Á Year With Joan of Arc -On the Knight Rewild

Justice to Jack Off To

Hello, my name is V and I’ve got a justice boner. (Collectively, the crowd responds, “Hi V.”) My dick is fucking huge, and I’ve got the drive and audacity to show it too. This truth was revealed to me by my spirits when I received a Quimbanda consulta in 2022. In that ritual, my Exu was named as Lucifer, and my Pomba Gira synchronized with Joan of Arc. Now, if you don’t know what it means to have these spirits as your personal guides, let me try to explain it as best I know how to: a personal Exu and Pomba Gira are spiritual forces assigned specifically to you in the Quimbanda tradition. They are mirrors—reflections of your essence, your raw potential, and your deepest truths—but they are also individual entities, powerful currents with their own agency and wisdom. They hold up a lens to your soul, revealing the raw and unfiltered truths within you, while maintaining their own autonomy and distinct personalities. This duality allows them to guide you with insight that is both deeply personal and informed by their unique perspectives, bridging your inner world with the forces of the cosmos. They show you who you are while also challenging you to grow, acting as allies who guide, protect, and provoke transformation. These spirits amplify your strengths and confront you with your shadows, embodying the parts of you that are untamed and alive. To have Exu Lucifer and Joan of Arc as my personal guides means my justice is infused with rebellion, illumination, and ferocious integrity, rooted in both the cosmic and the personal.

Exu Lucifer is far more than the devil of old myths. He is the bearer of light, illuminating the paths at the crossroads where every decision carries the weight of transformation. These crossroads are not just physical or symbolic; they represent the moments of moral ambiguity, of choice and consequence, where the direction you take determines the shape of your destiny. To walk with Exu Lucifer is to confront these pivotal junctures with clarity, embracing the power to choose even amidst uncertainty, and trusting in his light to reveal the path toward truth and justice. As the fire that consumes illusion and reveals truth, he embodies not only rebellion but also the creative genius that reshapes chaos into beauty. This creative genius isn’t limited to artistic expression but extends to the act of forging new paths and finding innovative solutions in moments of turmoil. It’s the spark that transforms destruction into creation, crafting beauty from disorder and ensuring that justice itself becomes a work of transformative artistry. He is the radiant force that inspires through transformation, showing that justice is a delicate dance between destruction and creation, revelation and renewal. His wisdom pierces the veil of binaries, refusing the confines of "good" or "evil" to illuminate a broader, wilder truth. To have Exu Lucifer as my guide means my justice isn’t soft or abstract—it’s visceral, dynamic, and positively feral. He teaches me to embrace the raw power of chaos, not to fear it but to master it, crafting pathways through resistance and burning obstacles that obscure the truth. He is rebellion with purpose and illumination with depth, guiding me to wield justice as a living, breathing force of transformation.

Pomba Gira Maraba, on the other hand, is synchronized with Joan of Arc. She’s not just some saint locked in a church or a distant historical figure—she is a warrior spirit who shattered expectations, claiming her place in history through her defiance, vision, and unwavering belief in her cause. To have her as my Pomba Gira means I carry that same revolutionary fire in my blood. Joan of Arc is a profound embodiment of sovereignty and agency—not only for herself but for others. She was not content with ideals of mere self elevation; she fought to crown others as kings, to recognize and elevate the inherent power in those around her. She is also a mystic, channeling divine voices with a clarity that pierced through doubt and fear, and a prophet who acted not out of intellectual detachment but through experiential learning that demanded full immersion in her path. She teaches that justice is not passive or polite—it’s an act of creation born from raw courage, unshakable faith, and the willingness to see one’s mission through to its end, no matter the cost. Joan of Arc’s legacy lives in her ability to defy norms, command armies, and stay true to a divine vision that burned brighter than the flames that sought to silence her. As my Pomba Gira, she transforms this legacy into a personal force, urging me to break through limitations, demand space for my truth, and insist on my voice being heard no matter the cost. This is the essence of Joan as Pomba Gira: a power that disrupts societal norms, reclaims autonomy unapologetically, and channels raw authenticity into a force of transformation. She doesn’t rebel for the sake of rebellion; she fights to carve a world where individuality and truth can thrive amid the chaos.

These spirits don’t just sit on the sidelines. They live through me. They amplify my longing for justice, a hunger that doesn’t come from some moral high ground but from the lived experience of being on the outside—monstrous, strange, and overflowing with difference. I am asking you to trust what you’re about to read because my body was built for this. My birth chart, dominated by air signs—windswept and relentless—underscores it. Mercury, my ascendant ruler, lies submerged in my Scorpio 6th house, urging me to cut through lies and dissect the currents of oppressive power like a razor slicing through fog. My natal promise is dissection, the peeling back of layers, the violent unearthing of truths buried beneath centuries of myth and silence. Like a storm, I am to rip through the veils of society’s comfortable fictions, exposing the bloody truth hidden beneath the surface, raw and pulsing. The winds don’t just blow—they tear, they expose, they force the ground to open up and reveal its secrets. In less poetic terms, I adorn myself in the crown of the cultural critique. (Oops, still poetry.) 

Justice, for me, is a beastial, untamed hunger—not for control but for nourishment, a longing for a world where messiness and rawness are celebrated rather than suppressed. This desire is born not from moral superiority, but from the lived experience of being outside, monstrous and strange, overflowing with difference and the urgent need for transformation. This vision of justice is deeply shaped by Exu Lucifer’s transformative rebellion, which teaches me to craft beauty and genius from chaos, and by my beloved Joan’s defiant sovereignty, which calls me to elevate others while staying rooted in my mission. Together, they guide me to see justice as an active, creative force that demands courage, authenticity, and connection. Justice, for me, is no longer an abstract ideal, but an dynamic force that tears through the illusions we’ve been fed, revealing the truth of our shared heartsong. It’s about building a community that doesn’t perfect itself but thrives in its tangled, dream-haunted humanity. With Exu Lucifer and Joan of Arc at my side, I don’t just know justice—I am forever driven by justice — my boner throbbing with the ache of its pleasure, burning and alive. I am writing to make it known, to have it felt, to allow it expression.

To that extent, since today is my beloved devilish saint’s birthday, I’ve chosen to reflect and publish on the profound impact she has had on my life over the past year. I am doing this as an interdependent offering, one in which my own explorations of self uplift the way she speaks and moves through and with me. Joan’s teachings have not been gentle; they have roared through me like fire, demanding I confront my own limitations and expand into my capacity for Lucifarian light—a light that embodies defiance against oppression, reveals truths hidden beneath comfortable narratives, and insists on justice with unrelenting ferocity and grace. This light is transformative, an illumination that does not merely expose but also ignites, pushing me to wield its brilliance in the pursuit of a justice that reshapes and reclaims. This light is not passive; it is the raw, burning force of transformation that Joan embodies, urging me to become both sword and flame in the pursuit of grotesque ecologies—those untamed, unruly systems where life pulses through imperfection, where chaos isn't just endured but celebrated. It is the pursuit of wholeness within threshold spaces, where beauty rises from raw, unrefined mess. These ecologies reveal truths that resist domestication, caring fiercely for what is raw and alive in the kingdom of this world.

