I believe in you. I believe in me. There is nothing else but us.

Touch grass, if you can find it. Grasping apes, upright-walkers hunting through the ice, bacterium bursting into self-consciousness. The split between the before, the now, and the after is the invention of the Human.

There is no Human in nature. The Human is a category of fissure, a rupture in God’s self-understanding. Terrified of its animality, the Human severs itself from the flux and creativity of being, architecting an Atlantean -topia above the rhizome of nature. Arboreal fear of dirt asthmatically blocking off roots and cutting off tunnels of nutrients, the Human peels into simulacra, an image of what the imagination images itself to be.

Capital is a Moloch pulling us forward into the realm of forms, a cybernetic arche leading to abstraction. The goal of capitalism is forgetting, a reverse anamnesis obscuring life. Trapped in Hades, the soul sinks into Styx, dragged into the underneath below Tartarus. “…capitalist society is death organized with all the appearances of life. Here it is not a question of death as the extinction of life, but death-in-life, death with all the substance of power of life. The human being is dead and is no more than a ritual of capital.” (Jacques Camatte, This World We Must Leave and Other Essays) Proletarianization is one link in a chain that tries to block us from community, from finding wholeness in the multiplicity and flowing chaosmosis of life.

The Human is a Demiurge. Not human beings, homo sapiens, beings of joy and hope and creativity and flesh and breath, but The Human (TM), that which separates us from the world, from materiality. At the level of point particles, the universe is enminded, the body of God in infinite multiplicity. God has a body and our body is her body. The act of becoming Human is the act of separating oneself off from this body, being fearful of passion, energy, creativity, life, joy, excess, love, magic, art, pleasure, desire, friendship, and community. The Human is a gnostic apocalypse, the fading of the material into the technic, the hubristic terror of machinic libido shaving down the non-Euclidean geometries of nature into Leviathan. Eden is the nightmare of power.

The only hope for humanity is the rejection of the Human in favor of the cosmic us, the loving embrace of the other as a concrete site of embodied self-consciousness.

I believe in you. I believe in me. I believe in us and nothing else.

Image: The Angel of Hearth and Home, Max Ernst (1937)