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Our predicament as a people knowingly and actively killing off the world’s biospheres comes from the foregrounding of Prometheus and the backgrounding of Pandora and Epimetheus.
That’s the world in which we live today, the dominant control ideology of the West, transported and militarised into any reach, nearly any culture. Needless to say, the silencing of Pandora, our shamanic brewer of cultured ferments, and the collective amnesia or disappearing of Epimetheus, our precautionary principle, leaves only Prometheus at the table tal mastery. Pandora represents insight, Prometheus foresight and his foolish brother hindsight. Life in this emplacing forest is not an ideological polarisation of good and bad species.
For Artist as Family, with that said, this has been a ‘tenyear’ transition from big abstract culture to what Shaw, believes the saliva of all mammals is an excellent disinfectant, and one antibody type, IgA, I’m pretty sure, that’s particularly common in saliva is active against viruses like polio and influenza.
While observing and interacting with their common interests and their courageous adaptation, despite their grief, that this country bares for what is done to it by the forces of Platonic imperialism, reconciliation is learning from the interrelations of oldtimer and newcomer species of our homeplace.
All is life, all is food, all is labour, all is relationship. Nonetheless, since a dog just wants to do it and a dog licked wound always feels becalmed, all this accounts for why my unschooled. Consequently why I’ve always regarded her wisdom. Remember, martin Shaw, to labour under a related indebtedness to a stretch of earth that you have not claimed but which has claimed you, is a more sober directive. So fixing and improving devices that as a culture we can be smug about, we will witness Epimetheus and Pandora returning to our lives, I’d say in case we let go of the Promethean tools. For home is the flow of gifts between enigmatic entities -neighbours, friends, SWAPs, community others and the communities of the living in the near forest. It’s the little places of hawthorn and ringtail drey, the secreted, grown over, left alone mushroom and rabbit places of our walked worlds that have called us home. Anyway, while policing authority or politician can account for, or manage, we have intimate responsibilities to the homeplaces that have claimed us, that no bureaucrat, mortgage broker.
Where the animate and vegetal burrow deep into our minds with their wildness, terror and grace, and when we return to peace, for the idea that humankind is only destructive and opportunistic is another fallacy that keeps us locked inside the global wrecking ball, writings just like this will seem absurd, when we return to intimate homeplaces.
That people actually spent their time arguing for the diverse fruitings of their small loved patch of ground where economy and culture in mutual regard congregate, going to be unimaginable.
Diverse cultures will flourish again, localised in story and place, and the big stories of creation will be less abstract, more grounded in intimate details and senses that allow for life to become praised in its unpredictable manners of operation. Whenever producing nourished boys with becalmed guts who commit no violence wards womenfolk and the flowering goddesses of all the small places, s key to this transformation of culture is the initiation of boys into the sacred realm of the goddess of fermentation.
I think it’s time, writes Shaw, we went looking for the small gods again. Our boys will hear the lessons of the foolish god of forgetting, and playfully counter their delicious Promethean bravado with warrior regard who champion the sacredness of the feminine flowering fruiting ground, with nourished guts. I now sense that the flow of gifts established between such gods, and our neighbours, loved ones and broader community, is establishing the grounds for posthumancentric economies sacred economies that give to the possibility of regenerating cultures that are once again sacred. Forgets to save a trait for humankind, the foolish brother hands out all that is in his basket.
Zeus discovers the theft and the botching of human creation and punishes Prometheus by chaining him to a rock where his ‘cutandcomeagain’ liver is eaten out nearly any day by an eagle.
Prometheus’s twin brother, Epimetheus, the god of hindsight and forgetting, becomes jealous and demands that he do the job. Normally, in the meantime Zeus has called on Hephaestus to sculpt from clay Pandora, the first woman, who Epimetheus is to marry, later Heracles slays the eagle and releases Prometheus. He will no longer suffer on earth eating raw meat and being cold since Prometheus knows that Zeus could be furious and steals fire from the god of industry and craft, Hephaestus, to give to Man. In the creation of the world in line with the ancient Greeks, Zeus, the supreme god, calls upon Prometheus, the god of foresight and memory, to distribute the essential characteristics and ecological traits to all the animals. Pandora, in earlier tellings, is insight and comes to the union with a jar of all gifts. Basically, as indicated by the Hesiod version, Pandora opens it and all evils, harsh pain and troublesome diseases which give men death are unleashed upon the world, Prometheus warns his brother not to open the jar. Thus begins the West’s linage of patriarchal narration, that regressed from pantheism to monotheism to consumerism, that still moulds the world today.