From her, I’ve learned that justice is moon-scarred—wild, uncultivated, and unapologetic in its pursuit of truth within liminality, clawing through the false comforts of civility to reach what is raw and real. Love in Joan’s hands is a sword—sharp, purposeful, and demanding courage to wield, cutting through the veils of silence and forging connection with precision and strength. She embodies an unyielding agency, not just for herself but for others, a dream that calls me to elevate and empower while remaining rooted in my own divinely felt mission of weaving space—for care, for my voice, and for the voices of others. Joan modeled this balance in her life by embodying both strength and tenderness, leading armies while remaining attuned to the needs and voices of those she fought for. I do it through SaturnVox—my analytic meditations, artistic collaborations, and cocreating community—through this blog, my pocket of future projects, and the Web of Wandering Weavers. 

Justice through this mirror is not merely an act of rebellion or creation—it is a fierce act of love and community, a call to elevate and protect as much as it is to disrupt and transform. Joan’s legacy burns as a reminder that truth, courage, and care are inseparable, and that to honor my own reflection I find in her, I must continue this work with the same unshakable faith she embodied.

I invite you to witness this transformation with me—not just as an intellectual exercise but as a call to action. Through the lessons Joan has imparted, and the light she has ignited within me, I am reshaping my understanding of justice. I ask you to join me in this reimagining, where justice is not about heroes or saviors but about creating spaces for raw, unapologetic will to thrive.

WRITERS NOTE: Bear in mind I write a lot and have much to say! Please feel Below you will find a TOC for the rest of the essay for reference,
free to use ctrl+f to search for jumping points.
Happy Reading 🦋

• False Idols - Myths and Knights

• The White Knight - Savior or Erasure 

1. Theoretical Frameworks

1. Paulo Freire: The Revolution Will Be Dialogued

2. bell hooks: Radical Love and Relational Justice

3. A Dream Which Came to Me

2. Rewilding the Narrative

1. Masks in Motion

2. Joan of Arc: A Grotesque Beauty

1. Context and Joan's Role

2. The Banner as a Tool for Collective Imagination

3. Myth and Humanity

4. White Knight No More

3. Sir Gawain and the Loathly Lady: Rewilding Virtues

1. Bakhtin’s Grotesque Body

2. Grotesque Influence

3. Wild Honor: The Knight Reformed

3. What We Learned Today

1. Knight Rewild

1. Silence as a Force of Transformation

2. The Grotesque as Renewal

3. The Reconfiguration of Beauty

4. The Rewilded Knight

All citations can be found by downloading the PDF at the bottom of this page

False Idols - Myths and Knights

With Exu Lucifer and Joan of Arc as my guides, I’ve learned to confront justice not as an abstract ideal but as a raw, lived experience. Their influence has given me the clarity to dissect the internal intestines within bodies of justice and power—their fleshy chains wrapped around us, internalized and reinforced through systems that bind us in oppressive binaries rather than setting us free.In my chest, the fight for revolutionary redemption—the expression of our selves, built from disparate parts, each a piece of something greater, pulled together and refined, reborn golden and anew—is the only thing that matters. How are we free when we’re all kings, but in a broken kingdom? How do we nourish each other when scarcity is all we’ve been taught? What would it take to tear down the metaphors and myths that divide us, and instead grow a community that thrives through horizontal exchange—no heroism, no saviors, just real, messy, primal care, feral intimacy?

As I’ve wrestled with these questions about justice, I’ve started to dissect how we might untangle the tight knots of our social and mythic structures. These knots are those stories we tell ourselves—the narratives that actively shape how we think, perceive, and make sense of the world. Story is not just entertainment; it serves as the architecture of our cognition, influencing how we define justice, heroism, and power. Narratives act as lenses through which we view ourselves and others, shaping our beliefs about what is normal, desirable, or inevitable. These narratives, whether explicit or implicit, reinforce societal roles and hierarchies, dictating not just behavior but also the limits of imagination—what we see as possible or permissible within our world. They are tightly woven connections between societal norms and cultural myths that create and maintain roles like 'heroes' and 'monsters,' ultimately shaping our understanding of justice, power, and agency. I’ve therefore come to realize that the answers I seek are often complicated by the ways these roles influence both our actions and our beliefs.

One of these roles, both alluring and destructive, is the 'White Knight.' This archetype draws us in because it offers comfort in a destabilized world, promising a clean, heroic solution to complex problems. When everything feels uncertain, ideals like the 'White Knight' can feel like anchors—a way to hold onto something certain and safe. These figures embody a story we cling to because it reassures us that someone strong and righteous will fix things. But this same simplicity is what makes it destructive. By focusing on an idealized savior, we deify a narrow vision of "good" that rejects complexity and ignores the darker, messier truths of human experience. Thus we must ask, who is the WK saving? This mask often ignores its own reflection of control and ego under the guise of selflessness, often accidentally silencing the very people they claim to need saving. Instead of empowering others, they impose their own vision of what is "right," erasing agency and drowning out voices that do not align with their ideal. All the while, they bask in their self-perception of righteousness, reinforcing a system that resists true change and clings to comforting illusions.

It’s the classic story: someone steps into the role of 'rescuer,' assuming that because they are well-meaning, they must be right. And maybe,within the glamour of the fantasy, they look heroic. But what happens when that so-called hero doesn’t hear you? When their ideas of what’s best are imposed on you, but never truly listen to what you need? It’s like a thick fog—they wade in, thinking they know the terrain, but they only obscure the path, suffocating the very breath of justice they claim to protect.

I know this because I’ve been both this WK and the one crushed by their actions. I’ve felt the heat of that righteous anger—the kind that makes you feel like you’re carrying the world’s sins on your shoulders—and I’ve felt the cold sting of being sidelined, my own voice swallowed whole by someone else’s narrative. And that, my dear readers, is not what I have come to believe Justice Above the Streets to mean. Justice, by its very nature, is the constant adjustment and negotiation of balance in motion. It’s not about the heat of self-righteousness. It’s Venusian, residing in the cool, steady pulse of listening, of holding space for others, of standing together in a constantly shifting, interrelated ecology.

In my quest to understand this, to feel my way through it, I’ve come to a crucial realization: the time has come to break open the illusion of idealized mythos. If we are ever to make real change, to feel justice in our bones, we have to stop worshipping these false idols. The 'hero,' the 'damsel,' the 'monster'—they aren't just characters; they are the mechanisms that uphold the oppressive binaries that divide us. The White Knight, with all their good intentions, is just another idol placed between us and the real work of justice.

