Storms are formed by the chance meeting of two opposing forces, such as when a center of low pressure develops within a system of high pressure, or when an aerial meeting of umbrella and sewing machine occurs. As such, it is certainly the most fashionable alchemical festival to which white mice are invited these days, though dry salamanders and nervous novelists will often remain morally outraged and/or dubious on this point. There are many different varieties and names of storms, but “cumulonimbus” is the sacred word which will unlock the door.
Clairsentient dust devils play across the face of the planet Mars, and Jupiter’s whirligig tantrum has been going strong for 340 years. She’s a real sassy sphere, that one.
Effects on human society:
There is a momentary break in the vital life functions of the capitalism-ogre under Storm. Storm is the Earth Mother’s tourniquet, she blocks the ogre’s flows with ease.
Storm is our saucy sometimes-champion, sometimes-scoundrel, a fiend both dark and unpredictable.
Storm functions as abrupt hallucination.
Storm is also a constant reminder to the climate-change deluded. She badgers us and she nags us and she just doesn’t let up. Yes, she can be very cruel at times. She enjoys rubbing our rectangular manfaces in that Boschian reality of imminent collapse. No, we just can’t seem to get ourselves back to that comfortable, anesthetized selfishness anymore. It’s getting harder and harder to check-out, turn off, to make the big brain go ZAP! What happened to all those carefree desecrations of our species’ youth, we think, what happened the good ‘ol days?! It’s a shame, eh? We still want to beat Mother Earth into submission like grandpa did, we still want to play at being the big boss man and use her as we like, keep retrying the old tricks and gaslighting her on the regular—-but it’s no use, she’s got the upper hand, we’re on the run now. She’ll probably kill us all before it’s through. We’ve just been schooled by our own planet. Bunch a pea-brained hominids need to cut it the fuck out.
Storm is 7.483 gallons of unconscious energy abruptly dropped on the head of a sunny corn field in Nebraska. On a completely cloudless day, from nowhere in particular. Like frogs.
Storm is the translucent owl in the daylight. Storm ruptures the membrane of the banal with ease.
Storm is both beheading and orgasm.
After Storm’s disruption people begin to reconnect with each other, to help each other. They rediscover their physical space. The cadaverous screen-world is shattered and electricity-daemon is pushing up daisies. The game of the moth & the light is abruptly terminated. Inside the husk of this disaster, life transforms. Our bodies start to become corporeal once more as we interact with a world outside the capitalist force field. Its oppressive, gloomy particles have all but dispersed. Yes, and we all live Beyond Goods & Weevils, for a time. It is after the Storm that the commune is built.
Unfortunately, for now at least, the mad doctor Frankenstein has always managed to reconstitute the capitalistbody carcass and release a deadly “return-to-normality” plague inside affected areas.
In the Cinema:
Valentinus, that outlaw academic and celebrity punk-philosopher, has often pointed out that the long-running popularity of disaster movies speaks to an unconscious urge for the cessation of this “return-to-normality” bug, though that urge still lies dormant within most meatbrains.
Valentinus has also recently been quoted in the radical press, commenting that “The carcinoma of hope is still very much alive inside each and every one of us! Frankenstein’s near-constant surgical marauding can never fully eradicate our dreams, because the levels are far too deep for a casual urination. Dante knew this, as did Frank Baum. “The Underground”— that both of planet and of mind—is an anti-capitalist zone!”
This Valentinus fellow has also predicted that with each passing of the celestial wheel more insurrectionists and malcontents will begin to hatch, causing chaos in the child-care industry. According to him, they shall burst forth from the egg of the Fuzzy Abraxas (Feline variety), after having wakened from long hibernation by our planet’s quickening seismic activities. Pow!
In mythology and literature:
Yes, we all know the old tale about the flood, but have you heard the one about the blue tornado who challenged the views of a racist armadillo with the power of vaudeville dialectics?
Poorly translated from the French, it goes something like this;
Q: Why did the Hurricane Charley cross the Floridian roadway?
A: To become his own ovum.
(Laugh Track Plays)
In the fine arts:
Hail causes head trauma.
We must all become a Dorothy. The time has come to leave Kansas behind. The trumpets of Oz are calling.
“When I was a lizard, I spake as a lizard, I understood as a lizard, I thought as a lizard: but when I became a Dorothy, I put away un-Dorothy, things. For now we see through a Hegelian, darkly; but then butt to cheek: now I know in thesis; but then shall I know synthesis even as also I am antithesis.” – Das Kapital, the lunar translation