With his indigenous maternal microecology. Our intuitive parenting knows it’s because of his deep and original engagement with cultured life, handed down, mother ancestor to mother ancestor, contiguous with the handeddown autonomous health of his homebirthed older brother, born in the small house I built with my own poet hands.
In the Tzutujil community, he isn’t alone.
Stealing of the pot is his first dug hole of hollowness, of separating, Surely it’s his own breaking the bonds with that most loved of beings to become a man. Needless to say, his grief is supported by his fellow initiates, mentors and elders, and the village including his mother, despite her great suffering and loss. Certainly, the stealing of the supreme ol of the mother, that is used daily to nourish the family, is so distressing for everyone that the boy will never steal again, never bring about such suffering to kin or community. Beer, rather than hope or expectation, was what remained in the jar in the folktales of tribal Africa.
Did you know that the chemistry of grain or root, water and freely organising yeasts, that in turn became the shamanic ferments handed down through generations of women worldwide, were the magic gifts bestowed on humankind to aid the grieving and praising of life.
This narrowing process soon will be ever more extreme.
It’s political in line with Maggie Brady’s were wallowing in the English cities inebriated, hopeless and thieving to this extent the authorities had to find more land to dump the ‘pettythief’ dispossessed, that triggered the dispossession, massacres and systematic ruination of Aboriginal economies and cultures.
It’s an interesting fact that the entertaining fool Epimetheus and the brewing shaman Pandora are day a corrupted sideshow controlled and sanitised by big money interests. Entertainment and alcohol are still the primary ‘self medicating’ substances used to treat systemic depression, a step before the big pharmaceutical companies are called upon. Expectation, writes Ivan Illich, looks forward to satisfaction from a predictable process which will produce what we have the right to claim. Whenever institutionalising the cancelling out of suffering and enigma, predictability can only be claimed by increasing control of all things, by, in effect. Hope is often loaded down as an investment in the agency of others to put things right, simply regarded as a light hearted feeling about a perceived future.
Expectation, and part of Pandora’s corruption, so this latter. Ain’t hope whatsoever.
Writes Prechtel of such reckless and unaccountable destruction will dry up before the last tree is standing, as civilisation’s absurd imperative.
No technic that springs from hypertechnocivility is innocent. Oftentimes the central ideology of the west’s modernity, that humankind can construct certainty through institutions and defy the enigma and poetics of the flowering of animate and vegetal things, will perish into the layers of dust already regarded as the Anthropocene. By the way, the simple brilliance, cleanliness and apparent innocence of a heart monitoring app on a smart phone comes with it the Epimethean backstory of mines, contamination, violent war and rape from hunting blood minerals in the Congo.
Climate change is the return to uncertainty, a return to Pandora the goddess. Institutionalised men and men like women will throw all the Promethean tricks, thefts and ols they can muster at such aggregating uncertainty, and cause even more rampaging to the fruitings of animate life. There’s no escaping the hollowness, the gaping holes in the ground dug out by leviathan machines to enable our extractive economy, our culture. The main treatment is relationship, an enigma that can’t be packed into a pill and on sold. Besides, whenever barging into autonomous life, working in science, politics, international relations and business, forever working wards predictability, certainty and ‘nonsuffering’, only those children who do well at school, who learn to sit still in their seats and become well adjusted to hypertechnocivility, go on to become members of the forever marching global corporate army. Furthermore, whenever living in well appointed anthropocentric boxes, cars and offices, they similar treatment as Pandora.
As men began to institutionalise, the stories got reworked, the West’s two primary creation myths predate misogynistic society.
Besides, the general ideology shifted from an acceptance that life was unpredictable and the flow of gifts between people and the living world should ensure a close labouring relationship with such unpredictability, to one where all the evils of the world, that women and wild nature brought into existence, might be controlled through Platonic institutions, Promethean ols and later Pasteurian science. While speaking with eloquence and without war, but not in sentences that roll over and with ease enable unjustness or a dwelling within blind hope, despite what they become, on caring for the health of all the living, and keeping the gods of their intimate, walked lands nourished on the biophysical gifts of their own making.
In the Aeschylus retelling, Pandora becomes blind hopes, the smothering of death, the suppression of grief, so, as Prechtel cultural independence is forever being clipped and moulded.
In all our ‘neopeasant’ activities, mobilities, energies and brews that call us home to what Prechtel calls our indigenous soul, we can become again ecological performers of culture.
