When I think of decay and ravaged carnage I often look to Charles Baudelaire for style and expression. So, thank you, Charles, for these words in the proper order and the inspiration you provide.
I’ve cast the old, gutted country away,
Its heart of brass, its soul of clay.
Its altars smoke with forgotten lies,
Its saints are merchants, its priests in disguise.
This reads like the field manual for those of us still standing in the ruins, trying to remember what the garden felt like before it was branded and sold. You’ve captured the ache of the epistemic war, the way collapse hides behind euphemism until we forget what truth even sounded like.
Eden wasn’t just a myth of innocence; it was the memory of coherence. And coherence is what they’ve been dismantling, one algorithm, one law, one headline at a time. The expulsion was never about sin; it was about distraction. Keep people scrolling, and they’ll never notice the gate has closed.
But you’re right: exile doesn’t mean extinction. The work now isn’t restoration, it’s re-cultivation; tending the small acts that make a republic possible again. The clerk, the teacher, the neighbor: that’s the resistance. That’s the replanting.
Just as you quote Beaudelaire, I have no doubt future historians will be quoting you. Your amazing pieces are prose only in category, but pure poetry by any other measure. And your ability to touch the innermost core of soul is such a wonderful gift and talent. We are so lucky to have you sharing this with us in these seemingly untethered times.
You said previously in one of your posts this:
" The light we carry isn’t just political outrage. It’s moral imagination—the refusal to normalize cruelty.
It’s memory—keeping alive the vision of justice even in unjust times.
It’s resilience—the art of enduring without hardening, resisting without becoming what we resist.
It’s generosity—the radical choice to create, to build, to share without replicating empire’s logic of control.
And the light is love. Not sentimental, not soft.
Love as defiance. Love as a weapon against despair. Love that refuses to bow"
It was so beautifully written that I saved it 🙂
With Love we have to start envision first and then to build a new society, a new country and, ultimately a new World 🌎
Otherwise these actual foundations that we called solid are going to crumble ultimately
When I think of decay and ravaged carnage I often look to Charles Baudelaire for style and expression. So, thank you, Charles, for these words in the proper order and the inspiration you provide.
I’ve cast the old, gutted country away,
Its heart of brass, its soul of clay.
Its altars smoke with forgotten lies,
Its saints are merchants, its priests in disguise.
The fields are salted, the flag is torn,
The hymns of the broken are sung with scorn.
Yet from the ashes, my spirit climbs,
A rebel’s psalm for better times.
Let the marble gods of greed decay,
Their gilded tongues shall rot away.
For I have carved from dust and flame,
A temple raised in freedom’s name.
I’ll lay each stone with blood and grace,
And light will pour through every face.
No tyrant’s hand shall claim this art,
Built from the marrow of my heart.
And when they come with chains and threats,
I’ll meet their sneer with no regrets.
For love of defiance is pure and whole,
The final refuge of a sovereign soul.
So let the old world’s carcass fall,
We are the builders, after all.
The dawn is ours, the ruin forgiven,
We rise unbowed, unbroken, risen.
This reads like the field manual for those of us still standing in the ruins, trying to remember what the garden felt like before it was branded and sold. You’ve captured the ache of the epistemic war, the way collapse hides behind euphemism until we forget what truth even sounded like.
Eden wasn’t just a myth of innocence; it was the memory of coherence. And coherence is what they’ve been dismantling, one algorithm, one law, one headline at a time. The expulsion was never about sin; it was about distraction. Keep people scrolling, and they’ll never notice the gate has closed.
But you’re right: exile doesn’t mean extinction. The work now isn’t restoration, it’s re-cultivation; tending the small acts that make a republic possible again. The clerk, the teacher, the neighbor: that’s the resistance. That’s the replanting.
Economies of Care: https://twvme.substack.com/p/care-economies-as-infrastructure
Thank you so much for this, but especially for the reprint of Baudelaire. A powerful reminder of true strength.
Just as you quote Beaudelaire, I have no doubt future historians will be quoting you. Your amazing pieces are prose only in category, but pure poetry by any other measure. And your ability to touch the innermost core of soul is such a wonderful gift and talent. We are so lucky to have you sharing this with us in these seemingly untethered times.