I take my “perfectly” made coffee, with a touch of “whatever” in it, carefully poured in a mug I got last “HoaXmas” from someone at work who’s already dead, with the words, “Nice girls never make history”, to the balcony, trying to “relax” and to hear the birds sing on the trees that no longer are.
I see people walking, people with fear of “the crisis” in their eyes and in their every movement. Some with and some without masks. Almost every single one has a dog on a leash. A man is approaching with his dog, big German Shepherd, on a green colored leash. He has the leash wrapped around his right hand, very carefully trying to pull the dog towards himself every time the dog tries to move away. The dog tries it one more time, to run away with the leash. The dog looks tired, nonchalant, thirsty, wants to “not be there” it seems. The man stops. Hits the dog in the head and screams: “Stop it!”. And that’s the moment the dog pauses and then keeps his head down and starts walking. This time in a perfect distance from the man. I am seeing all this from the balcony. Right under my window are the man and his dog. I feel this rush coming over me, as if I am reaching a “deadline”. All rushed and without giving it any “thought”, I hear myself yelling from the balcony: “why would you hit the dog?” I catch myself, as if I am hearing myself for the first time. Was that me? Did I just yell? The man’s scream confirms my thought: “what the fuck is it any of your business?” The back and forth goes on for a while, and I just leave in the middle of it and leave the balcony, go inside and close the French window.
I sense the anger. I am angry and exhausted from the back and forth arguing with the man. I can again see and am aware of myself being overcome with anger and hate. I realize this is not about the “dog” or the “man hitting the dog”. This is about me feeling the hold of the Leviathan, master’s collar on my own neck. This is about my own bondage to my master, trying to puncture any time, anyhow. Like the dog, however futile. I am that dog. All dressed up pretty in the collar provided by my master, taking the beatings and just “do my thing”. The “everyday” of it all. The feeling “of having control”, while still on the leash and being managed and maintained by them. In the words of Julian Langer my “life is dying and rising….”, I, “emerge from death and decay, beautiful and powerful” in my “becoming”, wandering alone, trying to focus on “attacking and resisting the micro-environment created by civilization.”
There is no use writing about it, but oh well, to not to, adds to the lie that it already is. We are aware of it, the second we wake up. As soon as we open our eyes and realize “where“ we are. And we get up with the “intention” to get to our “routine”, waking up, as part of a routinely task, kissing our “love” good morning, have the “here is another day and I-can-fucking-DO-IT” mentality. As we pour the coffee with some added turmeric to it and that perfect amount of NON-Sugar, take a shower and get ready for the “day”. The “perfect day” forced up on every single one of us, by the Leviathan, the master, the corpse of civilization. We live very well within this fiction, and when we think we “see through IT ALL”, we catch ourselves living it, licking it. And we get back to resisting the civilization, in small doses here and there, on our way of Becoming-wild.
In his book Feral Iconoclasm, a collection of writings that flow through each other, Langer invites us to again not form ideologies or theories, but to share in his inspirations and at times, let the energy travel through us and maybe go beyond the radical-ecological metaphysics of it all and just go against the “order” of things. Feral-being dance through Iconoclasm. Rupture time, “concepts”, definitions.
