TWENTY-SIXTH COMMUNIQUE OF THE INDIVIDUALISTS TENDING TOWARD THE WILD

‘Nature works wisely and without thinking… It does not recognize political borders, it situates new beings on the globe and contemplates the free play of forces that work upon them. At that point it overcomes by its push and character. It concedes the supreme “right” to existence… Eternal Nature inexorably takes vengeance on the sin of its enemies.”

A.

I. Opening greeting

“We have seen the horrors of civilization, and each one of us felt in our hearts that liberation by itself would never be sufficient.”

WC

“All of their symbols will fall. Their prayers, their idols, they will fall, for the imminent catastrophe of civilization, by the revenge in the name of our ancestors, and in the name of all the wild that inhabits and has inhabited the earth. No prayer will save them from the attack undertaken by animist heretics.”

MA

NHC

Our hearts fill with joy every time we read words of complicity from those who have shaken off disgusting complacent humanism filled with the old political ideologies. These accomplices have decided to ferociously confront civilization in all of its disturbing expressions: cars, communications towers, trains, churches, etc. often with cold hearts and without concern for legal consequences. They have used bullets and knives against the flesh of the hyper-civilized.

This War is Extremist, without hesitation, without quarter, without aspiring to “social change.” It rejects the demand for “revolution” in this era, a practice buried by the corpses of its defenders and propagandists.

Forward individualists! Continue reading

Two Who Made an Insurrection: Stirner, Nietzsche, and the Revolt against Modernity

MAX STIRNER AND FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE

Stirner remains a marginal figure in contemporary philosophy and social thought, despite his significant influence on theorists such as Benjamin Tucker, James L. Walker, Dora Marsden, and the writers and activists associated with Liberty and The Egoist. As far as contemporary scholarship is concerned, the work of Saul Newman and Bernd Laska are scholarly efforts to establish Stirner’s relevance to contemporary thought and the critique of modernity. Newman appreciates Stirner as a precursor of the development of “poststructuralist anarchism” and the “politics of postanarchism.” Newman believes that Stirner is a forerunner to postmodernist and postructuralist thinkers such as Michel Foucault, Gilles Deleuze, and Jacques Lacan. Laska is most concerned about the lack of appreciation for Stirner’s work. He is also interested in the strands of Stirner’s thought that he believes appear in the writings of Dora Marsden and Friedrich Nietzsche. Much of Laska’s work is oriented toward the discovery of “evidence” that Stirner influenced Nietzsche. Continue reading

Of angels and cyborgs

An eco-extremist Good Friday sermon

In spite of my lack of desire to carry out indiscriminate violent action (due mainly to my circumstances), I have found eco-extremist rhetoric rather familiar on one level. That is because, when I write about eco-extremism and interpret it, I don’t feel I am doing politics or even philosophy. I feel like I am doing theology. I should explain: not theology in a typical Western Christian manner, but rather interpreting the human through the gaze of something greater than the human. The “greater” may indeed be an illusion of the inferior mortal human brain, and it is not necessarily a concession that there is a greater “consciousness” than our own. It is more the affirmation of the complete debasement of consciousness, the acceptance that human reason is an utter failure. As I have written previously, this was the reason for the lack of anthropocentric perspective among long dead peoples and nations; the idea that we must aspire to the power of the bear, the freedom of the eagle, the knowledge of the coyote, etc. The idea that the Inhuman dwarfs the human, that it limits it and triumphs over it through death and forgetfulness.

So a sermon is entirely appropriate. On this day that the Christian church commemorates the death of its savior, it is fitting to meditate on the abject nature of human flesh itself, its blood, decay, and rot. Indeed, the continuation of the Christian church, secular progressivism, has denounced its predecessor for hating the flesh, and has praised every feat of licentiousness for being inherently progressive. It is a common talking point in the liberal mind to upbraid the church for condemning sexuality. This is foolish presumption. The current reign of sexual liberation is due in large part to the birth control pill, on the one hand, and the washing machine and microwave on the other. That is, female reproduction is controlled and social reproduction (to use the Marxist term) is mechanized, so that a woman (in particular) can have as many sexual partners as she desires and, even if she gets pregnant, taking care of the child is comparatively easy with instant meals, day care centers, parenting books, etc. Modern attitudes toward sexuality aren’t enlightened due to some evolutionary realization of the necessity of freedom of all individuals. They exist materially due to the techno-industrial apparatus that considers people to be “human resources” formed and educated in a uniform manner. This makes life “easier” and citizens more dependent on the system. Continue reading

Poems by Gottfried Benn

Man and Woman go through a Cancer Ward

The man:

This row here is made up of collapsed wombs.

and this row is made up of collapsed breasts.

