Just a few short ticks to the third millennium and the hoi polloi have settled into their homely predestined epiphanies. A cold, dead, fish-eyed kind of love, wailing the demise of pre-humanoid embryo, exhorting the restriction and extinction of life—our lives as well as their own. It is, after all, the Convenient solution. The mapped-out end-of-the-world Xtian drill.
Apocalypse ups the ante. Easier to lose one’s trail in the hubbub. An opportunity to put an end to the nightmare of abundance before the teeming masses jealously strip away all trace of biodiversity. It’s Gaia going rope-a-dope with the imperium of overpopulation, capital and stupidity. One of the teeming masses writes me, “When I hear the word nature, I reach for my Lysol.”
The reader of Apocalypse Culture will soon begin to notice a preponderance of material from individuals who have the audacity to consider themselves their own best authority, in repudiation or ignorance of the orthodoxy factories of Church, University or State. The constructions of these folk researchers may often seem wildly amiss, laughable, disreputable, but are more revealing cultural barometers than the acculturated pabulum of compromised and corrupt professionals.
