From the Holocene into the Anthropocene

Over millions of years we as a species, like other life, have adapted to fit our environment because failure to do so inexorably leads to death and even extinction. This basic rule of existence hasn’t changed; we still must fit our surroundings or suffer the pitiless consequences. Yet our technological development is so profound and potent that we have begun to create our own environment apart from the natural realm that interactively created us as biological beings. Our artificial technological environment is currently incompatible with the natural environment, as evident from the widespread ecological devastation that has been perpetrated upon the natural world’s life forms, oceans, atmosphere, and land. Primary responsibility for the devastation of the natural world can be traced back to religious beliefs, particularly the Jewish and Christian holy book of Genesis, dictating that the Earth’s life and elements are for man to use as his property, generating a pernicious mindset that views everything as a resource to be endlessly exploited for private profit.

The artificial changes to the natural world have become so pronounced that we have actually generated an entirely new geological era, transitioning from the Holocene that began at the end of the most recent ice-age, into the anthropocene, meaning that human activities are marking the Earth in ways that will be detectable millions of years in the future, and altering our surroundings on a significant scale in the process.

When you fit your environment it no longer seems ‘chaotic’ and ‘evil’. Think of a swamp — to outsiders it appears to be a miserable and disorderly realm of darkness and decay, but to the native inhabitants it’s a paradise to thrive in.

It’s critical to recognize that the main physical reason for widespread environmental degradation, disease, wars, and even uncivil behavior, is simply a result of crowded living and the overpopulation of our own species as rated against the limited space and material we have on this small planet.

The Return of Artaud, The Momo*


The anchored spirit,
screwed into me
by the psycho-
lubricious thrust
of the sky
is the one who thinks
every temptation,
every desire,
every inhibition.

o dedi
o dada orzoura
o dou zoura
a dada skizi

o kaya
o kaya pontoura
o ponoura
a pena

It’s the penetral spider veil,
the female onor fur
of either or the sail,
the anal plate of anayor.

(You lift nothing from it, god,
because it’s me.
You never lifted anything of this order from me.
I’m writing it here for the first time,
I’m finding it for the first time.)

Not the membrane of the chasm,
nor the member omitted from this jism,
issued from a depredation,

but an old bag,
outside membrane,
outside of there where it’s hard or soft.

B’now passed through the hard and soft,
spread out this old bag in palm,
pulled, stretched like a palm
of hand
bloodless from keeping rigid,
black, violet
from stretching to soft.

But what then in the end, you, the madman?


This tongue between four gums,

this meat between two knees,

this piece of hole
for madmen.

Yet precisely not for madmen.
For respectable men,
whom a delirium to belch everywhere planes,

and who from this belch
made the leaf,

listen closely:
made the leaf
of the beginning of generations
in the palmate old bag of my holes,

Which holes, holes of what?

Of soul, of spirit, of me and of being;
but in the place where no one gives a shit,
father, mother, Atraud, artoo.

In the humus of the plot with wheels,
in the breathing humus of the plot
of this void,
between hard and soft.

Black, violet,
and that’s all

Which means that there is a bone,
sat down on the poet,
in order to sack the ingestion
of his lines,
like the head farts
that he wheedles out of him through his cunt,

that he would wheedle out of him from the bottom of the ages,
down to the bottom of his cunt hole,

and it’s not a cunt prank
that he plays on him in this way,
it’s the prank of the whole earth
against whoever has balls
in his cunt.

