To See An Atom: Psychosis and Ecology


I left the American South with a Jesus on my shoulder. My new world, a leftist college out West, did not take so kindly. Beliefs that earned me friends and community at home now left me terribly alone. School did not help. Liberal arts classes exposed histories I could not reconcile with Christian legitimacy. For the first time, I doubted my religion, yet relinquishing Jesus meant betrayal—risking Hell—so I languished instead in a freeze. To think freely, or obey.

For six months I despaired in suicidal bewilderment. I kept it all secret. Then one night I ate mushrooms. Having ingested psychoactive plants plenty before, I knew the lay of the land, but this trip came on unusually strong. After listening to the mandatory Dark Side of the Moon, I lay down.

Moments later, a flood of dreams overcame me, dreams I had long forgotten. Each one I inhabited with all my senses, re-experiencing how I originally felt. Previously indecipherable, they were here linked together, and as a whole made sense. Just as I grasped their significance, I entered outer space. Floating, I saw Earth, a perfect sphere spinning. All my anxieties dissipated, replaced with ethereal lightness, and for a blessed few seconds, I understood.

Upon reentering my body, the first thing I noticed was an alarm clock. I said out loud, heresy, That’s God. Same to the poster, to the concrete wall, to the bedframe.

The next morning I threw away my statue of Jesus.

A week later, hungover with guilt, I worried whether my experience was real or a drug-induced stupor. I approached my Philosophy of Religion professor, who had just lectured on mystical experiences. Asking his judgment, I handed him great power. His answer:

Sometimes you need a microscope to see an atom.

His validation, even trust, legitimized my experience, casting it from purgatory into meaningful narrative. I told no one else, took no pride. I thought no more on it; thoughts were useless explorers of such terrain. But in having shaken loose my worldview, I became someone else, someone freer.


Now imagine if I had first told this experience to a typical psychiatrist. Perhaps an assessment of my drug use would have followed (heavy); perhaps an analysis of sleep patterns, family history of mental illness, and previous experiences of altered states (all abnormal). Surely if I had revealed that my grandiose vision happened after six months of suicidal obsession—a phase endured twice before—they would have worried, maybe diagnosed. I know this: there would have been no talk of seeing atoms. Maybe serotonin though. Vulnerable, I would have walked away believing that in the worst case I was an addict or mentally ill, and in the best, my experience was a self-inflicted brain convulsion, meaningless.


In my best estimation, what I saw at nineteen was Gaia, the name James Lovelock gives to the super organism that is planet Earth. Gaia is a conscious being who emerges from the sum of all life, much like we emerge from the sum of organs and blood and bacteria. In both instances, our actions and beingness cannot be explained by describing then adding our individual parts together. Something new, known as emergent phenomena, is born from their relational confluence.

Gaia is, in my embellishment, intelligent, acting in ways that nudge—not determine—things on the ground, albeit in ways impossible to comprehend. At a minimum, she enjoys surviving, growing life forms that create diverse systems which make her resilient against inputs and keeps her metabolism—er, climate—relatively stable. Gaia does not dictate the actions of those constituent beings that together give her rise, just as we do not consciously control our livers. Yet her behavior does impact those beings, who in turn impact her, just like flooding our liver with alcohol changes its function, in turn changing our consciousness, in turn changing the world, in turn changing us. The relationship between emergent phenomena and their parts is one seamless dance. Everything coevolves as one.

Most scientists will now accept that Earth systems work together in profound ways to protect an evolving homeostasis. But few will speak of intelligence, let alone meaning. They are wrong.

I was shown Gaia at the height of existential malaise, when my waking state was at an impasse. Mushrooms amplified my senses such that I could receive new insights, and from there I shed old ways and began anew. Was my body truly in outer space? It does not matter. Growth does not require physical coordinates. Metaphor or not, I made meaning, and meaning grows Gaia.


Of course, Gaia, as a concept, is nothing new. Many past and present indigenous people have long traditions of beliefs and behaviors that reflect a holistic understanding of a living, creative, relational Earth. For several hundred thousand years before the advent of agriculture, when all people were hunter-gatherers living close to wild, I imagine everyone understood this reality.

The difference between how many of us live today and how all people lived for eons is not a matter of natural or unnatural—there is no unnatural, as everything comes from nature, including television. The difference is that now we live surrounded by dead things. Take a look around: curtain, table, coffee cup, pen, computer, lights, bathroom, sink, clothes, air conditioning, whatever… all dead. We used to be surrounded by a living world. Not just us, but other animals and plants, which is why they are revolting.