These roles—these constructs—have kept us bound to a narrative where power is always assigned to one side, and the other side is forced into submission. They tell us who is worthy of saving, who is beyond redemption, and who must suffer. But this isn’t balance; I see no Justice here. This is a trap. The real work of justice doesn’t come from identifying rescuers or villains—it comes from us, together, rewriting the story and listening to bodies and voices that have long been silenced.

The White Knight - Savior or Erasure 

While the White Knight may initially seem heroic, their actions often reveal deeper relational consequences. These patterns don’t just appear in myths or societal structures; they manifest in the intimate spaces of relationships, where the line between helping and controlling can blur. It’s here, in these personal dynamics, that the true cost of this archetype becomes most apparent.

WKs often claim to amplify your voice but end up drowning it out. Instead of truly listening, they rewrite your experience, imposing their frameworks of understanding over the nuances of your pain. Their good intentions mask a deeper discomfort with ambiguity, born from an existential dread of letting go of control and facing the unknown. This fear shapes their behavior in subtle but articulate ways, driving them to prioritize their own need for stability over the messy realities of human relationships. Instead of engaging with complexity, they lean into frameworks that offer clear answers, often at the expense of truly hearing or honoring the voices of those they aim to help. This fear is compounded by societal narratives that fail to provide them with the tools to sit with uncertainty, instead spoonfeeding them ideals of heroism and power through control. To release our graspings is to confront vulnerability and acknowledge the fragility of our static attempts to know. It means sitting with the unease of not having all the answers in a chaotic world, embracing the discomfort of the unknown. Yet, this discomfort often drives them to impose order where none is needed, simplifying your experience to fit their narrative. It’s as though your life becomes their story to tell, reducing you to a passive vessel, filled with their words and desires and stripped of your own agency, your emotions contorted to fit their idealized script of how things must be.

I’ve watched this happen—felt it myself—when people I considered close started speaking on my behalf, telling others what I needed, what I felt, without even the smallest inquiry or any genuine questions directed at me. At first, it feels like a relief, like someone’s stepping in, like they’re holding the weight of your silence for you. It’s comforting at first, like a heavy and warm blanket, but it quickly becomes suffocating, clinging with the damp and oppressive heat of a summer bayou morning. Comfort here, though, turns into something soppy, something suffocating. There’s a moment when you realize your voice is slipping through your fingers, sliding out of reach, and the space where your words should be fills with someone else’s assumptions—assumptions about your needs, your feelings, and even your identity, shaped more by their perspective than by your truth. It’s as if the air itself has become thick, stifling humidity, until your breath is the only thing you can hear. And then, just as slowly, it begins to recede—your words, your truth, evaporating like dust caught in the wind, scattered and lost in erasure, their substance fading into the dunes.

You begin to feel the edges of your reality blur, as though the narrative they’re spinning is no longer yours to claim. It manifests in subtle ways: their words reshape your story, their actions redirect your truth, and their omissions leave vital parts of your experience unspoken, creating a version of you that feels distant and pretend. What was once a clear story of your own becomes smudged, faded—like a photograph left too long in the sun, its details warped and colors drained, leaving only faint outlines of the vibrant narrative it once was. You’re left standing on the fringes of your own existence, watching as they rewrite you into a role you never asked for. It’s not just the desire to “save” you—it’s the presumption that you needed rescuing at all, a presumption that quietly undermines your agency and suggests that your truth is insufficient on its own. This assumption diminishes your autonomy, framing you as incomplete without their intervention, and erodes the space for you to define yourself on your own terms. The truth is, you were never broken, never in need of their version of salvation. What you perhaps needed was recognition—to have your own truth held, your own voice heard, and your own autonomy respected, just as the fading photograph still holds its outlines, waiting to be restored and seen for what it truly is. Instead, their "help" distorts and diminishes, twisting your reality into something more palatable for them—a sanitized version that aligns with their comfort, ignoring the complexity and rawness of your true experience—leaving you stranded outside, lost to the story that was meant to be your own.

This brings me to a painful question: how much of this 'help' is really help at all? The intentions might be pure, but the outcome rarely liberates you—it ensnares you, shaping your experience into something that no longer feels like yours to safely claim or own. Often, these Knights do not mean to do this. But when someone else takes control of your story, when they rob you of the space to speak your truth, it’s impossible not to feel smaller, more invisible, less alive in your own body. It’s like someone snatched the pen from your hand, rewrote the entire narrative, and handed you back a book that’s a soft mimicry of your true experience, your heartsong, and your holy name.

In partaking in this narrative exchange, the WK doesn’t just fail to liberate—they reinforce the very structures of power they claim to oppose. This reinforcement happens subtly, through actions that prioritize their vision of what is "right" over the agency of those they claim to help. For instance, by stepping in as the decision-maker, they perpetuate the same hierarchical power dynamics that silence others, further entrenching the idea that authority must rest with the rescuer rather than the collective. This might look like disregarding input from those directly affected, assuming they know what’s best without consultation, or enforcing solutions that align with their worldview while ignoring the nuanced needs of any one person within the dynamic of the community. They don’t see that their desire to be the hero, to take on the role of rescuer, only strengthens the existing hierarchy.

This desire is often fueled by societal ideals that glorify heroism through stories of lone saviors and main characters, celebrating those who take decisive action while sidelining the value of collective input and narratives of shared power. This performance doesn’t disrupt power—it consolidates it, as they prioritize their own need to feel righteous over the actual needs of those they claim to help. This need can overshadow genuine support because it shifts the focus from empowering others to satisfying the rescuer's internal need for validation. They do not engage directly with the people they aim to help. Instead, they operate from a removed position of assumed authority, where their ideals are treated as superior and their perspective as sufficient to define the needs and voices of others. Simply put, they project their own light as if it alone is adequate to represent the experiences of those they claim to support.

Which begs the question, do you really need anyone speaking for you? Or do you need people willing to stand beside you, to help you navigate your own authority? Perhaps what’s needed isn’t a voice that echoes louder but a presence that listens deeper. Perhaps balanced relationality is about fostering a partnership where your truth is not replaced, but amplified—not reshaped, but embraced in its fullness. In such a space, liberation is not granted; it is co-created, a process that values the messiness of human complexity over the simplicity of imposed order.

Theoretical Frameworks

What if, instead of rushing in to ‘rescue,’ we focused on the deeper work of listening? What if justice wasn’t about saving or fixing, but about showing up with humility, with open ears and hearts, ready to sit in the discomfort of another’s experience? Sitting with discomfort is challenging because it demands vulnerability and patience, yet it is essential for fostering true understanding and connection. What if justice was a shared journey, not a solitary mission to ‘right the wrongs’ of others?