And if you don’t get the image
-and that’s what I hear you saying
in a circle,
that you don’t get the image
which is at the bottom
of my cunt hole,-

it’s because you don’t know the bottom,
not of things,
but of my cunt,
although since the bottom of the ages
you’ve all been lapping there in a circle
as if badmouthing an alienage,
plotting an incarnation to death.

ge re ghi
e reghena
a gegha

Between the ass and the shirt,
between the gism and the under-bet,
between the member and the let down,
between the membrane and the blade,
betweeen the slat and the ceiling,
between the sperm and the explosion,
‘tween the fishbone and ‘tween the slime,
between the ass and everyone’s
of the high-pressure trap
of an ejaculation death rattle
is neither a point
nor a stone

burst dead at the foot of a bound

nor the severed member of a soul
(the soul is no more than an old saw)
but the terrifying suspension
of a breath of alienation

raped, clipped, completely sucked off
by all the insolent riff-raff
of all the turd-buggered
who had no other grub
in order to live
than to gobble
there, where one can fuck sooner
than me
and the other get hard higher
than me
in myself
if he has taken care to put his head
on the curvature of that bone
located between anus and sex,

of that hoed bone that I say

in the filth
of a paradise
whose first dupe on earth
was not father nor mother
who diddled you in this den
screwed into my madness.

And what seized hold of me
that I too rolled my life there?
NOTHING, nothing.
Because I,
I am there,
I’m there
and it is life
that rolls its obscene palm there.

And afterward?

Afterward? Afterward?
The old Artaud
is buried

in the chimney hole
he owes to his cold gum
to the day when he was killed!

And afterward?
He is this unframed hole
that life wanted to frame.
Because he is not a hole
but a nose
that always knew all too well to sniff
the wind of the apocalyptic
which they suck on his clenched ass,
and that Artaud’s ass is good
for pimps in Miserere.

And you too you have your gum,
your right gum buried,

you too your gum is cold
for an infinity of years
since you sent me your innate ass
to see if I was going to be born
at last
since the time you were waiting for me
while scraping my absentee belly.

menendi anenbi
tarch inemptle
o marchti rombi
tarch paiolt
a tinemptle
orch pendui
o patendi
a merchit
orch torrpch
ta urchpt orchpt
ta tro taurch
ko ti aunch
a ti aunch

Antonin Artaud

*The Momo, in the Port City of Marseille, is the name given to the oft ridiculed city bum.
Momos are schizo in their own way, Momos epitomize The Pharmakos**.


**The word in question is pharmakos (wizard, magician, poisoner), a synonym of pharmakeus (which Plato uses), but with the unique feature of having been overdetermined, overlaid by Greek culture with another function. Another role and a formidable one.The character of the pharmakos has been compared to a scapegoat. The evil and the outside, the expulsion of the evil, its exclusion out of the body and out of the city.


The Stranger

‘Whom do you love best, puzzling man, tell us: your father, your mother, your sister or your brother?’

‘I have no father, no mother, no sister and no brother.’

‘Your friends?’

‘Now you are using a word whose meaning to this day remains unknown to me.’

‘Your country?’

‘I do not know in which latitude it lies.’


‘I would willingly love her, were she a goddess and immortal.’


‘I hate it as you hate God.’

‘What do you love then, extraordinary stranger?’

‘I love the clouds… the passing clouds… there… there… the wonderful clouds!’

Charles Baudelaire

Some Nihilist fragments


The following texts are pieces of writing which for whatever reason will
not see the light of day in their originally intended form. I decided to
publish these fragments, however, as a contribution to the ongoing
amoral debate and misanthropic war carried out by nihilist terrorists,
eco-extremists and other indomitable Egos of power wherever in this
world they may choose to make their hiding places…

– A


I stalk through shadows of the cities like a hunted animal,
rabid and thirsting for blood.

I look around me and everywhere I see the swarming masses, shuffling
back and forth along their predetermined march through the circuitry of
the urban-necropolis. Routinely treading the world underfoot like
lobotomised rats stuck in a wheel. All of them clutching their
“smartphones” and basking in the sickly glow of screens with wires
protruding from their skulls and vacant expressions plastered across
their idiotic faces. They babble mundane, meaningless shit into
microphones all day long, join one another in the queue to take a
“selfie” next to this or that filthy monument or building. The stench of
their perfume nauseates me. I look at their warped and bloated forms,
their bodies disfigured by all the years of willing subservience, these
grotesque and macabre displays of an absurd and failed biological
entity, from whose weak and domesticated minds the god-spirit of the
“Human” is made manifest. This is the anthropogenous altar upon which
all Ego must be sacrificed, upon which rests every idol born of the
repugnant Christian Morality, most prominently today, the maggoty
ideologies of humanism and progressivism and their bastard civilisation.

