T̲h̲e̲ ̲E̲v̲o̲c̲a̲t̲i̲o̲n̲ ̲o̲f̲ ̲E̲c̲o̲l̲o̲g̲i̲c̲a̲l̲ ̲M̲a̲l̲a̲i̲s̲e̲:̲ ̲W̲o̲r̲m̲ ̲D̲r̲e̲a̲m̲i̲n̲g̲the fouled skies, the filthy waters, and the littered earth

October 25, 2021

A heavy thick fog hangs over everything. I can no longer trust my memories— I know they stem from an artificial past. There is no guidance, no warm hand reaching out to guide me through the flames, no balmy voice to assure me that behind these horrors are smoke screens.

It was dark, it always is. Dense mist concealed every inch of reality except for the faint outlines of big trees. They looked like bald cypress trees. The lucid reflection of moonlight glistened atop a sheet of liquid that seemed to stretch on for acres. I wanted to focus my gaze on the glittering specs but I was destabilized by a putrescent miasma. My eyes adjusted to the darkness and started to piece together the environment—It was not a misty woodlands but a grubby swamp. The water was heavy like clay, opaque, not filled with duckweed but waste and detritus. When plants die and begin to decompose, they create sulfuric compounds that are broken down through a series of steps, resulting in the release of hydrogen sulfide gas. Essentially, swamps smell bad because they are full of dead things. All metropolitan cities smell bad. I was wearing a long dress which dragged behind me, delicately trailing through the spoilage. I wanted to stop walking but I couldn’t. My automated body moved through a sequence of motions like a sleepwalking robot. A group of shadowed bodies were watching me from a little hill as I crossed the threshold of the shoreline. Strange, isn’t it? I waded into the feculent bog that first hit my waist, then my collarbones, then bobbed at my chin. And then I woke up.

water is the bloodstream of the biosphere

water is the bloodstream of the biosphere

water is the bloodstream of the biosphere

I have come to the conclusion that we become our bitterness, our malice.

“𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕠𝕞𝕒𝕟 𝕕𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕜 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕠𝕗 𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕟𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕔𝕒𝕦𝕤𝕖𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖; 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕔𝕒𝕦𝕤𝕖𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕤𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕓𝕖𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣.” 5:24–26

The Left, scientists, and socially progressive thinkers have all become fascists. Next we will go to hell where there is no iced-coffee and no cute bunny pictures. Hell is full of journalists. The grounds of Hell are made of noxious polluted soil that curdle the air with miasma. We can’t breathe which sucks because that means we can’t scream. The mere process of disintegration now becomes an irresistible temptation. If only I were a worm. If Only I Were A Worm. I would burrow beneath the soil and transport nutrients and minerals from below to the surface and aerate the ground. I would come up when it rains and take baths in pitted stones. On average, the worm’s life cycle spans about 4 years. I think that is more than enough time to Do Things and Feel Things. Longevity is a perverted fantasy. The elite cultists are so petrified of going to Hell that they will try to extend their lives at any cost. Couldn’t be me, baby.

(Flashing Decaying Wood, 2018)

Artist, Alma Heikkilä is captivated by the mutual co-existence of organisms. Her work seeks to mediate on our physical impact on the space(s) we inhabit with a multitude of other organisms—Striving towards what she calls, “an ecological transition of society.”Thinking of our roles in an ecological society allows for a broadened perception of biotic communities. Art and beauty act as the membrane that surrounds and separates us. Plasma, fungi, spores, bacteria…Integral to our humanity. Alma finds inspiration within the soil like a virtuoso worm. Beauty itself is free from ideologies, it transcends the need for physical manifestations and offers expressions that are more sensorial. How do we, become more like beautiful works of art? Or spores? Deontological, utopian, free-living. Maybe by burrowing beneath the soil we are able to see the complex ecologies and processes, the roles that go unseen; nestled underground.

(not visible or recognizable in any form, Winter 2020/2021)

Anyways. Desperation for hope and desperation for fear are maybe the same thing… Oh, where has my reckless optimism gotten me!? I submit meekly, I submit meekly! To the weight of you all…Crush me like a hundred boulders, crush me in your palm like a wilted violet. We will be like Death and Destruction. We will be like a work of art.