The Necrosis of Thunder

An Experience of the Aforementioned Thunder from the Other End of the City

Those who make thunder are loathsome. And unseen. I am on the couch reading Sax Rohmer’s The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu when the weapon explodes above my head. I am already in a toxic mental atmosphere of venomous insects, opium, filth, devices of torture, assassination; a world (its ours, isn’t it?) of hidden, malevolent dangers let loose in the crevices of the domestic. Trouble sleeping brings a haggard edginess to the end of the week. July 14th is the storming of the Bastille. Is it really thunder then? Or is this a cover for the diabolical arch-villain? A poisonous scorpion-cannon? A green toxic mist in lieu of fireworks? Out to get us all…

I wonder about Rohmer’s phantasmal racism—pulp, paranoid racism, hobbyhorse of horror—but more significantly, about its relation to the poetics of the loathsome and its underworld. Depict a domestic atmosphere, delineate a picturesque moment in your mind, the most peaceful hour of the night… That is no gentle swaying tree in the rain, it is a stinking, burping device designed with intent to poison the clouds… It has not stopped raining here, in a long time… Perhaps it is not a question of the apartment upstairs re-arranging furniture, but who has been re-arranging my apartment while we are out? Or asleep…

It has not stopped raining here in a long time. We have had only four days without rain since the summer began.

What kind of weapon is thunder? It is a booby trap, clearly. Who set it? A member of a futurist party, puppeteer of an unseen and all-encroaching organization. Perhaps led by Fu-Manchu, that non-Chinese villain. Distinctly un-Chinese. Who may in fact be Jacques Vaché in disguise. This argument begins to make sense. Vaché: master of disguise, hater of western civilization, opium addict, who secretly yearned, did he not, to join a “Purposeless Chinese Secret Society in Australia”? Governor of thunder! Thunder and trenches, trench-coats, music-hall deliria…

To reiterate. Thunder: 1) unseen 2) unfriendly 3) loathsome like a bad neighbour 4) tending towards conspiracy 5) tending towards heresy 6) in the garb of costume, or furniture.

We insist with Blake that There Is No Natural Religion. Only the heresy of thunder tickles my nostrils. Insinuating itself under drugdirty nails, the culture of the West meets its archenemy in the opiate clouds. We must overdose on thunder, loathsome, addictive, poisonous thunder. Is it all in my head? You are dreaming, yes. But at will, I can render the subjective objective.

It will burst. It is us. This city has no chance. No chance for governance, for people named Smith… Thunder is a conspiracy of the loathsome that will be.

The Origins of Thunder

Inaugural post!? No, nothing so special. We will forego the convention of marking such an occasion with a definitive statement of principles or commitments. We promise you one better – that every single solitary computer bit we transmit to the universe will be exhaustive and exacting in its representation of our collective will and desire, insofar as we can even understand it, so that the initial declaration of a manifesto is unnecessary.

Let us turn then to a matter of some importance.

We were sitting in the bathtub when the thunder started. Made invisible to us by bathroom windows plastered over by large opaque stickers meant, I suppose, to lend our basement apartment some modesty by concealing our ladyboy-lesbian carousals from the neighbors, we speculated as to the origins of the rumbling white noise.

A thunderstorm, certainly, but our image of the sky’s growing discomfort was colored by the familiarity of constant noise from the apartment upstairs. Just yesterday a plate off the ceiling of this very bathroom struck the head of our friend, a general contractor, who’d visited to consult with us as to some improvements we conspire to foist on our landlord. He pointed out, with some pride, the number of illegal features lurking between floors – a lack of firebreak, for one, and no soundproofing. Ah, but now you understand our qualm with the people upstairs.

We began to envisage the thunderstorm as pagan gods moving furniture about an upstairs apartment. We heard in the rumbling sky the dragging of hefty coffee tables across wooden floorboards, the shoving of wardrobes along walls, the clatter of chairs lifted and dropped over and over – occasionally the violent crash of an old wooden chest filled with ancestral keepsakes came blasting down as the effete youth imprudently charged with carrying it mishandles his burden. We have rednecks in every other office available, why shouldn’t we have them for gods?

Herein we see the problem with the revival of pagan religions. We shall dispense with atheistic questions of epistemic process or ontological philosophy for we find them intensely boring. Rather, our dissent must be that nothing is less satisfying to the guts which must process our irrational thought distortions than what is charming and romantic. Whereas the infidels of the past had the luxury of fearing ghosts and monsters, we must make due with an apprehension of serial killers and urban legends about contracting cancer.

The problem with paganism is that it’s no longer genuinely irrational – it’s what we wish we could believe to satisfy our aesthetics. Irrationality is not fiction, it is that which convinces us of its truth in spite of ignorance – the sense that corporations possess a psychopathic consciousness antithetical to human life; the belief that spies in national security are reading our high-school diaries to plot against us; the feeling that our computers and devices are intelligently plotting to frustrate, then overthrow the human race.

Such sentiments are the closest we have to genuine religion, for while we can have little understanding of what goes on in corporate boardrooms, intelligence agencies, or our computers, it is obvious they must be evil and some explanation of their malevolent function is necessary to cope with reality, however obscure it may be.

Right now I can’t get the thought of Walmart-zombies creating thunder by rearranging their shithole apartments. It frankly does not matter whether science supports this view of meteorology, I’ll be stuck with it for some time yet. Let us embrace then the reality of the unreality lurking unbidden within us: those who make thunder are loathsome.