Imagine a community where no one plays the role of ‘rescuer,’ but everyone recognizes their unique contribution to collective growth. Here, our voices are not controlled but honored as the means through which we connect and transform. Justice isn’t about saving—it’s about standing alongside, offering solidarity, and creating space for each person to find their own voice and path forward. Together, we hold the messiness and complexity of human experience, building something stronger, not by fixing, but by listening and growing together. This mirrors the lessons I’ve learned in my own journey—that true support comes not from controlling the narrative, but from embracing the unresolved truths that make us human.

Paulo Freire: The Revolution Will Be Dialogued

I often like to pair my observations with theorists who seem to see the same things I see. It helps me not feel crazy, and also allows for my observations to become informed and inspired by other modes of creative thinking. There are many myths and theories on Justice, but a personal favorite of mine is Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire. Justice, according to Freire, is not something handed down by powerful people in a top-down model, where those in charge unilaterally decide what is fair without listening to the needs or perspectives of those impacted. Instead, justice is built collaboratively, with everyone contributing equally to solutions that honor their shared humanity. It is built together, like a shared conversation where everyone has an equal say, exchanging ideas and learning from each other. It’s a group of people sitting in a circle, each contributing their thoughts and experiences to solve a problem. Freire’s vision of justice is grounded in this idea of dialogue—a process where individuals cooperate as equals to understand and change their shared reality.

He explained it this way: “In the dialogical theory of action, Subjects meet in cooperation in order to transform the world. The antidialogical, dominating I transforms the dominated, conquered thou into a mere it. The dialogical I, however, knows that it is precisely the thou (‘not-I’) which has called forth his or her own existence.” Freire’s use of "I" and "thou" highlights the tension and interdependence that lie at the heart of justice. The "I" symbolizes an individual’s capacity to act and assert their will, while the "thou" represents another’s presence that demands acknowledgment, dialogue, and respect. Justice, in this framework, becomes the precarious balance between two wills: the "Self" and the "Other" Neither can dominate the other without disrupting this equilibrium. Instead, justice requires that both exist in dynamic collaboration, each challenging and shaping the other to create a shared reality. Freire reminds us that our identities and sense of justice are not formed in isolation but through this relational push and pull, where mutual recognition allows for transformation and solidarity.

For example, in education, this could look like teachers learning alongside their students, engaging in shared activities where both parties contribute to and benefit from the learning process. In this dynamic, both the teacher and the student actively engage in reconciling differing perspectives and learning styles, creating a space where collaboration leads to deeper understanding and growth. The teacher's authority remains but evolves into a guiding role that is enriched by their willingness to learn from the student’s experiences and perspectives, fostering mutual respect and a balanced distribution of power. By fostering such partnerships, Freire’s framework dissolves rigid hierarchies and fosters environments where every individual’s voice is valued, creating a community that thrives on mutual recognition and respect. Freire’s insight emphasizes a profound relational shift away from a Me vs You mentality: the "I" embodies personal agency, while the "thou" reflects the essential role of others in shaping one’s identity and purpose through meaningful interaction.

This dynamic reminds us that our sense of self and justice grows through relationships with others who push us to see the world differently and expand our understanding. This dialogical relationship dissolves the hierarchies that turn people into objects and instead fosters genuine partnership rooted in dignity and mutual respect. In practical terms, this means creating spaces where power is shared rather than imposed—such as workplaces where all team members contribute equally to decisions, or classrooms where students actively shape the learning process alongside their teachers. Genuine partnership is not about agreement but about mutual engagement, where differing perspectives are valued and integrated into a collective effort toward growth. In Freire’s framework, justice happens when we move beyond control and dominance to create solidarity, where everyone’s voice is heard, and every individual’s dignity is respected. This approach transforms not just the group but also the individuals within it, making justice an active, living process of mutual transformation.

For instance, within a classroom or community project, individuals might start with differing perspectives or goals. Through ongoing dialogue and collaboration, they not only reach collective solutions but also evolve in their understanding, empathy, and ability to work with others. This evolution occurs as they confront differing values and assumptions, learning to see through each other’s eyes and finding common ground despite their initial differences. This transformation strengthens both the individuals and the group as they navigate challenges together—such as differing communication styles, power dynamics within the group, or disagreements over priorities. Facing these challenges requires empathy, patience, and a willingness to adapt, which in turn deepens understanding and builds resilience. By learning from each other’s unique experiences and contributions, the group becomes more cohesive, and individuals grow in their ability to collaborate effectively in diverse contexts.

Central to Freire’s philosophy is the concept of conscientização—critical consciousness, which directly connects to his emphasis on dialogue and justice as collaborative processes. This is the process of becoming aware of one’s social reality through reflection and action, recognizing the structures of oppression, and acting to transform them. Freire describes this as a process where "humankind emerge from their submersion and acquire the ability to intervene in reality as it is unveiled." Here, 'submersion' refers to the state of uncritical acceptance of societal norms and structures, where individuals are immersed in systems of oppression without recognizing their influence. Emerging into critical consciousness, by contrast, involves becoming aware of these hidden dynamics and taking active steps to challenge and transform them.

He continues, "Intervention in reality—historical awareness itself—thus represents a step forward from emergence, and results from the conscientização of the situation." Conscientização is thus "the deepening of the attitude of awareness characteristic of all emergence." This idea builds on Freire’s earlier emphasis on dialogical justice, highlighting how critical consciousness transforms individuals into active participants in shaping equitable relationships and communities. This framing emphasizes that critical consciousness is not static but an evolving process of becoming more deeply aware of the forces shaping one’s reality and developing the agency to act upon them.

Freire insists that justice cannot emerge without this deep understanding: “To achieve this praxis, however, it is necessary to trust in the oppressed and in their ability to reason. Whoever lacks this trust will fail to bring about, or will abandon, dialogue, reflection, and communication, and will fall into using slogans, communiqués, monologues, and instructions.” This emphasis on critical consciousness stands in stark contrast to the actions of the (WK) archetype. The WK often assumes the role of a savior, stepping in with preconceived solutions that bypass the need for dialogue or mutual understanding. While the WK may believe they are addressing injustice, their approach frequently imposes their own perspectives, treating others as passive recipients of aid rather than active participants in transformation.

Freire’s conscientização rejects this unilateral approach, advocating instead for collaboration rooted in respect and humility. It requires a willingness to listen, to trust others’ capacity to reason, and to embrace the discomfort of shared growth. Unlike the WK, who seeks control under the guise of help, conscientização fosters autonomy, enabling individuals to critically analyze their circumstances and participate in the co-creation of solutions. This process transforms justice from an act of rescue into a dynamic, reciprocal relationship where all parties grow together in understanding and shared agency.