That Gaia arose as a novel concept in science, maker of hard truth, reflects not its ingenuity, but the depravity of mainstream Western consciousness to salute the big wild. Only in a society starved of meaning and perception and surrounded by inanimate matter does claiming Earth as an intelligent creature become news.


So what does a theory of mind look like in a culture of dead things?

It begins with isolation: I think, therefore I am. I am a mind with a body, and operate as an independent entity in a world of other independent objects and subjects. I am a personality who relates to objects and subjects, not a relational confluence. You and I can relate, but only as separate entities. As such, I am responsible for making decisions about my behavior towards other objects and subjects. Those decisions should be rational, or else the mind that drives them is off. Historically, from a European perspective, off was primitive, barbaric, sinful, bewitched; nowadays, immoral or medically sick. Yet no innate rationality or irrationality exists; humans have successfully lived in a huge variety of contradicting arrangements. What is rational, on, is a political determination, based on keeping particular economic and power relations in order.

For instance, if we take the perspective of a river, or her salmon, or old growth forests on her banks, a dam blocking that river’s flow is genocidal. I do not use that word lightly: a dam destroys entire populations of beings. I believe it perfectly rational to assume that rivers, salmon, and old growth forests belong to the Earth no more or less than humans, serving vital functions in maintaining the health of Gaia, and should therefore be cultivated instead of assaulted. Rationally, I believe human beings can survive with rivers, salmon, and old growth forests intact—as we did for hundreds of thousands of years; clearly an evidenced-based practice. So, a rational decision would be to remove the dam. Blow it up, go to jail. Against our economics maintaining a particular structure of power, I would be making an irrational, immoral, off choice.

Another example: a starving person with no money can be jailed if he walks into a grocery store and eats the abundant food on the shelf. A child can be punished for standing up in a boring class and walking into the forest for relief. An excited person can be locked in a cage for removing all their clothes because they want to feel air. A neighbor can be fined for drinking the river across invisible property boundaries because she is thirsty for real water.

Such actions are irrational only in context. That context, hidden by theories of morality and instituted by invisible laws, is today a dualistic materialism—subject/object—worldview that emphasizes parts and translates living beings into resources. When you take that approach—that Earth is to be used instead of treated like kin—you do reap a temporary bounty from killing her living organisms and converting them to machines. You make superior weapons and hoard endless food, which leads to more breeding, necessary ingredients for conquering others and subordinating Earth, for a while. Seduced by such power, you are likely to harden the reductionistic beliefs that grant it: mandate curriculums that study parts; build an economics that separates then appraises lifeforms; praise religions that emphasize the individual with dominion over the planet; reward an intellectualism of memorized facts, particularly those that manipulate nature; farm until the soil dries, then spike it with fertilizer and plant rows of lab crops. You are likely to create a psychology of self; a deterministic psychiatry ruled by cause and effect; and a philosophy of detached reason and rationality. All entirely unnecessary for surviving the wild—and antithetical to understanding it, yet indispensable for maintaining a dualistic materialism. It comes at a cost.

Of course, I paint with broad strokes. Dualistic materialism has produced some good for some people, especially juxtaposed against other epochs of the last ten thousand years. I certainly benefit. Still, the best of those benefits—the increase in human rights as a political concept for large-scale societies—has paradoxically come at the expense of wild nature and exploited people. The very idea that seven billion humans are entitled to endless breeding, food, shelter, and long life is a crisis for the planet: from where else will these limitless rights be actualized but a limited planet?

It is in this economic and political context—the one that treats human beings as individual subjects; maintains rights and privileges for some people and none for others, including other species; delineates property; perceives Earth as bounty—that rationality is determined. Irrational, then, is to think and behave non-linearly as a non-subject, to perceive more than parts, to feel plants as subjects not objects, to tune into connections and forces that cannot be measured in a lab.

We have a word for that.


I am weary of iterating the term, solidifying it. The most benevolent translation of psychosis—increase in psyche, with psyche being the Greek term for animating spirit—is lovely, but love and psychiatry are at odds, so it has lost a bit of luster in their hands.