I spit on all of these filthy parasites who with every single action
that constitutes the entirety of their despicable existence condemn only
further desolation unto all that is wild on this Earth, who in a
pathetic chorus raise their croaking voices in defense of this wretched
kingdom of decadent degeneration. I spit on all their altars and idols,
their morals and values. My sarcastic laughter will echo eternally
throughout the crumbling halls of their utopias. The pyres of my
iconoclastic hatred will burn all the brighter when the moon is hidden
and darkness reigns.

Loathing and contempt fills my heart to the point of bursting. I scream
inside, my whole being cries out to me in savage ferocity. Wildness
calls to me from within, It screams through me, it calls out for
vengeance and I heed the call with fervour. The misanthropic curse of
nihilist terrorism is my weapon of choice in the temples of Man and his
Progress, it is the cancer spreading fear in the shadows of the urban
territories, the poisonous weed that spreads its roots out seeking
nourishment in the damp cold earth.

Every last one of these hyper-civilized slaves deserves nothing but an
agonising death, these walking corpses for whom the world is to be
turned to a sterile wasteland of modernity and artificiality. So I say
let every one of their houses burn, and let them freeze and die in the
cold of winter in their turn. Let their bodies writhe in pain as poisons
take their toll. Let their blood flow out to nourish the barren soil and
let their fear be our only intoxicant as we go on the hunt to survive in
the city. Let us laugh, my friends! Let us rejoice, let us dance in
blood and laugh!

Someone looks at me, they smile politely, but to look them in the eye
would betray my desire to end their worthless life right now. I turn and
face away. My hateful gaze wanders, my criminal and savage passions
carry me on, always on the hunt, preparing for the next attack,
searching for the next mark, the next victim, watchful for any
would-be-heroes. As I smuggle what I need out of the supermarket, I feel
the weight of the blade in my pocket, my fingers play across its vicious
edge. I think about sticking the length of blackened steel into the neck
of the security guard or some cashier, longing for the flash of fear in
their eyes and to hear their pathetic cries for mercy. Instead I smile
politely and continue on my way. “Have a nice day”.


Here in the open-prisons of the wasteland of modernity, the
urban-cemeteries populated by the living dead, I have come to know only
hatred and despair. It wells inside of me, frothing in my mouth it turns
to venomous bile to be spat in the face of all Humanity.

Here in the city, cars, buses and trains all go speeding by, filling the
air with smog and noise. I take in these bleak surroundings. Across the
skyline, cellphone towers and pylons stand erect to the gray sky,
ceaselessly spewing miasma and toxicity that cannot be seen and my eyes
settle on their vulgar form. The deafening noise of the world of
machines fades momentarily and I linger there in abysmal silence. I
contemplate escape routes, the minimal amount of materials needed for
the attack etc. etc. and continue on my way.

Tonight, the weight of the explosive-incendiary device in my backpack
reminds me of what I came here to do, my heart beats faster with each
hurried step, I take a deep breath and look down from beneath my hood to
the dandelions and plantago that erupt from the cracked slabs of
concrete. I think of the serenity of the forests, the solitude of the
mountains, calming me once more as I continue towards my target.

How I long for the feeling of the grass and soil beneath my toes, for
the feeling of the coldness of the wind in my hair and the fragrant
scent of the mountain streams filling up my lungs. I want to hear the
songs of the birds and the unfurling of leaves in spring, to bask in the
moons healing glow with my companions by my side, to hear their voices,
their laughter and dance around the fires of our wildest dreams once
more… But no, this time, as many times before, I must now go alone.
I’ll be waiting for you on the other side.

