HELPLESSNESS

Our fear of helplessness, the perception of the cosmos and even ourselves as nonliving, and the threat of a meaningless and disordered world are all familiar complaints of the alienated modern man and, as I have suggested, are all associated with characteristic phases of psychological development. Insofar as they comprise or express our sense of a menacing disintegration, they serve a neurotic quest for control. From the self-abnegation and bodily humiliation of Christian flagellants, to the pious compulsions of fanatic cleanliness and sanitation, and finally the yearning for power over physical nature made possible by industrialized technology, we are engaged in a desperate flight from inchoate diversity and our own feelings of anonymity and fragmentation. Today we seek to fabricate a world in which we hope to heal our stunted identities and rear children in a hopeful and meaningful setting. But our rural/urban landscapes, generated by an ideology of mastery, define by subordination, not analogy. The archetypal role of nature—the mineral, plant, and animal world found most complete in wilderness—is in the development of the individual human personality, for it embodies the poetic expression of ways of being and relating to others. Urban civilization creates the illusion of a shortcut to individual maturity by attempting to omit the eight to ten years of immersion in nonhuman nature. Maturity so achieved is spurious because the individual, though he may become precociously articulate and sensitive to subtle human interplay, is without a grounding in the given structure that is nature. His grief and sense of loss seem to him to be a personality problem, so that, caught in a double bind, he will be encouraged to talk out his sense of inadequacy as though it were an interpersonal or ideological matter. Indeed, the real brittleness of modern social relationships has its roots in that vacuum where a beautiful and awesome otherness should have been encountered. The multifold otherness-with-similarities of nonhuman nature is a training ground for that delicate equilibrium between the play of likeness and difference in all social intercourse and for affirmation instead of fear of the ambiguities and liveliness of the self.

Paul Shepard, Nature and Madness.

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RAINFOREST

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There is no nature, only Nature – an imaginary state of man’s own invention, a realm of concept and language. That is man’s place and it is nowhere except inside his head; a mirror image of a distorted fantasy he calls Mankind.  A distortion of a distortion, exponentially phantasmagorical.  Nature is a conceit: a man-made garden in which we wander to relax and preen, as we nod to one another in passing, and congratulate ourselves on being us.  We created Nature so that we might take pride in how far we have ventured beyond it.

Man has no place in nature because there is no nature: only what he makes.  He is therefore beyond nothing.  He is merely self-deceived.  Forever trapped inside his self-inflated dream of what he is.  A pathetic child imagining himself in the world, when, in reality, he is confined by the four walls of his playroom.  His ‘world’ being nothing more than the arrangement of his diminutive models and playthings.

Man is exiled from the real world, from nature, by language.  He is the willing prisoner of words.  All his high-mindedness, his ideals, morality, stemming merely from the necessity of language.  True nature cares for nothing, neither life nor death.  It is simply in a perpetual motion of growth and decay, beyond value or morality.  Lacking the curse of consciousness and the petty ethics that entails, the natural world lives and dies blindly, without intention, regenerates or doesn’t.  There is no system, only a multiplicity of life cycles; parts that remain seperate, that never add up to a whole.  Nature does not do arithmetic.  Man is one of a myriad of dissociated parts, not outside observer of an illusory unity.

If he tears down the forests or fights for their preservation, he does it for himself.  It is of no consequence to nature, whose disparate parts survive or don’t, without sensibility.  The ‘ecosystem’ is man’s vision of where he is and, in reality, no system at all.  The environment is his own orderly invention, his realm, but the environment cares neither for its own death nor man’s.  Nor does it care for man’s care for it.  Man makes a lapdog of a planet in which he is merely a passing formulation of life: the current arrangement of molecules.  His continued existence, and that of the planet itself, is of no importance to anything other than a few temporary particles that are our species.

Jenny Diski, Rainforest.