Several problems surround the concept. One, what we call psychosis is culturally determined, often so different between two individuals, even in the same culture, that the concept itself fails as a common descriptor. Two, wielding it uniformly produces a homogenous response that silences the diverse voices of people actually having the experiences—and includes the trapdoor, circuitous logic of lacking insight applied by professionals to experiencers with a differing view. Three, while I can speak of having so-called psychotic experiences, I have never been labeled that way (I was the convenient Bipolar Part II), and those experiences never impacted me such that I could have been tarred with more insidious psychiatric diagnoses. In other words, my lived experience is limited, therefore my perspective.

Despite my weariness and limitations, Gaia suggests an ecological function of mind—a reason why mind, in all its variations, exists—that I am compelled to explore. Here I have many allies, purveyors of unusual states of consciousness… unless and until it comes packaged in a person diagnosed with mental illness, at which point they defer to the authorities. Those authorities, psychiatrists, write off psychosis as the eruption of a purposeless disease, the edge where a meaningful mind stops. Arguing their case, they might reference dementia as a parallel: surely dementia is not purposeful in and of itself, as it clearly reflects biological aberration. While the billion dollar hunt for genes and molecules and neurochemicals correlated to psychosis continues without many touchdowns, even if there were a particular biology of psychosis, calling it a disease will be a judgment call made in a particular political and economic context. For unlike dementia, or most other diseases, psychosis shows up in every culture we have looked at, past and present. A universal experience is not a disease. It is a trait.

At base, that trait is an amplification of the senses—an increase in psyche, wherein more information than usual reaches consciousness. Some psychiatrists might agree, with the caveat that content matters. Yet judging some beliefs as delusional against others as objective reality fails every conceivable test of legitimacy. Belief is faith—our brains do not present the real world, and people of all stripes believe wild, irrational things: virgin births, good dams, evolution as mere competition. So either we are all psychotic, or the term must be extricated from belief. Which is not to say that unusual beliefs never appear when senses are amplified. They do: it can be hard to interpret all that information pouring in, especially without allies or guides. Sometimes confusion ensues. But an unusual mind against a frame of industrialized rationalism is not an illness. Sometimes it is that freedom we trade for modern sanity.

Many paths arrive at an increase in psyche. Perhaps after being harmed, I open my senses to stay alert and better read situations, a skill to survive one circumstance that overwhelms in another. Perhaps I disengage from feelings and keep secrets until my senses burst. Perhaps I develop relationships with immaterial beings for connection, or perhaps I can no longer take poverty, racism and hate and tap instead into unadulterated joy. Perhaps I chase art or inquiry past their limits. And maybe I am having an allergic reaction, or flooding my serotonin receptors with LSD or state-sanctioned medicine, or bacteria in my gut is keeping me awake too long. Perhaps I am learning freedom, or maybe I am in fact designated to perceive larger intelligences. Maybe all at once.

Calling the end result a disease, in any case, presumes no purpose, which fits neatly with the dualistic materialism worldview that thinks of organs, like the brain, as collections of parts that can break. Gone is the notion that a brain might have its own emergent self-intelligence, that different brain states may be its way of carefully evolving. Not compensating, which presumes a holistic state of rationalism as baseline, but literally pushing towards something new, independent of will.

And there is a more convincing reason we should doubt psychosis as disease: you can eat plants to induce it. Animals do. So do other plants. Intentionally. Foods for psychosis exist in a huge variety of ecosystems and have so for millions of years, long before humans, performing vital functions for that system’s health and evolution. Psychosis-inducing plants would be neither ubiquitous nor lasting if they or the states they produced were an aberration or disease. Nature selected—rather, designed—this state of consciousness to survive.

Of course, one might argue psychosis is different from altered states produced by plants, and let them argue. Having smelled colors, heard ghosts, believed strange messages (like cutting off my left arm would stop me seeing red), been possessed by animal spirits, hallucinated, grown ecstatic, glimpsed Gaia, chatted with cartoons, and been overwhelmed by persistent paranoia and fear as well as giddiness while under the influence of LSD, a modified fungus, I cannot distinguish how such plant-induced experiences differ from what psychiatrists call psychosis, except that the latter sometimes lasts longer.