Building on the rejection of unilateral control, Freire warns, “True generosity consists precisely in fighting to destroy the causes which nourish false charity.” False charity, he explains, sustains dependency by keeping the "fearful and subdued" in a position of helplessness, forcing them to extend "trembling hands" for aid. In this dynamic, the giver’s generosity maintains their dominance, ensuring the recipient remains dependent through reliance. True generosity, by contrast, does not stop at offering aid—it seeks to eliminate the root causes of dependence. Freire envisions a transformation where these "trembling hands" transform and become "human hands which work and, working, transform the world," empowering individuals to reclaim their dignity and agency. This approach challenges superficial acts of generosity and calls for deeper systemic change, fostering autonomy and self-determination.

Instead of addressing only surface-level symptoms of injustice, Freire calls for a justice that tackles its root causes. This requires humility—a willingness to reject the allure of heroism and relinquish control—as well as a commitment to co-creating solutions that honor the complexity and humanity of all involved. Freire’s vision invites us to move beyond paternalistic impulses and embrace a model of care rooted in respect, mutuality, and shared growth. It challenges us to build relationships that empower individuals to take charge of their own transformation, fostering a justice that is collaborative and deeply transformative for all parties involved.

For Freire, dialogical action rejects these paternalisms, which occur when those in positions of perceived authority impose their solutions on others, assuming they know best. Freire identifies this dynamic as beginning in the parent/child relationship, which he describes as reflecting and perpetuating the broader societal structure: 

The parent-child relationship in the home usually reflects the objective cultural conditions of the surrounding social structure. If the conditions which penetrate the home are authoritarian, rigid, and dominating, the home will increase the climate of oppression. As these authoritarian relations between parents and children intensify, children in their infancy increasingly internalize the paternal authority. 

Freire’s analysis here suggests that this dynamic does not remain confined to the home; instead, it sets a foundation for broader societal patterns of dominance and subjugation. When children internalize these rigid and dominating structures, they often carry these learned hierarchies into adulthood, replicating them in educational, professional, and social relationships.

By identifying the parent/child relationship as a starting point, Freire underscores the need to replace these oppressive dynamics with dialogical relationships—ones that encourage mutual respect, participation, and growth. Justice, as Freire envisions it, requires dismantling these ingrained hierarchies to foster environments where autonomy and critical consciousness can flourish. To consider this more fully, envision a household where a parent enforces strict, unquestionable rules about the child’s behavior, choices, and future aspirations without involving them in discussion. While the parent might believe this approach provides structure or protection, it unintentionally mirrors authoritarian social structures, teaching the child to equate obedience with survival. This dynamic reinforces a dependence on external authority figures and diminishes the child’s confidence in their ability to make decisions. Over time, Freire warns, such patterns perpetuate a cycle where the child internalizes a sense of helplessness and the parent unconsciously maintains their role as the decision-maker. This hierarchical relationship, though normalized within the family, establishes a template for broader systems of domination disguised as care. Freire critiques these dynamics, emphasizing the need to replace them with dialogical relationships that foster autonomy, mutual respect, and shared growth.

 This transformative process, rooted in conscientização and dialogical action, lays the groundwork for reimagining justice as a collective endeavor—one that demands continuous engagement and reflection to address the complexities of human experience. Freire’s vision of justice thus compels us to reconsider how we engage with others in the pursuit of equity and transformation. Rather than a fixed ideal imposed by authority, justice emerges as an evolving process shaped through collaboration, trust, and mutual understanding. It invites us to dismantle entrenched hierarchies and create environments where every voice matters and every individual contributes meaningfully. Justice, in this sense, is less about correcting others and more about co-creating pathways for shared respect and growth.

By embracing Freire’s ideas, we can move beyond the limitations of paternalism and superficial charity to engage in meaningful action that empowers individuals and addresses the root causes of oppression. Justice, as Freire describes it, is not about control or dominance but about co-creation, where transformation happens through the dynamic interplay of "I" and "Thou." In this framework, we are reminded that justice is not a solitary endeavor but a collective journey that demands courage, patience, and a commitment to seeing each other’s humanity in full.

Saúdo o povo de conscientização!
Viva a revolução!

bell hooks: Radical Love and Relational Justice

To deepen our understanding of justice, we turn to bell hooks, who engages with similar themes as Freire by exploring the transformative potential of relational justice through her concept of radical love. While Freire emphasizes justice as a collaborative and dialogical process highlighting a framework of collective action through mutual dialogue, hooks shifts the focus to the emotional labor and vulnerability necessary to foster authentic relationships. Both thinkers share a commitment to humility, respect, and mutual transformation as foundational to justice. However, hooks emphasizes the interpersonal dimensions of care, offering a unique lens on the affective work required to dismantle hierarchies. This focus on love as a transformative force adds a relational and affective dimension to the conversation on justice, intertwining care with accountability and growth. Her vision of love as an active, relational exchange challenges entrenched power dynamics and nurtures deeper connection, enriching the broader conversation on justice.

In All About Love, hooks defines love as a multidimensional practice involving the art of mixing "various ingredients—care, affection, recognition, respect, commitment, and trust, as well as honest and open communication." She emphasizes that love is not passive or effortless but requires deliberate and ongoing effort. Love, she explains, involves genuinely engaging with another person’s experiences—acknowledging their struggles and joys while remaining open to the complexities that arise in deep relationships. This process demands more than surface-level empathy; it calls for active listening without judgment, reflecting on our own biases, and showing up even when it is uncomfortable.

Invoking the voice of Eric Fromm, hooks declares, “Love is as love does,” framing it as a verb that demands engagement and accountability. This reimagining of love challenges pervasive cultural narratives that reduce it to romantic passion, fleeting emotion, or instinct. Instead, hooks redefines love as an intentional practice rooted in care, commitment, and responsibility. For her, true love is “the will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth,” a definition that underscores its inherently transformative nature. Love, in this framing, is not something we passively feel but something we actively choose—a conscious and ongoing act of doing that shapes both individuals and the relationships they cultivate.

Love, in hooks’s view, is not something we passively fall into or stumble upon; it is a deliberate practice requiring effort, intention, and choice. By centering interpersonal growth, she positions love as a transformative force that transcends individual desires or superficial affection, seeking instead to cultivate a deeper connection that bridges the internal self with the outside other. This practice involves consciously moving beyond self-interest, engaging in mutual care, and embracing exchange as an interdependent process where both parties are nourished and able to flourish—to feel fully alive. hooks emphasizes that such gestures are neither easy nor automatic; they demand a willingness to act with purpose, to sustain attention over time, and to remain committed to the continuous work of growth and change.

