As a young white man figures out his society is screwed up, he tends to become increasingly racist. He starts looking for ways to solve things: “If my edgy post-ironic racist meme goes viral on Youtube I could convince five thousand other low status white males to vote for the low status white male party, which means they will become the biggest party in the polls, which means they will become the biggest party in 2026, which means they will organize a referendum on EU membership by 2028, which means we can vote to leave, which means we can leave the refugee treaties, which means we can then reduce the number of brown people entering our country every year by 10%.”
Beyond a certain level of awareness however, you abandon that cognitive framework. At a certain point you recognize the writing on the wall and just tend to lose all interest in human society altogether. That’s when you devote yourself to taking care of plants. When you recognize the external world can’t be redeemed, you start taking care of the internal world. Plants are your allies in this.
This isn’t what other people want of course. You’re not supposed to be misting a Salvia Divinorum plant twice a day. That’s not what society asks of you. You’re supposed to be changing the diapers of a nursing home resident who bought a house for 20k and sold it for 600k twice a day.
Testosterone doesn’t make a man dominant. It makes him either dominant or submissive, depending on secondary factors. Those secondary factors include intelligence. If you have an 89IQ, you can feel like you’re a god among men because you’re the only guy on the block who can afford white nikes. You will feel very confident, because your world is very small. Human women will see that confidence, feel attracted to it and then you’ll feel even more fantastic.
This doesn’t work if you’re able to read a clock. With sufficient amounts of testosterone and an IQ above room temperature, a young white man will become so submissive, he submits before plants.
Woman was born to create life. Man was born to take care of her. And so, because there can never be enough life for the man who understands what life is, man wants to nourish her until he is entirely drained, he wants her nails to draw his blood and to be burdened with all her baggage until his spine snaps in half. The grasshopper who has his head bitten off is a willing victim. When he realizes for a split second the limits of what can exist can still be pushed further, he readily submits to her torture again.
This is the white man’s burden. To care only about the inhuman. Mendel, Darwin, the source of the Nile, we figured this stuff out because we care about the inhuman and always wish to push the boundaries of what exists, we always want the totality to grow further. First as a child he wants to understand what dogs want. Then he tries to talk to birds. Eventually he cares for the pigs, the cows, until finally, he discovers his true friends are plants. The Japanese understand this. Their monks retreat to the mountains, to spend their whole lives cultivating a tiny Bonsai tree.
There’s no pleasure in taking care of a San Pedro cactus, because a San Pedro cactus is a man, an old friend. You don’t want to have to take care of your old friends and they don’t want to be taken care of.
You eat a San Pedro cactus, you have a good time. You eat part of a San Pedro cactus, you save the tip, wait for the cactus to dry out, then you place it on dry dirt ground, it will say “thank you”. You wait two weeks, you don’t do anything, no watering, no nothing, it will grow roots and then you’ll have another San Pedro cactus. He works with whatever you can offer him.
Salvia Divinorum on the other hand, is the perfect woman. She is never satisfied. She is always disappointed in you. Nothing is ever good enough. You didn’t water her? She hangs. Her leaves fall upon the dirt, she insists she’s going to kill herself. One day everything is fine, you wake up the next morning, you think she’s going to die.
You water her, you spend hours misting her, figuring out how to hold up her stem without damaging her. She gradually recovers. It’s like a daughter with Borderline Personality Disorder who eats broken glass because you got her the wrong color iPhone for her birthday. Completely ungrateful. Zero respect. Zero moderation.
You water her regularly? Now she is even more disappointed. “I thought you knew my roots will rot if you continually water them!” As the perfect woman, she refuses to tell you of course, she gives you zero indication. She expects you to guess this, to figure this out on your own, to read her body language, to notice just by smelling the soil. You’ll pour a diluted hydrogen peroxide solution to oxygenate the roots and save the day. She won’t say thank you, you’ll have to wait a few days to find out if she recovers.
And she is never kind. You take care of her long enough, she’ll let you harvest her raw leaves and she just sends you back to your childhood and has you wonder whether you’re laying on a therapist’s couch, or turns you into an art piece in a modern art museum. Solve your problems? Ha, loser, why would she do that? She has just one obligation she takes seriously: To be special.
A human woman is rarely satisfied too of course and she is definitely not going to solve your problems, this much is true. Especially the Caucasian variety is never content and just creates a whole new category of problems. But she is dissatisfied for the wrong reasons: “Why did you quit your job at the soul-sucking corporation that makes money by turning our atmosphere into Venus? How are we going to afford the vacation to Sharm-al-Sheikh now?”
A plant is always dissatisfied for the right reasons. You didn’t put her on the south-facing window when the days got shorter? Your fault. You didn’t water her? Your fault. A plant makes high but ultimately perfectly reasonable demands of a man, that don’t require him to violate his moral compass. She demands this of you, because you ask an inbred understory layer tropical sage to grow in a Dutch house in the middle of December.
A woman wants him to buy a sports car, for a price that would allow two disfigured Ethiopian children bitten by hyenas to have reconstructive surgery that makes them look somewhat presentable again.
But I don’t want the sports car. I want the plant that tells me reality is just a joke at my expense.