So why does Earth contain plants that produce such an increase in psyche? Perhaps, as Stephen Harrod Buhner argues in Plant Intelligence and the Imaginal Realm, to depattern habits such that innovative forms of existence may be trialed. Not just for humans, but all lifeforms ingesting them. Buhner illustrates how psilocybin mushrooms, as one example, are found in grasslands on six continents distributing psychoactive compounds through exquisite root and mycelial networks to increase plasticity, resilience, and innovation in their neighborhoods. In other words, these mushrooms, as propellers of learning, increase knowledge in the whole system. That, and they break down dead matter so new life may arise. Is it too far a leap to assume they affect us similarly? And if those amplified senses produced by psychoactive plants are similar to those involuntarily experienced, is it too far a leap to assume that whatever the cause, the ecological function of both is to see, hear, feel, know differently in order to grow intelligence?


No being is conscious of it, but brains and bodies utilize processes, collectively known as sensory gating, to siphon the mass of information hitting senses into a narrative that is coherent with a cultural or environmental context. As a result, ordinary consciousness perceives a minuscule of what really exists. A juniper tree has far more to see, hear, smell, taste, feel, intuit, and communicate than my capabilities. If I had eight eyes like a spider, or antennae like a bat, or stomata like a plant, I would understand the juniper quite differently, yet never fully. Consciousness is by reduction: no combination of senses knows the breadth of a being.

But amplified senses get closer. Less sensory gating, less filtering correlates with more perception and creativity, and is a double-edged sword. A musician who pays close attention to sound will over time reshape their brain, open their gates, so they literally hear more of the world. For myself, enhanced sonic perception means I can wail a Hendrix solo (sort of), yet that same reduction in filters allows the sounds of airplanes flying twenty thousand feet overhead to enter consciousness. Find me wearing noise-cancelling headphones in the wilderness.

That is the trade-off of amplified senses. They cannot easily be honed to perceive more information in one instance and none in another. They are, as the Icarus Project rightly names, dangerous gifts. By focusing exclusively on the first half of that dichotomy, danger—so often flamed by our practice of exporting fear—we squander their gifting potential to open new angles of knowledge, shake loose paradigms of selfhood and culture, expose secrets, create power and meaning, perceive more reality and contribute to evolution.

Lest I be accused of romanticizing, we need not revere psychosis to situate it as an evolutionary trait. Locating amplified senses as part of Gaia’s DNA, however, we might seek less to move an individual back to their baseline and instead to move the culture’s forward, which in turn might present more opportunities for people experiencing such states to have connection—that magical ingredient of the good life. For at what cost do we head the opposite of romance, toward a reason and rationality inseparable from industrialization? Reason, for all its political enlightenment, is inadequate for grasping people, let alone Gaia. Reason is how dominant culture desiccates meaning from a living world and replaces it with disinterested mathematics. Reason is why we curtail mind, designating parts as ill and waging war against their hosts. The results are in, and dismal. Perhaps a little more romance—the flirtation with potentiality—is just what the doctor needs to order.


Six years after my out-of-body experience I had another period of psychic increase. The intervening years had been hard: I had been psychiatrically hospitalized three times. I took up meditating. After eight months of daily practice, one evening I drove home from the bookstore and hallucinated a wise man sitting on a rock. I had the sense that the evening meditation would be important.

As I rose from my zafu, I became a snake, then an elephant. I picked up my cat with my teeth on the back of her neck. I said to the ceiling fan, That’s God. I watched myself disappear in a mirror, a void inside a golden outline. And I ate an apple—succulent and fresh, as for the first time.

The next morning I awoke with new sight. I saw colors around people, electricity in objects, patterns everywhere. I communicated with animals and they communicated with me, sometimes in my language, sometimes in theirs. The experience lasted for several months, then faded.

During that time, I changed once again. On a whim I moved from Atlanta to Vermont, where I spent the next eight years in small communities acclimating to the rhythms of Earth. I often spent more time outdoors than indoors (in doors, what a phrase!). The connections I made to Earth grounded my psyche, tethering my ethereal longings—my nostalgia for wildness—to a planet full of living beings. I learned that I belong to Earth; Earth made me, my unwavering home. I learned that I am actually a host of trillions of other lifeforms, and that Gaia hosts me. A part inside a whole and a whole inside a part. A relational confluence behaving in an invisible political context that forces me to cut those relationships off. My longing will always be to reconnect.

I will never transcend my privileged, reasoned worldview, despite what plenty of New Age, self-help, and religious books proclaim is possible. But I can learn something new, from which I might trial new ways of being with Earth. Perhaps Gaia would appreciate that now that dominant culture is wrecking millions of years of evolution and intelligence. If so, I am not convinced we can reason and rationalize our way there, as such positivist orientations to a living world are the wrecking balls. To break down old forms of being—to clear the way like mushrooms in a grassrange, we need new eyes, ears, tongues, hearts, microscopes and macroscopes.