She will tell us this directly when she writes, "To know genuine love we have to invest time and commitment," emphasizing the consistent effort required to sustain meaningful relationships. This commitment involves actively showing up for one another, even in moments of discomfort or challenge, and cultivating a sense of safety and mutual respect. hooks suggests that time and dedication allow love to grow into a stable, nourishing presence in our lives—one that fosters both individual and relational resilience. By reframing love as an intentional practice, she moves away from fleeting emotional highs and instead underscores the profound depth that arises when both individuals are committed to understanding, supporting, and valuing each other across different moments in time.

hooks critiques the cultural desire to treat love as effortless or as a magical solution to all problems, writing, 

Many people want love to function like a drug, giving them an immediate and sustained high. They want to do nothing, just passively receive the good feeling. In patriarchal culture men are especially inclined to see love as something they should receive without expending effort. More often than not they do not want to do the work that love demands.

Here, hooks critiques idealized notions of love that frame it as passive or transactional, calling attention to the cultural norms that undermine its transformative potential. She asserts that love’s true power lies in its ability to invite us into a space of critical awakening and discomfort—one that challenges us to grow while fostering genuine connection. This framing repositions love as a deliberate practice that encompasses both joy and struggle, creating a relational dynamic rooted in shared accountability and mutual respect.

Consider a moment where someone seeks emotional reassurance from a friend during times of personal distress but remains unaware of or unable to address a growing rift in their dynamic. While the desire for comfort is deeply human, it may quietly press the weight of one’s pain onto the relationship, risking an imbalance that leaves the deeper tensions unspoken and unresolved. True healing demands more than the soothing of immediate wounds—it calls for a kind of recognition that feels like being fully seen, a tender and mutual acknowledgment of the other’s interior world. Without this, the exchange may hollow out the relationship’s core, leaving behind a sense of being cared for but never truly known. Genuine care, as hooks frames it, thrives on curiosity, patience, and a commitment to understanding someone’s experiences on their terms. This might involve slowing down and rebuilding trust after a disagreement, ensuring that the relationship is centered on mutual respect and validation rather than external validation.

By emphasizing "respect" and "commitment," hooks shifts our understanding of love from a fleeting or superficial emotion to a deliberate, ongoing practice. Love becomes a sustained effort to cultivate trust and accountability, where both individuals actively contribute to the relationship's growth and resilience. This approach calls for an active presence—not necessarily physical proximity but an emotional and spiritual investment that requires us to engage fully, even when confronted with the complexities or discomfort of another's reality. By doing so, hooks reframes love as a practice of radical attentiveness, where genuine connection thrives on mutual recognition and shared vulnerability.

This perspective situates love as both a medicinal property to and a critique of the societal norms that commodify relationships. Love, for hooks, creates a countercultural space where relational accountability and growth can thrive, standing in stark contrast to the disposability of modern connection. By framing love as an ongoing choice, she challenges us to recognize that love thrives when nurtured through curiosity, trust, and intentional care. This means avoiding dynamics where relationships are reduced to fulfilling immediate needs without deeper engagement, and instead fostering practices that prioritize mutual understanding and accountability. “The path to love is not arduous or hidden, but we must choose to take the first step,” she reminds us, emphasizing that transformation begins with everyday acts of commitment and vulnerability.

This understanding of love situates it as a radical counterpoint to societal norms that commodify and trivialize relational bonds. hooks critiques societal norms that reduce relationships to transactions, noting that "when greedy consumption is the order of the day, dehumanization becomes acceptable." This material mindset fosters a culture where relationships are treated as disposable, prioritizing self-serving actions over mutual accountability. Such dynamics strip relationships of the depth required for authentic care and growth, encouraging superficial exchanges rather than meaningful bonds. This mindset fosters a culture where love is treated as a transactional exchange, undermining the deeper bonds necessary for authentic care and growth.

hooks argues that these dynamics are deeply influenced by "a tyranny of marketplace values," which condition us to treat relationships as disposable and self-serving. Through this critique, hooks challenges us to unlearn these harmful patterns by embracing love as a practice that actively transforms both individuals and their relationships. She asserts, 

This is why it is useful to see love as a practice. When we act, we need not feel inadequate or powerless; we can trust that there are concrete steps to take on love’s path. We learn to communicate, to be still and listen to the needs of our hearts, and we learn to listen to others.  

This framing of love as an ongoing practice—one that creates space for discomfort, destabilization, and growth—shifts the focus away from superficial gestures and toward relational accountability, mutual understanding, and a deeper commitment to transformation.

Instead, she invites us to imagine love as a space where the air is thick with vulnerability, where truths that sting and tremble are spoken aloud, and where the delicate threads of connection are unraveled and rewoven, stronger and more intricate with each attempt. It is not an easy space—it asks us to stand in the sharpness of uncertainty, to meet the ache of our own and another’s wounds without turning away. This shift matters because it insists on care that is deeply felt, not just tender but alive with friction—the kind of care that cradles pain and joy in the same trembling hand. In this way, love becomes justice in action, a sanctuary where both parties are not only seen but carried, their jagged edges.

The white knight’s approach, focused on maintaining control and affirming their own role as the "giver," operates in opposition to the vulnerable and reciprocal relational dynamics hooks advocates for. As hooks notes, “When the practice of love invites us to enter a place of potential bliss that is at the same time a place of critical awakening and pain, many of us turn our backs on love.” The wk, too, turns away from the discomfort of truly witnessing and engaging with another’s reality. Instead of fostering a relationship where both parties are seen and carried, the wk imposes their narrative onto the other, creating a dynamic that undermines trust and respect. Their avoidance of discomfort mirrors hooks’ critique of transactional relationships, where love is reduced to fulfilling immediate needs without deeper engagement. This refusal to embrace vulnerability prevents the kind of mutual accountability that hooks identifies as essential for authentic connection and justice.
By reframing love as a practice that demands mutual accountability, hooks provides a counterpoint to the WK’s self-serving performance of care. She reminds us that love requires the willingness to “hear the pain, as well as the joy, of those we love,” calling for an openness that challenges the wk’s tendency to avoid vulnerability in favor of control. The contrast hereilluminates how performative care, rooted in hierarchical dynamics, fails to achieve the justice that radical love embodies. This vision of radical love resonates deeply with modern restorative justice practices, where accountability and care are central to repairing harm and fostering transformation. In these spaces, hooks’ emphasis on vulnerability and mutual respect provides a framework for addressing power imbalances and nurturing relational healing. Similarly, mutual aid networks embody the principles of radical love by prioritizing reciprocal care and collective flourishing over individual gain.

Through this lens, hooks’ vision of love becomes an antidote to the WK’s superficial gestures, offering instead a model of relational justice that dismantles the power imbalances inherent in saviorism. Love, as hooks frames it, is a radical act that requires both parties to stand in their discomfort and commit to the ongoing work of mutual transformation. This emphasis on shared growth and accountability aligns love with justice, creating a foundation where true relational healing can take place. In this way, hooks’ insights deepen our understanding of how love, practiced authentically, can transcend the limitations of hierarchical care and become a force for liberation.

