Learnt a word "eremocene." Age of loneliness. That hangs out with isolating and hikimori. Is it just a life that huddled to LCD screen blue light filters, the civil unmentionables of jouissance that teem with unslept intensities, chronobiological strain. Hate comingingling with lack. Youtubers crying "that is so beautiful and I will never forget experience it irl" in an incel romantic resignation that leads to misogyny and hate as flex. Or CyberWerthers. I belong to flex but flex belongs to one: this is the dark bit of mythopoetics of the high hills of Lemuria. It's sylvan. Next door is middle earth and saga. Flex homes. No love. No intimacy. Death is certain. There's little chance of success. Let's get extimate and hell and hate and everyday negation for orienting and a laugh is legitimate. Lovecraft and xenomagic. The Lovecraft flex, the cthulhu vector stuns, kills, slaughters. The Lovecraft hate as tensor, proboscoid tentacles, topology of the crisis, of the lurk and the deflation of it all in the line. Line going forever. Into the basin of the high hills that magic, that hatemagic and its particular entourage of negation or laughs. Xenophobia. Hate. The adoration the Lovecraftian magi of Hitler. Flex that hate. It's understood commonly. There is tribe and there is belonging to hate. In the sylvan ways of poets and jongleurs who kept a naturalism to flex capacities, who make repertoire and archives - architectonics of abstract hate, purist hate belong in the high hills. Above the snowline. That's where formalist hate has the best time. Where its array and apparel are congruent to the clime. Where ultrahistorical eternal Neuschwansteins, gauche may it be, trudge and leave fresh snowprints. There the loving touches that last lifetimes are resoldered. There the sheaf of islands, brimming with round promise are visible. But yes, much much further away physically.
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| Ernst Haeckel's "Races of Man" map showing lost continent of Lemuria |
