Straining under the weight of their as yet unimagined constructedness, the cathedrals are slowly sinking into the earth, the immense pressures extending outward and against our tunneling activities beneath the citadels, extending our roots in all directions, energizing our rhizomatic network with new life at every turn. And what can we make from-with-of this excessive and vertiginous turning of attention that never ends? Perhaps a small but no less critical modulation could prove productive in this moment: a movement at once turning away from the reified strata of continents, and towards more open waters. What moves us toward islands? Perhaps something like hope, something like adventure, something like the desire to eternally begin anew. We do not know, and yet it is this very uncertainty, this opaque and persistent desire, this negativity which we carry forward as our positive ground. Perhaps now is the season of our advent, of gathering in segregation, of germination without seed.
Let's get moving; time to cast-off.
Within the receding horizon of the towering cathedrals, the remaining priests are left to discern between supposedly rival Gods who form their divine decrees and edicts from the same totalitarian logic. From a catacombic vantage, we perceive the pre-figurations and pre-scriptions of this logic as constituting a form of cosmic splitting, a perpetual infantilism, a dance of enemies in mutual exchange beneath a play of masks. What are we to make of this choice among falsehoods? Recalling Nietzsche’s prophetic anticipation of this nauseating and auto-generating nihilism, creates for us the real possibility of rejecting such false choices, of becoming nomadic, of becoming our own other, our own children: wayfarers whose movement is, in the same moment an invocation for desert islands to appear within our glass; explorers in search for the mythical egg within which a sacred rupture is already in incubation, yet one which must first give birth to itself.
But, we must ask: is this expedition one that ultimately doubles back on itself? Is this yet another unwitting reinscription of the very divisions we wish to avoid? Are we consigned to a mode of being that endlessly commutes one dualism for another, always-already enclosed in geographies drawn in terms of scorn or praise? Can our ‘yes’ ever escape the gravitation of ‘no’? Has our pen absently slipped into a deeply-cut groove that has mistakenly traced lines-of-flight with lines-of-escape? For in truth, we neither desire escape, nor to escape desire, but to open the possibility to a form of joy that, while rooted in the given, both precedes and exceeds it, operating from a 'segregated space', a small plot of land that is in the world and yet not of it. We desire the winds, to both witness and enact an infinitude of refractions - diamonds scattered as from the hand of some divinizing witch - the overcoming of depths, the abandonment of heights, the joy of voyage haunted by loss.
We sail toward the threshold of a vast abyss already knowing the egg is not yet ripened for discovery, that this "second origin" - more essential than the first - exists only as myth until the time of its own creation, born of its own eschatological becoming. We are its midwives, witches and sorcerers setting sail for desert islands at the end of the world.