November 0, 2019 Untimed Released
We are saying this again
We are saying this against
We are saying this for the first time
We are saying this for the zeroth time
Life is too short… in a concrete jungle
Roots are too short… in a destroyed soil
Straws are too long… in a misunderstood oil
Machines too strong… not reducing our toil
Mouths are drying… in conditioned air
Forests are drying… only deserts compare
Species are dying… extinction extraordinaire
Vigilance is dying… few stewards to care
Is life, Is Life, really, just to die?
Shouldn’t those still living, ought to try?
To this bring your despair, don’t merely sigh
Hell likes us numb, not when we cry
So cry, comrades, cry
Cry, comrades, cry
Because without Tears
The drinking, the sweating
The bleeding, the urinating
Do not justify our privileged role in the water cycle
To roll along in this sacred circle of life
Water is life, let it flow
Land is life, let property go
Crying is not for the dead, it is for those who would choose to keep living. Cry for the Earth, it is the sweetest rain yet devised; cry for the great losses, tears hold memories that brains cannot; cry for the ongoing losses; ease the desertion with potent water; and cry for the future losses, for they are only written in concrete, when dried. Our future is in unwriting… our future is in reseeding! They bury us, but they forget we are rhizomatic.
Guerra Contra La Selva Concreta And The War Against Machines
Our death is written in Concrete. Our death is not written in stone—only the swords, guns, steel, machines in all forms that haunt us have their deaths by being re-Earthed. Un-inventing the wheel, that is our call. Replace these swords in the stone, for we need not the oppression of kings, nor of their metals and things—their contrived dependencies. Bury the machines of industrial civilization. Bury before by it we are buried. The land needs our attention, not our concrete. If the style of these words bothers you, the content of these words bothers us; we are not content, and by these words of defiance to all that has become normal, we accept the challenge to “die and lie down, not the other way around”.
Several words deep, should we—the ENT of the lower left coast, Ejercito Nomadista de la Tierra—make our aims and hopes more concrete?
Compas, we are concerned not just with bringing the dead back to life, but with bringing the living back to life. The bulldozer and asphalt kills not only the life that is below it—it closes off a peaceful existence—and what ensues is an ongoing war against what life lingers above. We who live in places where we call parking lots our yard, distant reservoirs and bottled liquids our drinking water, demineralized and demoralized packaged goods our food, and social media connections our relationships, have lost grasp of life as it has become more remote, more distant. Ya Basta! We are sinking on these false islands we have constructed for ourselves—these desert islands. If they are not desert islands then tell us why we always need essential goods shipped to them?
We, of the coastal plains of Eastern Turtle Island, are organizing a new way for humans to exist and be in symbiance with the ecosystem. We in some of the lands most entrenched by late stage capitalism, are beset with the task to create a model for other bioregions that must also battle to halt and reverse the 6th mass extinction.
Our first undertaking, is the seeding and fostering of a general strike against capitalism on May 1, 2020. We are not creating ourselves out of abstraction, but out of la lucha. We are not isolating ourselves from the struggle, but coming in to existence to call for a specific antidote to late stage capitalism that must be tried. We do this in affinity with Extinction Revolution, precisely because humans have been left with those two options: Revolution, or, Extinction. Evolution has been so badly marred by the methods and machines of industrialized and industrializing humans that a cautious return to allow for eco-system self-regeneration would lack caution. No, we must run out ahead to stop The Machine. We must halt it.
Here are fragments of the 0lder Zeroth Declaration that were not composted and fertilized in to the above writing:
the jungles provide the healing leaves, the bark, the sweet breeze; the concrete is a place of concentrated blow, of devil’s dust. Hell would burn if you weren’t numb to the fire; hell would freeze if there were any liquids.
Realities replaced with hallucinations and delusions to compensate a fragile psyche in a desert. Miracles for mirages.
We, the Ejercito de Nueva Jersey, are responding to the cry we hear from the land. The cry is one of a Murder but it is not just the murder of the land the land is telling us that sow-in being murdered our own death awaits us, humans. Not being dead yet, still having breath and the enjoyment of life when it is not taken from us right in front of us by the industrial overcapacities, is what makes us willing to respond to the call of the land to be warriors on its behalf and to allow life to once again flourish as places that are now not so long ago did.
Oppression has a very long history—but our time is short now. As oppression has grown, our time has grown shorter. Oppression can not last forever, eventually it oppresses itself, and extinction takes over. The extinction of what? That is the political question as well as the ecological.
These might be epic words, but what we need more are epic deeds. We need the deeds that would mark a new epoch. An epoch of creation, not of destruction, a story filled with the seeds of regeneration, not of the deeds of recent generations.
in these densely populated areas known as the suburbs, humans have never been more isolated not just from ecosystems, but from one another. These are not the grounds that can sustain a tribe, a people, a humanity. The lowest point is a turning point
Where to start? Hmmm… Not where to start writing, no no. This is not a question of how to begin, that seeks to focus the writer so to avoid being aimless. This is a writing against the very aimlessness of all the surrounding constituents that capture and particilize us, dividing us, resetting us, infantalizing us; this writing in it’s very nature must be very focused to hold appropriate contrast. No, “Where to start?” is a question that every new generation of besieged life must ask itself, faced with its lot in life here—to be born in a concrete jungle, with similar likelihood to be born on a paved parking surface as to be born on a field or forest with a healthy ecology.
a layer of pavement restricting its connecting to the web of life that sources from the terrain. The greatest and most ill advised dare of humanity’s history, namely the dare of how long we can continue landless, continues to new levels of perilousness. If only we could be fully awake to the sublime horror, but not, we are fast asleep.
Life must start again under less than ideal circumstances. Life for the Siberian Tiger, life for the blue whale, life for the orangutan, life for the human. Death for the tiger? Death for the whale? Death for the primates?
Even when ocean is available for species that can make a living out of such a connection, the oceans, too, are dying, under the burden of acidification.
As destructive as a high tide of the sea can be, we’ve let the tidal surge of our cars become ever more makers of misery, and pointlessly and unenchantedly so.
We have downgraded ourselves to a life on concrete. But it is not easy to mindlessly downgrade without a sense of great sorrow. The accelerations of water, the accelerations of wind.
With what little bit of us there is left, we cry so loud for the shrieks have not been heard. Hundred millions of years of evolution put under this urban and suburban placque.
We love the human animal, that’s why it makes us so very sad to see the destructive paths we’ve devolved down.
NJ as andalusia – andalusia cannot continue to swim on concrete.
Under siege so long we have forgotten that we are under siege.
The concrete statues, the problem is made visible right in front of us.
We are the Ejercito for our local Earth; ready to dance even when we don’t know the song.
Ejercito Nomadistas de la Tierra
If We Do Not Wander We Will Remain Lost