Where will these be found?


Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.


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  1. I like this blog and anyone who could put there time in as a project director for a Soteria House.
    Seems this blog could be looked at for a long time and many new and different , or rehashed old ideas would easily come to mind upon each rereading.
    The idea of dams or blockages to the natural flow , and then even more blocking , Mother Nature’s natural flow will inevitably burst those dams . Within a human being only so much bullshit can be spun before the whole system rebels and seeks a new equilibrium . In a society is there not a point where if more and more people are in a situation where oppression is clearly growing that a tipping point is reached and people know without saying enough is enough and soon revolution just breaks out . Are these corrections not in the interests of survival , whose lives are lost or ruined while the blockages remain ? Whose lives are lost or ruined with the inevitable bursting of these dams ? Is it just a matter of where are the tipping points and the various factors or levers, people /and /or computers/ and /or think tanks believe they can pull . Are these pullers of levers elected or self appointed. If self appointed how many people outside of themselves are they willing to sacrifice to try and keep a status quo in place they feel is beneficial to themselves . Most especially if they can print unlimited funds , and as we know absolute power corrupts absolutely can we not expect them to be willing to sacrifice an unlimited number of lives ? Or is this all about the” best laid plans of mice and men” or” who are they all in their high conceit when man in the bush
    nature doth meet “.
    Or as Omar Khayyam once said ” Enjoy what little time yee yet may spend before yee too into dust descend. ”
    Seems to me that those who carefully try to live ” What is hateful unto thee, do it not unto another” while walking their talk and using their talents to create a reality that first does no harm to anyone are the people I am least afraid of. The purveyors of pseudoscience in the multitude of areas for profit and control present a real problem.
    Just someone who was electroshocked and cannot match the creative brainpower of the writer of this blog . But once there was a time when I could .I’m 70 now and I love being alive and drug free.

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    • Hi Fred Abbe,

      I appreciate your thoughts, and your wide scope. And the play on dams. I hear in you, though it may just be me, a search for ultimate causes, “levers” and “tipping points”, which I always feel like I’m after. Though, I’m consistently humbled by how selective my vision becomes, and how little my mind actually grasps. There’s a sort-of holiness for me in knowing I’m not going to figure out those big questions, but I still damn (dam) well want to try.


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  2. Great piece.
    The blurred line between psychedelic experiences and psychoses has definitely led to many people being labeled mentally ill who should not be and those who are prescribed to be medicated for life who should not be. What muddles the mixture even more is the tendency for people to have flashbacks. Just because psychedelic consumption was not an immediate antecedent to a challenging experience doesn’t preclude their role in it. Even worse, “hallucinogenic use disorder” is a DSM diagnosis. The use of drugs is equivalent to mental illness in the psychiatric dogma.

    The major issue is that when people present as psychotic, it is viewed as a permanent condition that must be corrected by chronic use of “medication.” People who need ample time to recover along with the patience and compassion of others are instead given force and disabling drugs that make the condition permanent. Psychoses and psychedelic experiences are as unique as the people experiencing them and are inextricably linked to one’s environmental influences and stressors.

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    • Hi JReal,

      Thanks for this. I’m all in favor of just tossing the idea of mentally ill completely out, with the bathwater. I think we need more specificity when talking about experiences, though I’m not in favor of creating another book that taxonomizes that. The idea that a mind can be ill is a categorical error, and a really bad poetic metaphor as well. It’s an insult to language, and a gross over-estimation of the power of people to understand vast phenomena.


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  3. Thanks for writing this. You have a challenging and provocative style.

    I hesitate to tell you why I object to your fundamental assertions; would be like being presented with a handful of roses, and then tearing them to pieces. Although, someone must have torn the flowers from their stems in the first place, so maybe actually engaging with your words wouldn’t be such a terrible thing to do?

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  4. Well written and important article in the spirit of Laing, Grof, Jackson, and countless others. What would the author say to survivors of ‘psychosis’ who might accuse him of romanticizing their nightmarish, hellish, deeply traumatic and chronically debilitating experiences? And/or those whose ‘psychoses’ have not contained any of the mystical, ecstatic, unitive, poetic properties discussed here, nor—in their eyes—any other redeeming qualities? I believe such perspectives are only paid lip service in this article, yet they are crucial to not only acknowledge but fully (honestly, compassionately, coherently) integrate within the author’s theoretical framework, if it is to have any staying power at all.

