger. That there is no ultimate differentiation between himself and things much higher on nature's totem like a bear or the ocean.
What kind of life can a man this deluded and egotistical live? What kind of degradations and insults will he endure because it’s" “all the same, man”?
No, this is, and must be an age of great bifurcation, an age of remembering the distinctions.
Bathala tells you that now you are now, once again, part of a group of predators battling another group of predators and that this is natural but you must remember that predation requires before action, intelligence.
He asks you how much brain power does it take to sell T mobile and play video games? To squat in a hostel bunkbed and jerk off?
Hammer approaches the two of you. He carries a chainlink leash connected to a harness around a large white wolf. He gives you two thumbs up and says it’s time to go.
You board a jeep with Bathala and another man who has a large Panther with him and descend into the edge of the lights of Smart city.
You remember the Glen Fry song, the one that scared you as a boy with its foreboding and ominous saxophone solo, the driving beat, the sonic mystery of its chorus. “You Belong to the City…you belong to the night…it’s in your blood…you’re a man of the street”
You would hear it in the car with the windows down at night, your father drove fast over bridges and you felt you may be swept out of the window and be taken by the strange silhouettes of streaking lights and lost forever to dark, unfamiliar places of loneliness and anonymity.
You realize this great song is also a terrifying song of warning, a prophecy you dismissed as you grew older but now realize is true in every facet. You should have trusted your instincts. When you were a boy you saw and felt so much more. Now your instincts are numbed, you feel disoriented and anxious, wanting to leave, but seemingly can’ because…you wherever you turn, you belong to this city.
Butthe jeep travels very quickly and soon drives past several men waving their arms, pleading with you to slow down as Hammer drives the jeep through several plastic barricades and a flimsy line of chain link fence.
Now you hear a new song…The Hymn of Cherubin blares from a speeding jeep that pulls along side you.
It is your friend,Dr Robert’s son...he has a pair of Lions named Emperor and Sheik. They were poached five years ago when he was a ranger in South Africa. He was on a 6 month stint protecting elephants and found the pair, brothers in the back of an old Range Rover.
There was something in the eyes. Some frozen crystalline life essence that twinkled even in physical death…they seemed suspended in a fury, an indignant expression that they were taken by such lowly men. He felt this deeply. Now he has honored them. For he has helped ensure that they return.
A hatch opens and behind its gate you see the glow of several eyes that seem to strobe as the animals pace in front of each other. There are three bears, two siblings. Two years ago they were shot to death in their den alongside their mother who is the third Bear behind them. Doc and his son found them when they didn’t emerge from hibernation. With the help of Roberts, Hugo and some friends, they too live again.
They barrel out of the bay and stand on their hind legs. They have been given tribute…raw meats and salmon served upon plastic keyboards and troughs lined with old I phone cases and Nintendo switches. Blood and chum buckets placed inside the metal casings that house computer servers. When they smell them, they know it is time to feed.
There are terrible screams coming from a company dormitory. A shared living/workspace managed by a cooperative board of resident workers who govern through consensus and according to principles of equity and inclusion.
Now they run from this elongated Smart Bunker, each trying to outrun their sloven, decrepid housemates.
They are mostly cartoonish creatures, a band of General Mills nurslings, Soylent sucklings, hideous gremlins with Fedora physiques who cannot outwit, outrun or stand against the powerful beasts brought by your friends..
Several take refuge in the next dorm. They hide behind the facade of a building barely a month old, that weeps and begins to crack under the paws of a 12 foot tall Kodiak.
The frame is no match …… A door made of solid wood would have held. The door of a thatched roof peasant bungalow was made by a man who respected the power of wolves, who feared Leshy, who knew a Bunnya would torment them should their craftsmanship fail. They desired protection and favor. Their work was more than an ode to beauty, it was a function of belief and therefore made to last.
The doors to these quarters crumple and fall easily under the push of the bears. These were doors made by men who feared labor costs and scoffed at the idea of reinforcing them or using any ornamentation. They believed in nothing. They pursued only profit, they respected only the sorcery of the big arrow.
But now this cost saving would cost them everything.
The hers and xers cowering behind these doors had no one to pray to, for they believed only in themselves, their kinks and their gadgetry. The bear stands over them and exhales the wind of terror…he reminds them of one final irony. That ultimately everything is sacrificed for Economy, but it never answers the prayers of its stricken believers.
You look up the rocky hill see a great and terrible sight. Hugo is on horseback. He cuts through the shrouds of dark, anonymous trees with men on Kawasakis. Hugo’s last name is Chiron and you understand now that his is a blood destiny. His tanned chest blends seamlessly into his Golden Palomino. His men, these two stroke savages whose vehicles whine like banshees descend upon the Davos man, the men who try to conquer reality with petty nerd words, who try to conquer life and mystery solely through verbal frameworks and manipulations. It is now that you see that they are nothing in the face of men of action. They have no defense for those who can only hear the cheers of the ancestor and the beats of their free and wild hearts. The men of the Steppe have returned.