November 11th-in the quiet before a storm, the land waits, ready to be sprinkled with rain or with blood. The silent wind ascends toward rotating propellers we can hear only if we listen closely. The air smells of secrets. Strategies unfolding behind the scenes and clearing the ground as dead bureaucrats partner with witchy custodians fighting over the pushbroom—these are actions it’s only possible to hear with our inner ear, yet ones in which we’re entirely complicit.
War and chaos are the first questions, as Heraclitus and others have told us, and today, the opening-up of the landscape, and our ability to confront chaos’ higher octave, occurs through a vaginal opening on a cloud. The feral, uncompromising, generative and destructive part of us at the meeting place between heaven and earth where storms form, fires missiles at the ground through its nerve endings—in fact, a clearing of earth in a crude form we can perceive. Failure to honor the chaos as an opening & clearing makes the storm fester as violence lasting for generations.
It cannot be known today what’s made from the cleansing sprinkles onto the ground emanating from that pulsing organ, but the whispering sweep of chaos (and chaosmos) must be embraced, for our own sake and for the good of the world.