A Dream Which Came to Me

In the damp hush of a forest after rainfall, where the air hums with the scent of moss and decay, justice stirs—not as a doctrine but as a pulse. It weaves through tangled roots and spiraling vines, born of the earth’s restless cycles. Feral justice, a vision of adjustment that mirrors the wild's untamed rhythms, breathes in the rich loam of decay and exhales the green persistence of new shoots. It thrives in these spaces where fungi bloom in the shadows, breaking down the old to feed the new.

This justice is neither sterile nor static but alive and wild, as unpredictable as a storm and as nurturing as spring’s first warmth. It resists the cold precision of laws built to dominate and divide, offering instead the chaotic wisdom of the earth’s rhythms. In its language, power is not a sharp line but a chimeric dance, an interwoven balance where mistakes and growth are honored as essential. This flavor of justice invites us to unlearn the hierarchies that isolate and oppress, to listen to the whispered lessons of the wild—to the fungi’s patient deconstruction, the trees’ quiet collaboration, and the birds’ bright, unrepentant song. In unruly world, care is not a fixed order but a living relationship, as messy and vital as life itself.

Feral justice, like the tangled roots of a forest, rejects the clean lines of binary thinking. It is not a distant or theoretical abstraction, disconnected from the realities of life, but a force that emerges from the messy and unpredictable relationships that bind the living world together. Just as fungi and trees collaborate in unseen networks, it resists simplification, thriving instead in the rich complexity of interdependence. It takes shape through direct engagement with the web of life, where humility and curiosity guide its movements. In this vision, justice is not a fixed ideal imposed from above but a living, breathing practice—responsive to the wild’s rhythms and holding space for the unbridled, intricate nature of connection.

Consider the mycelial networks of fungi—vast, unseen threads weaving life beneath the forest floor. These networks dissolve rigid boundaries, carrying whispers of danger, gifts of nourishment, and calls for aid through an intricate web that ensures the resilience of the whole. Just as these networks sustain the forest, human communities, too, flourish when grounded in shared accountability and mutual care, where the well-being of one pulses through the lives of many. Feral justice bridges these two realms, learning from nature's wisdom to reimagine our social connections.

In this symphony of exchange, survival is not an isolated act but a choreography of care, where each root and branch leans into the other. Similarly, human communities flourish when grounded in shared accountability and mutual care, where the well-being of one pulses through the lives of many. Feral justice thrives in this unrestrained dance, recognizing that decay—whether of harmful structures or ossified norms—is not an ending but a clearing for growth. Like Freire’s dialogical justice, it emerges from the interplay of voices, rooted in mutual transformation. And like hooks’ radical love, it insists on relational accountability and the courage to embrace discomfort as a site of growth. Finally, like the forests that pulse with mycelial life, human communities find their strength not in isolation but in the perpetual rhythm of connection, transformation, and collective resilience.

At its core, this justice centers a love that is expansive, active, and wild—an emotional ecology as intricate and interconnected as the mycelial networks beneath a forest floor. This is not the love of patriarchal ideals, where care becomes control or sacrifice turns to dominance. It is a love that demands curiosity, humility, and the willingness to hold complexity. Like the networks that weave resilience through the earth, it resists a passive, consumptive vision of love. It calls for a love that transforms through discomfort, one that does not retreat from pain but integrates it into a tapestry of mutual care and shared accountability.

To embrace feral justice is to rewild not just our external relationships but the ways we think, feel, and move through the world. Rewilding is the radical act of reconnecting with the undomesticated—unlearning structures that divide us from the wild, from each other, and from our own primal selves. It is a return to an ethos of entanglement and reciprocity, where life thrives in its inherent messiness. It is not simply about reconnecting with nature but about unlearning the separations that divide body from mind, human from animal, and individual from collective. It means learning how to listen: to the fungi that dismantle the old to nourish the new, to the rivers that refuse to conform as they carve their paths, and to the winds that carry seeds of renewal across vast distances. It is about remembering what it feels like to belong to a world that thrives in entanglement and reciprocity.

Feral justice grows from this ethos, asking us to meet the discomfort of change with courage and to let go of the need for control. It teaches us that what appears unruly—the tangled roots, our deafening emotions, those upheavals of transformation—is not broken but alive. Rewilding, in turn, means sitting with the wildness within ourselves: the parts that resist confinement, that ache for connection, and that pulse with the same rhythms as the earth. This is not a call to abandon civilization but to dismantle the parts of it that deny the vitality of interdependence, honoring the unpolished as a source of liberation and care.

The need for a rewilding, a return to a feral justice rooted in connection, became painfully clear during a rupture in my own former community. This was a group where I had invested time and emotional energy—a space I once trusted deeply to be a haven of shared values and mutual support, expecting it to stand as a model of care and accountability. In this case, when I faced a profound spiritual crisis that involved certain levels of community abuse, I sought justice that included honest dialogue, restorative actions, and a commitment to addressing harm in ways that fostered trust and mutual growth. However, the community instead seem to chose the protection of its image and cohesion, treating my pain as a disruption to be contained rather than a call for transformation. This decision left me feeling not only unsupported but actively silenced, as though my experiences were an inconvenience to the harmony they sought to maintain at all costs. This betrayal revealed the fragility of justice built on control and appearance, underscoring the need for a wilder, more authentic model—one that holds space for discomfort, embraces complexity, and centers relational integrity.

Feral justice offers an antidote to this failure. It resists the tendency to suppress or silence marginalized voices, instead recognizing their crises as calls for collective awakening and renewal. This approach treats ruptures not as threats to stability but as fertile ground for communal evolution, much like how forests use decay to nurture new life. Unlike the hierarchical dynamics that left me feeling abandoned, it calls on communities to confront the uneasy truths of rupture head-on. It asks us to linger in the discomfort, to hold space for the rawness and complexity of breaking points, and to weave them into a collective process of healing and growth. It calls for leaders who are willing to witness, listen, and advocate—not to maintain control, but to cultivate a space where healing can take root. In this vision, my pain would not have been dismissed. Instead, it would have been woven into the community’s transformation, recognized as a vital thread in its shared evolution.

This brings us back to the White Knight archetype, asking that we step away from the dichotomies of hero and damsel, savior and victim. Feral justice doesn’t cast anyone as a devil or a saint; instead, it acknowledges the roles people take on and invites us to reimagine them in a wilder, more connected way. The Knight, after all, embodies traits that many are drawn to: a desire to protect, to act, to serve. Rather than rejecting these impulses, it asks us to strip away the armor of domination and control, allowing the Knight to rewild and take root in a framework of care and relational integrity.