Silently I ascend to the rooftops. Inside this apartment complex the
hyper-civilized slumber. What do they dream of? I do not know. But
tonight they will wake into nightmares. I jam the device between a
bundle of cables and after a last look at the smothered sky, I say a few
words to noone in particular, light the fuse and dissapear once more
into the cacophonous night.


Heretical laughter reverberates through the streets.

I look into your eyes, wide with feral energy.

Vandalising all that is in sight, we exude criminality.

None dare even to look at us.

The sight of the knife that glints in your hand.

The sound of shattered glass falling to the floor.

The smell of incense mixes with the filthy air.

A torrent of adrenaline surges through our bodies,

and our perverse and savage joy bursts the banks of all rationality

like a flood, determined to sweep aside all that crosses its path.

As the streets darken to announce our presence

Knowing neither fear or regret,

We laugh and laugh.

Individualists at war, howling in the night.

Laughing as sirens begin to sound in the distance.

Laughing, we head into the unknown,

each wandering ones own path

to the places where none can follow.

Abe Cabrera talk




This is an informal conversation between Aragorn! and Abe Cabrera the primary editor of the Atassa journal. It is not intended to be a defense of ITS or a serious attempt to engage in the criticisms towards us (Atassa, LBC, and me personally). It’s intended to sound like a conversation between people who share some similar perspectives. Obviously those who don’t share those perspectives are going to feel less comfortable and perhaps feel misrepresented.

Tick Tock

1.00 definition of eco-extremism as practice, splitting hairs
2:30 abe’s history
8:15 activism in berkeley in the 90s
12:15 eco-extremists moving away from ted k
12:30 early indiscriminate violence tendencies in E-E
15:15 breaking into different groups
16:35 is it a hoax?
21:00 tactics similar to ISIS, from nechaev
22:00 formation and reformation of various groups
27:45 reaction of NA anarchists
33:00 significance of anarchist label
34:30 types of allies
38:10 non-attraction of these ideas
40:30 theology, thinking in eons
42:00 abe: anarchists are irrelevant
44:00 a!: types of anarchists
44:30 the light of hatred
45:20 the challenge of ITS to anarchism
47:50 terrorist tactics are what is required now to do violence at all
50:35 talking about pieces vs the board and context of the actions
53: marx and the bible, st paul = first anarchist


Satanism and Nihilism

Satanism, much like nihilism, is a superficially confusing topic with a relatively simple underlying message. Much of the confusion behind Satanism is a direct product of author and observant carnival worker Anton LaVey’s own calculated misdirection in the infamous presentation of his book The Satanic Bible. In the 1960s and 1970s LaVey took occult imagery and the mysterious mysticism of traditional witchcraft and devil-worship, as depicted by the Christian Church, and used that as a crafty cover to present his own views and ideas that were quite a bit different, and even antithetic, to those traditional conceptions of Satan worship. So, right there Satanism is immediately split into two camps, LaVey’s Satanism originating in his books and later embodied in The Church of Satan and followers of an ethically-structured philosophy of egoism, and then the traditional body of witchcraft with stories of human sacrifice, and so on, that go along with the occult brand of devil-worship whose adherents really believe in a being called Satan.  

There’s really nothing more to say about witchcraft and occult Satanism, it’s been around in various forms for hundreds, if not thousands of years, and it’s all based on imaginary fiction. Nonetheless, the belief, just like the followers, can’t be completely ignored because their actions still generate very real and tangible outcome. However, occult Satanism has nothing to do with Nihilism, and little if anything to do with nihilism as philosophy. LaVey’s Satanism is far more interesting, and does indeed have at least indirect similarities to nihilism, as many people have already realized.

