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mental health

Extinction Aesthetic

I’ve talked here before about writing being a kind of composting technique, or maybe the listening to smaller voices than the ones we’re most used to. Here’s another definition of this strange, lonesome art: Archaeology.

It was written way back in the heady days of 2014, when we all knew that the world was hurtling, but it somehow felt like we might be skating with at least one set of wheels on the ground. I was probably mistaken about that (35 is still such a tender number, despite what I may have thought at the time) but I find myself sniffing at these threads which are becoming more prevalent every day that I live in the Future Now. Extinction. Ecology. Mental Health. You know the drill.


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Extinction Aesthetic


: Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse, the thought that the future doesn’t exist, or that it does and I am entirely unsuited to it.


: Despite the imminence of our own extinction; I still, even today with our blind shot-put economy, apologist creeds and the politbureau of short-termism – I risk believing in delight. Which is the same as saying that I risk hope, that I believe that the caged bird sings for good reason; and perhaps delight is one of the few eternals. It is a-priori and everlasting, and affirmation that life is worth living and that the future is worth traveling towards.

Even if it is ultimately untrue; delight, joy, pleasure, satisfaction and communication are ties that build you a world, memory by memory, taste by taste.

Between these two, my heart breaks: On one side the eternalism of delight and the promise of humanities’ ability to adapt both emotionally and socially to the dark days of the future. On the other the inevitability of the collapse; the sense that we are all living on borrowed time; the fall of ecosystems; the rise of noise and confusion and static over diversity and opportunity.

Between these two~


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Tuesday Sensorium

Sometimes I wonder if depression, mood-disorders and the like aren’t a product of some aberrant neuron, but instead live inside the senses. Like my creator set the Gain controls in my ears too high; and with eyes permanently switched to Ghost Recon Threat Level. My tongue too readily recalls the taste of sweet things, which I constantly seek to replicate.

Maybe our body is the House of Spirits, and some of us are haunted too easily.

Monday Morning, 6am

You wake up before I do – you always did, and by the time that I’m blinking away the night’s dreams, you already have your heavy paw on my chest. But like me you’re not so awake yet, either. You might grumble and growl and try to call me back to bed but you’re not so tough – yet. I get an hour or two before I start to feel the fluttering in the cavity behind my ribs; or the lump in the back of my throat.

An hour or two to get the house in order, to feed the animals and to snuff at the day. It’s not enough but it has to do. You and me, we can make this work.

Me and my dog. If you look out for me, you know I’ll always be here for you.



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