Silence
by John Zerzan
Silence used to be, to varying degrees, a means of isolation. Now it is the absence of silence that works to render today's world empty and isolating. Its reserves have been invaded and depleted. The Machine marches globally forward and silence is the dwindling place where noise has not yet penetrated.
Civilization is a conspiracy of noise, designed to cover up the uncomfortable silences. The silence-honoring Wittgenstein understood the loss of our relationship with it. The unsilent present is a time of evaporating attention spans, erosion of critical thinking, and a lessened capacity for deeply felt experiences. Silence, like darkness, is hard to come by; but mind and spirit need its sustenance.
Certainly there are many and varied sides to silence. There are imposed or voluntary silences of fear, grief, conformity, complicity (e.g. the AIDS-awareness "Silence=Death" formulation), which are often interrelated states. And nature has been progressively silenced, as documented in Rachel Carson's prophetic Silent Spring. Nature cannot be definitively silenced, however, which perhaps goes a long way in explaining why some feel it must be destroyed. "There has been a silencing of nature, including our own nature," concluded Heidegger,[1] and we need to let this silence, as silence, speak. It still does so often, after all, speak louder than words.
February 28, 2010
Dwellers Upon the Heath
Dwellers Upon the Heath: Germanic Heathenry as a Land Based Faith
by Brun Russellson
"Hail to the day! Hail to the sons of day!
"Hail to the day! Hail to the sons of day!
Hail to the night and her kin!
With gracious eyes may you look upon us...
Hail to the gods! Hail to the goddesses! Hail to the mighty, fecund earth!
Eloquence and native wit may you give us...”
—Sigdrifumal (Lay of Sigdrifa)
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Setting a Stage
"Culture has led us to betray our own aboriginal spirit and wholeness, into an ever-worsening realm of synthetic, isolating, impoverishing estrangement. Which is not to say that there are no more everyday pleasures, without which we would loose our humanness. But as our plight deepens, we glimpse how much must be erased for our redemption."
— John Zerzan
We live in an age of endemic alienation. As dwellers of the so-called first world, we are largely estranged from the Land we exist (and ultimately depend utterly) upon. For much of the populace, food is what comes wrapped in plastic and stamped with a nearly indecipherable ingredient list of chemical constituents. Water is what comes out when we turn a knob at our sinks. Cold is what we banish at the turn of a thermostatic dial. Rain is what we try our best to avoid lest it muss our hair or muddy our clothing as we dash through it in attendance to matters more important.
Celts and Germans
Celts and Germans
Stephen A. McNallen
The chieftain towered over his seated warriors in the smokey hall. Clatter and chatter faded and all eyes turned to this mustachioed, muscular figure who was their leader.
Raising the mead-filled horn high over the throng, he toasted the High God, the one who carries the spear and has ravens hovering about his shoulders. All shouted their approval, and another warrior rose to his feet, lofted his horn, and praised the name of the Thunderer. The others echoed him, and in the warmth of their cameraderie, they might have well been in the great hall where warriors go when they die, served by the maidens of battle from the meat of the ever-reborn swine.
A scene from viking history? An evening in a typical Germanic mead hall? No - the word picture painted here is of a feast among their cousins, the Celts.
Stephen A. McNallen
The chieftain towered over his seated warriors in the smokey hall. Clatter and chatter faded and all eyes turned to this mustachioed, muscular figure who was their leader.
Raising the mead-filled horn high over the throng, he toasted the High God, the one who carries the spear and has ravens hovering about his shoulders. All shouted their approval, and another warrior rose to his feet, lofted his horn, and praised the name of the Thunderer. The others echoed him, and in the warmth of their cameraderie, they might have well been in the great hall where warriors go when they die, served by the maidens of battle from the meat of the ever-reborn swine.
A scene from viking history? An evening in a typical Germanic mead hall? No - the word picture painted here is of a feast among their cousins, the Celts.