As an astute observer of human nature working odd jobs at carnivals, Anton LaVey (born Howard Stanton Levey or Levy) recognized widespread hypocrisy occurring between professed moral values, in this case as generally promoted by the Christian Church, and actual human behavior that is mostly driven by internal, primarily biologically-derived, urges. Realizing this rampant hypocrisy is unhealthy for individuals and society as a whole, and also seeking a path to his own glorification, Anton LaVey made an attempt to rework the moral landscape to better allow people to express themselves as they truly are without being forced to fit into unnatural moral molds that were only being used by disingenuous religious authorities to manipulate people against their best interests just to personally benefit powers in charge.

LaVey wasn’t out to make a new God, and even pushed personal ego-worship as a path to make everyone a god, hence the glorification of one’s own birthday.  But he did want to make a religion, meaning a body of rituals and beliefs that would replace, or at least compete with, those of the dominant religions. But LaVey’s Satanism ends up suffering greatly from the heavy-use of theistic imagery. The dark and scary visuals may attract rebels and those rejected by mainstream society, but it only makes the confusion over just what Satanism really is, or should be, even worse. Even the use of the term Satanism directly implies a worship of, or at least a fixation upon Satan. Even more critical than misleading appearances, LaVey’s Satanism remains yet another irrational religion claiming one true path to salvation, or perhaps more charitably a philosophy of egoism that resides somewhere between the colorful prose of Nietzsche and Ayn Rand’s dry anti-social greed as a worldview. The primary difference remains the use of occult visuals and calculated misdirection.

Nevertheless, and although LaVey’s motivation may be open to interpretation, if it was to try and achieve a much needed transformation of the moral and cultural topology to allow everyone to act free from hypocrisy and unhealthy cultural demands, and to promote appropriately reciprocal behavior towards others, then I wholeheartedly agree with the effort.

In the end it doesn’t matter what you believe or think is going to work; the ‘will’ or the belief that something is achieved through sheer force of confidence is just self-delusion. Magnification of the ego and uncritical belief in self-righteousness, as well as the manufactured hierarchy and elitism that it engenders, continues to inflict terrible harm to the self and others. Beware the ego delusion.

It’s really not that complicated, but it does take a certain amount of careful effort, and that’s why so many try to take the lazy path by placing superficial imagery over underlying substance. What really matters is what we can verify and re-use, the consistent elements and forces of the world around us – that’s the brilliance of science and a functional methodology. Fiction may be fine as entertainment, but far too many people are so mentally isolated and socially-insulated that they can’t distinguish between robust fact and kaleidoscope fiction, let alone determine actual cause and effect.


With Heidegger, nihilism began to assume the form of a scientific metaphysics in the true sense. Against this backdrop, a standpoint of what Heidegger calls freedom in the transcendence beyond beings emerges, a standpoint that holds the promise of letting us be fully what we are as human beings.

What Heidegger means by a transcending of beings is not a transcendence away from human existence in the direction of another world beyond or behind the world we know. The transcendence he is speaking of is part and parcel of human being from the beginning; indeed it is what allows us to exist actually and allows the world to disclose itself as world. In this transcendence the totality of beings opens up from its own ground . There is no world apart at the ground of this ground but only an abyss-a ground of nothingness.

In other words, the basic meaning of transcendence is that Nothing is revealed, and thereby the self becomes the true self, freedom becomes a genuine possibility, and beings are understood in their truth . Heidegger gives us nothing less than an ontology within which nihilism becomes a philosophy. By disclosing the nothing at the ground of all beings and summoning it forth, nihilism becomes the basis of a new metaphysics. Continue reading

The Boundaries of Existence

The Being of beings is disclosed not in the average everyday participation by which any given being is involved with its world; nor is Being that which is reducible simply to a mere “presence,” an occupation of lived space and time.

Rather, Being itself unveils itself as it is only at the boundaries of existence. Whereas average everydayness is constituted in the perpetual cycling through the proverbial motions, the true nature of Being is only made manifest as disclosed through the absurd paradoxes of Being generally — available only at transcendence of the very boundaries of what it means for anything to be anything at all. Continue reading