PREFACE

excerpt from NECTARSONGS – Secret Language of  Garden Planet. TR ©2017

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WebfaceHomo Sapiens (Sapiens) is anxious, depressed and bored. Stultified by modernity’s carefully regulated culture, hunter-mind has switched off; devitalised. Wise man’s cunning imagination is malnourished and starved on a processed and sickly diet of technology toys. Bloated and lonely, Homo S.S. is a solitary binge-dweller lost in endless projections of pouting women with ironed hair, fake tans and fuel-injected lips, tits and arses. Modern masculinity is encapsulated by a single icon:- a headless, hairless and erect torso packing superlative abdominal musculature. Has the human species evolved merely to like and tweet and snap and ‘gram?
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Fluent in emoji, H. sapiens occasionally awakens from texting; sweating, and in dread of the daily news of last night’s darkest terrors. Trembling at the repetition of each breaking news headline, sappy sap’ is lulled by the torpor of media’s mindless platitudes, and snuggles deeper inside the comfort zone of its safe, cosy tedium. Some days, it momentarily lifts its heavy head and bleary eyes to cautiously scan the horizon for any warning signs of change; a column of smoke, a distant drum, a call-to-arms, and yet, it shrinks back in timid loathing, haggard at the prospect of any contaminating touch from an other. Swipe left.
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The disengagement is dangerous. Is our human being finally disengaging from the grim spectacle of society[1], or disengaging even further from evolution’s gnarliest roots? Loss looms. The grand gargoyles of gain dominate the spectacle with a calm and measured tone of reason:
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‘All that’s lost is a short-lived, nomadic battle against infinite struggle; a disease-ridden and barbaric lifestyle of hunting, gathering, unassisted childbirth, endless pain, hunger, cold, fighting and ignorance. Good heavens, the primitive went about entirely without comfort or luxury’.
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Yet, hunger remains. Struggle thrives. Pain and misery and suffering underpin the wild West’s spurious gains of untold wealth and creature comforts? Comfort for which exclusively over-pampered creatures?
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Stunted by a dismal diet of frozen pizza and cyber-sophistication, the beast-within slavers for hot, fresh blood. Wild child is wanting; not Ritalin, but hand-to-hand combat, scarification and ritual wounding. Ol’ primate’s grown ravenous for rampantly unprotected, fecund sex, crazed for the euphoria of savagery and carnage, desperate for the spiritual test of human endurance and above all else, restless for the return of the native[2]. Prodigal primate.
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We are swindled by consumerism, seduced by faux-initiation challenges of frantic button-clicking, all for the glory of surviving the ‘surround’ growl of virtual predators and enemies. It’s a bleak and denuded game-board. Our infants are transfixed in the backs of cars and in shopping trolleys, honing vital life-skills at right-timing their auction bids and bartering; trading in linden and bitcoin for the ruby-juice of red-zone meat, scoring e-tickets to trip-sharing festivals, live-streaming, down-loading, up-loading, torrenting, piracy and porn. Our babies bear witness to a digitised humanity careening blindly through the last frontier of the whole wide world’s ever-expanding shopping mall. We are soul-bruised by the boxing day sale.
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Perhaps an infinitesimal glitch in the big machine will produce a random sci-fi moment. One, single, maverick seed of thought escapes the trance of our smooth flowing waves of climate-controlled comfort. Such a disruption may well thrust our human specimen into a stark awakening. An arithmetic shift to the right, a pause in the game. Reality bites down hard and we awaken from our stupor. Technology’s toys could drop; discarded and humming vacantly from their gleaming habitats. Perhaps we simply let them fall; just marrow-sucked bones of yesterday’s prey; juiceless and empty in the radioactive dust that inevitably drifts down over us all, covering our bodies, our monitors and all of our sleek and shiny game controllers. Monitors and Controllers. What monitored and controlled us as we were losing? When did we become so absent, missing in action, disengaged? How did we refuse to see the dust clouds of our own making rising in a tsunami of raw devastation? Perhaps Artificial Intelligence has no sense of smell. Ignorance has no sense at all.
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Nature will survive the holocaust. Nature is big and strong and shrugs off the foul and toxic stamp of our imagined superior intellect and our grand-scale industrial progress. Concrete crumbles, steel shatters and ash drifts and sinks while the dust storms rage and at some silent moment, the inexorable shoots of poking green fingers push through the pointless debris of our collapse and journey upwards to the light. Once again.
Organic chaos returns, it is welcome relief from all the constructed, confected and cosmetic modifications of our making. Warts and all are welcome back, here in the acid rain. The boiling oceans dissolve our bones and ecology turns another page.
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Nature is unruly, its bulbous forms, haphazard tones and rampant fertility reproduce. A single shoe drifts by in the runoff of humanity’s demise, such inanimate artifacts are the loneliest, heart-breaking aide memoires of our inaction, our stubborn refusal to fight hard and awaken from the sweet drug of comfort. Compost to compost, our complacency fed the change.
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Where are the bees?
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This is not an academic book; no critical theory or science exists within these pages. There are no pie diagrams, flow charts, tables or statistics here. Neither is this a witch’s grimoire. No spells, recipes, formulas or step-by-step instructions ensue.
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This book does not review, promote or justify the importance of natural perfume, nor does it mount any attacks on mainstream health and beauty products. No synthetic chemical scare-mongering lives here; this is in no way a treatise, nor are there cloak and dagger conspiracies about to be revealed.
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The book is not, in any way, a healer’s hand-book; no therapeutic claims are made.
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This book just tells tales.
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[1] Apologies to Guy Debord (Society of the Spectacle, 1967).
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[2] Apologies to Thomas Hardy.

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