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    • Hi John,

      Thanks for taking the time to read my essay and responding. I appreciate you raising the issue of, “What would the author say to survivors of ‘psychosis’ who might accuse him of romanticizing their nightmarish, hellish, deeply traumatic and chronically debilitating experiences?” I thought a lot about that and assumed it might be called out.

      In my first drafts, I wrote much more about the darker and painful sides of these experiences, of which I’ve seen plenty (and experienced, too). I figured it’s important to acknowledge that side of things, especially if you’re hoping to be heard on a different perspective. However, here’s where I arrived: 95% of the material and writings out there exclusively acknowledge the danger and pain and trauma of these experiences. That perspective has been given enough airtime. I would only want to include it if I was trying to devise some kind of all-encompassing “theory of psychosis”, which I hope not to be doing. What I was trying to get at in this article is not that the content of these experiences are “good” or “bad”, but that there might be an inherent ecological purpose in activating senses, regardless of the content produced by that activation. Of course, there might not be any purpose, but I think there’s evidence affirming otherwise. The content itself is another story, and yes, complicated.

      I certainly do not believe that anyone having overwhelming experiences of activated senses should be seen as “mystical, ecstatic, unitive, poetic properties”, as you imply I suggested, although I can see how tying this essay together with my own positive experiences may have given off that impression. I do think a lot of the stress and terror and pain that happens in these experiences is either caused, flamed, or subtly provoked by the responses of other people and systems, and also a lack of access to the wild, poverty, racism, and on and on. In other words, I lean pretty heavy on social construction theory when thinking about behavior. But even saying that, I am totally open to the idea that terror might inherently come with the package of activated senses in some instances, or might be the predominant force in someone’s experience irregardless of extrinsic responses. If someone tells me, “My psychosis sucks”, I don’t try and sprinkle fairy dust on that, nor do I think they’re missing the big picture and need to tune in and drop out, and so on. I just get curious and try to care and learn myself.

      So, believing there might be an ecological purpose in the state itself does not mean we should conflate that purpose with goodness, or even necessarily with “how to respond” to that particular individual in that particular circumstance. I do think, however, that allowing some notion of purpose instead of disease (or terror) might mean that people who respond to such situations might try to be a bit more open-minded and able to connect. It might also mean we might start teaching children different ways to think about these experiences, and create new cultural maps that may produce more hopeful results.

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  5. Apologies for the promise of engagement and then a swift exit. I’ve been working hard improving the unnatural nature pond in my back garden, which this summer was utterly bristling with life, including the emergence of a number of newts, which I hadn’t seen since I was a boy.

    In short, this is my objection:

    If Gaia is a living being, and Nature is a “thing”, then how can you differentiate human beings from Gaia and Nature?

    How can we sensibly suggest that anything — and I mean anything — that humans do is not part of a natural and therefore organic process?

    I understand that it has long been a kind of agreeable position to take. For a human male or a human female to think of themselves as different, other, separate from, Nature. But exactly how can that be?

    The new coinage on the block is “eco anxiety” and increasingly I’ve been encountering people beset with this often severe ailment of thinking. “We are destroying” (insert noble planetary cause here)… and “We must act now to save the” (insert noble planetary cause here).

    I’m not a fatalist. I don’t think this is the best possible world situation to
    be living in merely because it is the only one available but

    If supervolcanos had consciousness, would they too become aware of their destructive natures and encourage one another to think of themselves as outside of nature, to nourish self-disgust?

    While fools are busy saving pandas and trying to get them to mate (while at the same time destroying their habitat, which makes saving them seem like another form of human sadism)… insects the world over are diminishing in alarming quantities… yet who for instance is calling for the rescue of the bluebottle or the daddy longlegs?

    My point is that human destructiveness is natural. It is Nature’s way. And if the planet Earth does have a consciousness, then we as humans are a part of that consciousness… which really just means that, in psychiatric terms, the earth is suffering from some kind of planetary personality disorder bought on by trauma in its early development ie having to endlessly turn around the sun while being defecated on endlessly, rotted and bled on endlessly, and suffering intense shocks with regards collisions with meteors). Also to have to spin on endlessly, around and around, with no compassion from the other planets, no validation whatsoever, no so much as a nod or a wink from anyone, ever, at all. And so on.

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