Bed stinks by bed. The nurses change each hour.

 

Come, you may safely draw back his cover.

Observe, this knob of fat and fetid pus,

that was once large to some man or other

and signified passion and athomeness.

 

Come and observe this scar upon the breast.

Do you feel the rosary of softened knots?

Yes, touch it. The flesh is soft and feels no pain.

 

Here, this one bleeds as from thirty bodies.

No man on earth has so much blood.

This one here first had

a child cut out of the cancered womb.

 

They are left to sleep. Day and night – New ones

are told: here one sleeps one’s way to health – for

Sunday visits they’re made a little brighter.

 

Only a little nourishment is taken.

The backs are sored. You see the flies. Sometimes

the nurse washes them. As one washes benches.

 

Here the land is swirling up around each bed.

Flesh subsides to soil. Red heat dies off.

Sap starts to trickle. The earth is calling.

Little Aster

A drowned drayman was propped up upon a dissecting table. Someone or other had stuck a dark-lilac aster between his teeth. As I was cutting through his chest from under his skin with a long knife, to extract his tongue and palate, I must have nudged the flower, for it slid into the brain beside it. As he was being sewn up, I packed the flower back into his stomach cavity, between the padding. Drink to the full in your new vase! Rest in peace, little aster!

Maternity Ward

The poorest women of Berlin – thirteen children in one and a half rooms, whores, criminals, the outcast – writhe here in their bodies and whimper. Nowhere else is there so much wailing. Nowhere else is so much pain and sorrow so completely ignored by all, because here something is always screaming. “Push harder, woman! Do you understand? You are not here to have fun. Don’t drag things out. Even if shit also comes out when you push! You are not here to have a rest. It won’t come out by itself. You must do your bit!” Finally it arrives: blue and small. Urine and excrement anoint it. From eleven beds of tears and blood a whimpering salutes its arrival. From two eyes only arises a chorus of cries of Jubilate to the Heavens above. Through this meagre piece of flesh everything will go: misery and happiness. And should it some day die spluttering and in torment, twelve others will still be lying in this ward.

Appendicitis

Everything is white and ready for incision. The scalpels glow. On the stomach lines have been drawn. Under the white sheets there is something that whimpers. “Dear Privy Councillor. It is time”. The first cut. As if one is cutting bread. “Bring the forceps!”. Red is spurting from somewhere. Deeper. The muscles: moist, glowing, fresh. Is this a bunch of roses on the operating table? Is that pus that is now spurting? Have the bowels been slit? “Doctor, if you stand in the light, none of us can see his innards”. Bring anesthetic. I can’t operate. The man is going walk about with his stomach. Silence. Heavy, moist. Through the emptiness there rattles a pair of scissors thrown to the flour. And the nurses with the feeling of angels hold out sterile swabs. “I can’t find anything in this muck!” “Blood is turning black. Take the mask off!” “But – Oh, God in Heaven – friend, just hold the clamps closer together. Everything is a mess. But finally: we’ve got it. “Hot iron, sister!” It sizzles. You have been lucky again, my son. The thing was about to perforate. “Do you see that tiny green spot? – In three hours the stomach would have been full of muck”. Close up the stomach. Close up the skin. “Bring some plaster!” “Good day to you, Gentlemen”. The operating theatre empties. Raging, death rattles and grinds its teeth, and slinks into the cancer ward.

Requiem

There are two on each table: men and women criss-crossed. Together, naked, and yet without torment. Their skulls open. Their chests cleaved. Their bodies give birth for the very last time. Each one yields three bowls: from brains to scrotum. And God’s temple and the devil’s stable now breast to breast at the bottom of a pail sneer at Golgotha and the Fall of man. The remainder into coffins. All newborns:. men’s legs, chests of children and women’s hair. I saw two, who once fornicated, lying there, as if from the body of their mother.

Natural Cycle

The solitary molar of a whore,

who had died without name or address,

contained a gold filling.

The remaining teeth,

as if in silent agreement,

had already decamped.

The mortuary attendant removed this final tooth,

which he pawned,

so that he could go to a dance.

For, as he said: only earth should return to earth.

Threat

Know this:
I live beast days. I am a water hour.
At night my eyelids droop like forest and sky.
My love knows few words:
I like it in your blood.