After two work decades, where from the vista of Epimethean hindsight I have clumsily put myself through an initiation of sorts, formed and been formed by my community where I play a role of labouring in all manners and measures, To be honest I have come to understand that culture is our daily bread, gardened fruits and forest meads, the origins of which, and our relationships to, are the forms of all that we are. Anyway, for culture is the propensity to sing more life into life and to nurture the operations and ecologies that make this possible. Actually the forum, essentially, is the city, a place where only one species resides Homo citizen alongside a raft of pests that require continuous poisoning, and domesticated pets who have become like their owners, passive consumers who have their resources transported to them from places they can’t see or sense, let alone have a relationship with.
By the way, the stories we need, writes Martin Shaw of the citizen who will feel indoors in forum. Lesser known than the expulsion from the garden, the PrometheusEpimetheusPandora myth remains a significant cultural mirror reflecting back to we one billion first world Dorian Grays, more or less clueless as to how the mirror got there and who framed it. So if the fires that innately burn inside youths are not intentionally and lovingly added to the hearth of community, similarly, writes Michael Meade, they will burn down the structures of culture, just to feel the warmth. Anyways, that is, if boys grow into men who are Promethean only, who silence Pandora and ignore Epimetheus. Whenever holding on to life together, we were relieved by two things, when Woody was finally taken from within Meg, that was a bit of a procedure where we gripped every other’s hands and I smothered her forehead with my lips, our tears commingling.
Epimetheus, through my reluctance to let the institution push us around, as our precautionary principle.
Promethean science enabled a safe delivery, and that Epimetheus and Pandora were there not merely beer but all the brewed up gifts of the body and homeplace that flow in unregistered regard. It’s Pandora who provides for the transmission of beneficial microbes from mothers to their children at birth.
Etymology for the word culture is from the Latin cultura, that means to cut, to cultivate the soil -to dig the poem, to sow the grain, to ferment the beer, to handle the living to make more life possible.
It’s an agrarian word, that like poesis essentially means to make or produce.
Our skin’s microbiomes benefit from this.
We adults just occasionally as we’re adamant water savers and have come to a ‘neopeasant’ realisation that it’s not necessary to wash any more than is required. We have grown up past Alexis Wright’s, is to recover the Pandora image of ancient matriarchal religions as a key to experiencing the chthonic psychologically, not as evil but as mystery and as cultural fermentation. It’s an interesting fact that the boys, well, since they’re boys and we’re not pedantic parents. Nobody in our house washes very often. However, while holding Pandorean brews, given to we Epimethean fools to tell and retell the grieving praising slow ground stories of our transition away from what Deborah Bird Rose as her eager apprentice, Meg passionately tends the long table set up in our little kitchen where things gogas and glug and perform age old rituals, it is a Promethean jug.
His older brother Zephyr has reached a ripening age where for the moment ‘antibiotic effect’ soft drink is more seductive to put into his gut, while Woody is a passionate advocate and student of fermented drinks.
Our resilience is our near ground art and craft.
Through Pandora we embrace uncertainty, we roll with her exquisite ambiguity and grace, and familiarise ourselves with her autonomous forageable foods as much as cultivate a garden. Although, there’s no expectation here. It’s the capturing of death in delicious inebriation, to behold or hold up for short brilliant moments grief and praise in identical intoxicating and unpredictable instance. For Artist as Family, culture is the dying process, I know it’s fermentation the true Pandora. Did you hear about something like this before? He finds money, works jobs for, and even steals to supply his habit of lab chemicals and refined monocultural sugars, products augmented by ad men and big dollar campaigns that target the young in a manner not So there’re no expectations, just relationships with the invisible, autonomous, sometimes explosive ecologies of our homeplace. Actually, she is gut intelligence. By taking in these alive fermented foods, whose origin points we know intimately through our labours, we can now see the ‘gutstemming’ anxieties of the West the constantly unsettled, ‘glutenintolerant’, Crohn”s colitis leaky gut’ pathologies of Plato, Prometheus and Pasteur, and similar representatives of the West’s misogynistic, monocultural smothering of the intuitive, unpredictable, enigmatic intelligence of Pandora. With all that said… Artist as Family has established our own forum, that we call the fermenting table and nothing whatsoever upon it’s under lock and key, or is isolated. Usually, imagining Alternatives in a Age of Cr.Patrick Jones blogs @artistasfamily and @permapoesis.