“This is not a manifesto; this is not a movement. This is wild life releasing itself from repression, and the energy of that release.”Julian Langer, Feral Iconoclasm
“There is no deeper truth than that the monster is simply the constructed reality we have been born to and are condemned to, until its destruction. It’s the external machinery that we have internalized as normal life. It is the everyday normality of schools, shops, work, driving, and all that is performed and maintained by everyday people. That is all.”Julian Langer, Feral Iconoclasm
I sense the passion and ecstasy from my love with every inch of whatever it is I reside in. Passion is it called I think to myself? Does it have a name? Does it need a “name”? I don’t feel “my love” is a separate entity. The civilization has taught me otherwise, conditioned my mind to define love, compassion and passion. “to look for signs”, and be “cautious of” other “signs”. The Master has taught me to make love into a commodity, to be sold and purchased and then disposed of. I am to “feel needed” to “feel loved”. Love is another “to-do-list” they say. “To communicate”, “to understand”, “to define boundaries and expectations”, “to do this to do that”. I don’t want signs, I don’t need signs, I don’t need to define and draw the lines. I don’t expect to “feel” anything. I sense the love, and passion, and caress, all the time, and hold , touch, kiss and get consumed in “my love”. Beyond words. Beyond the “imperfections” of the limited language developed by the leviathan. This Now just presented itself, just passed. It died. It is nothing. I am nothing. And here is the me dead, and risen again. Against the machine, and its hold, its forced “normal”. My love, becomes more than “My” “love”. Passion is at that moment, and “we” are not separate.
We died and now we are. No future awaits us. And at present, we are “free” in captivity, maybe free “from” the masters’ shackles ( or so we think). We live our days in the oppressive modes of “time” in lager-time at the camp, as we are immersed, suspended in the present, eradicating any past and future. Our love travels at night, in the dark, in the morning, light, and throughout the non-linear time. Silence doesn’t scare us. Words don’t make us “feel secure”, no actions needed to “capture our love”. I die with my love and I breathe with my love every second. We are in this beautiful, orgasmic, passionate, elevated Nothingness.
33. “How awful would it be to be forced to remain something for an eternity! To be unchanging would be utterly boring and utterly terrifying. Better to be Nothing and to find yourself in the world as a beautiful Nothingness”Julian Langer, Feral iconoclasm
34. “ Of course I know I am beautiful! How could I doubt such a truth? I am feral. I am wild. I navigate civilization like a feral fox and a poetic terrorist. I play my games with the civilized to tease them into moments of ontological anarchy and find myself naked in woods and rivers, beautiful and an extension of the beauty that is creative-destructive nothingness of wild-Being”Julian Langer, Feral Iconoclasm
I paint naked, I take pictures of dead birds and cry. I disregard the “No swimming” signs and jump naked in the middle of the night. I go to the beach at night, and sit there staring into the vast pitch black ocean, and swim in it until the security car comes and asks me what I am doing there, and I brush them off by “oh was I not supposed to?”
I park the car outside the trail, jump over the fence and start walking way deep into the jungle and breathe in the air. And scream. The present moment. And it passed. I cry at a “stranger”’s funeral. The wind moves my heart. I dance with the willow tree as it moves through the wind. I touch the dirt and taste it, and want to feel its coldness on my naked skin. The air through the flowers dancing, takes me to wherever I want. I am in love with the Ocean, I swim as far as I can, and get lost in it. Its vastness, nothingness.
Feral am I? Was I? There is no me. Just passed. His-story is not. No future is the future. Langer tells us no “rules” are to be followed on our rewilding. There is not a “manual”. Feral iconoclasm is not a thing to be or not to be. It is to denounce the corpse of civilization, the Leviathan, attacking it, and create rupture, and feel beautiful about it, smile through it and embrace it after every death and rise.
Oh wild dances, how I love them so. The poetry of their flowing motion upon the body of the earth. Through woodlands, in rivers and the sky, and even in cities, towns, and villages, the beauty of their movements creates destructive ruptures in the machinery of this technological Leviathan…. These dances, with sensuous display transgressing that last taboo, neither ends nor begins at dawn, but chases the dawn and the night in the transience of all present moments…. Those uncivilized beings dance beautiful dances, as they become rivers with banks overflowing from the waters of the storm, rushing towards the sea.Excerpt form Wild Dances Poem by Julian Langer, Feral Iconoclasm
Open any page, and let it inspire you, your Becoming-wild. Langer invites us to dance the moment away on our way to “Becoming-Animal”. And In the words of Langer: “Be wild. Be beautiful. Dance your feral in iconoclastic dances. You are alive, so live fucking brilliantly.”