“Eyesight is wasted on people east of the Mississippi.”

-Rick Wayne, 2014

The greatest dislocation in the course of civilization is the separation of men from beauty, and must in some measure, account for the greater number of landscape artists of the masculine gender.

Woman’s age’s old lot was to be consigned to the squalor of the camp and the close growth, to that tiny, muddy corner of the world dominated by mankind’s attempts at creation, his utilitarian alterations of natural substance. Civilization, the slave’s urge for security over liberty, for safety in submission, makes of the world a sewer of savage souls weaned on ugliness.

As the State subjugates the man and makes of him a dweller in a latrine, an over-specialized ape surrounded by a stockade rather than a forest, living beneath a ziggurat of mud brick rather than at the foot of a God-made mountain, and finally even removed from his first ally—fire—as he toils beneath electric lights, sweltering under tarred roofs and hanging wires, a cipher on a concrete and asphalt grid, he becomes accustomed to the ugliness of the woman’s perennial lot.

Eventually, mechanized civilization permits many of the soft sibilants of its simpering precincts to experience much of the beauty that was denied them for ages, to drive over mountains that only hunters and warriors once dared. But the inability of these many to make the journey by human means degrades the very place they come to see—as their asphalt motor trails extend to every remaining shred of the natural order the honor of becoming man’s garbage pit.

Man’s first art was painted on the walls of caves, inaccessible to most. Now his creations are numberless, his mad attempt to paint the void of his hideous patrimony with the unfathomable color of sanity.

Prolific Writing by Design