This rewilded Knight steps away from the instinct to shield or to fix, recognizing that justice isn’t a battle to be won but a process to be lived. Their role isn’t to impose solutions or eliminate discomfort but to cultivate a space where all voices—especially the uncomfortable ones—can be heard. The Knight’s sword becomes a tool of discernment, cutting through the noise of dominance and control to reveal what truly needs protection: the integrity of connection and the freedom for others to navigate their own transformations.

In this wild framework, the Knight’s strength lies in their willingness to stay in the mess—to witness pain without rushing to erase it and to honor growth even when it comes through decay. They don’t retreat from the chaos of rupture; instead, they trust that the chaos is part of the ecosystem, a fertile ground for renewal. The Knight learns that their power isn’t diminished by stepping back—it’s transformed. By choosing humility over heroism and collaboration over control, they become not the savior, but the thread that helps weave a larger tapestry of care and resilience.

This is the Knight unarmored, no longer trapped by rigid roles or binaries. They are neither above the fray nor outside it—they are deeply within it, a part of the wild and unpredictable dance of justice. Their strength isn’t in their ability to conquer, but in their capacity to nurture and hold space for change, trusting that the forest will grow stronger not through domination but through shared transformation.

To embrace feral justice is to dismantle the boundaries that divide us—not just hero from villain or human from monster, but even self from other. These divisions carve the world into tidy narratives of innocence and guilt, good and evil, leaving no room for the messy, layered truths of existence. They ask us to believe that someone can be wholly right or wholly wrong, a savior or a destroyer, and in doing so, they sever the connections that might allow us to understand one another. Rewilding dances between binaries, not to excuse harm but to see it clearly, to make space for accountability without stripping away the humanity of those involved. It reminds us that justice does not thrive in the black-and-white; it pulses in the gray spaces, tangled with contradiction and complexity.

Rewilding is necessary because it unearths the wild-eyed roots of relationship—messy, alive, and real. It shows us that the divisions we impose on ourselves and others are fragile constructs, brittle against the wild’s quiet insistence that life is never so simple. Consider the the predator whose hunt sustains not just their own survival but the delicate balance of an entire ecosystem. Feral justice calls us to see this web of connection, to recognize that harm and care are not opposites but part of the same tangled thread. It asks us to sit with this tension, to hold the ache of knowing that love can exist alongside pain, that harm does not erase connection, and that both darkness and light are necessary for growth.

In this vision, love becomes a sword—not a weapon of conquest but a blade honed by accountability and wielded with intention. It cuts through the illusions of purity and perfection, carving a path through the narratives that would render us static: hero, victim, villain. Love as a sword is sharp and luminous, projecting Promethean fire into the shadows, forcing us to see what we would rather leave unseen. It is not easy to wield; it requires clarity, courage, and a willingness to confront both ourselves and others without retreating into the comfort of absolutes. Feral justice teaches us to use this love to illuminate the path toward repair, to hold harm without abandoning connection, and to nurture transformation even when it is painful.

In this way, my dream of justice acknowledges the pain of rupture while insisting that such pain has its place in growth. It does not gloss over mistakes or rush to resolution. Instead, it demands we sit with discomfort, allowing it to guide us toward deeper understanding. Like the fungi connecting forests,it weaves together disparate lives into an interdependent network, where every story and every voice contributes to the whole. It recognizes that healing is not a straight path but a winding journey, filled with moments of chaos and unexpected turns. Justice, in this more savage vision, must create room for this organic process—a space where disorder and growth can coexist, much like the way a forest thrives on the cycles of decay and regeneration. It teaches us that healing doesn’t follow a script; instead, it emerges from the interplay of rupture, repair, and the pruccusion of forces which keep the rhythms of life.

Rewilding, then, is not just a return to the wildness of the earth but to the wildness within ourselves—the parts of us that resist being tamed, that ache for contradiction, that thrive in the tension of becoming. It calls us to sit with the more often untouched realities of life: that to grow, something must break; that to care, we must risk; and that justice, like the tangled roots of a forest, is strongest when it is messy, adaptive, and alive. Liberation does not come from control or dominance but from surrendering to this visceral power, a power that holds both the capacity to wound and the courage to heal. In rewilding ourselves, we reclaim the ability to belong fully—to the earth, to each other, and to the intricate, unrelenting dance of existence itself.

Unlike systems that aim to fix or control, feral justice learns from the wild’s cycles of decay and renewal. It embraces the grotesque as a vital part of transformation, finding beauty in the beastial and unsettling. It understands that love and justice, when rooted in the wilds, are not about perfection but about connection. This justice is not clean or orderly; it is messy, vibrant, and alive. It is the justice of the mycelium, of storms, of forests regrowing after fire—a justice that moves through cycles, unearthing new growth from the ashes of what once was.

This beast-born vision of justice invites us to reclaim our place in the natural world—to see ourselves not as rulers of it, but as participants within it. It asks us to embrace the intricate, messy dance of life and death, to honor the interconnected web of being, and to act with care and curiosity in all our relations. In doing so, it offers a path toward liberation, one that celebrates the wild, the liminal, and the unchained as essential to justice itself.

Rewilding the Narrative

Masks in Motion

Justice, as feral and cacophonous as the rhythms of a forest, thrives in the liminal spaces where narratives unravel and are rewoven into something wilder, more alive. To move forward, we must first confront the myths we tell ourselves—myths of saviors and silenced voices, of power granted and stolen, of an idealized Us forever at odds with a constructed Them. These stories do more than reflect the world; they shape it, binding us to systems of domination that disguise themselves as care, community, or love.

But like vines twisting through stone, these stories can be unraveled. In their undoing, they reveal the roots of relational justice—a space where agency is reclaimed, where silence can be a form of defiance, and where humility dissolves the binaries that divide us. Justice here is not about winners and losers or right and wrong but about the messy, transformative process of mutual growth. It invites us to see connection not as a tidy narrative but as a wild interplay of tensions, where contradictions are not failures but fertile ground for change.

The roles we cling to in these narratives—hero, victim, savior, villain—are not fixed truths but masks, worn in fleeting moments of need. A person might take on the role of hero when courage is required, or inhabit the role of victim in a moment of vulnerability. Yet, over time, we have flattened these masks into archetypes, reducing them to rigid identities. In doing so, we sever them from their purpose as tools for navigating relationships, transforming them into prisons of expectation. The hero must always save, the victim must always need saving, and the villain must always be condemned.

Masks serve as tools for navigating relationships, offering flexibility to adapt to different moments of need. However, when these masks become rigid archetypes, harm takes root. No one can wear the same mask forever, for the self is not static. Relationships shift, and so do the roles we play within them. A hero in one moment may need help in another. A villain may grow, reveal nuance, or disrupt the story written for them. But when we cling to these roles as absolutes, we deny the fluidity of human experience. We lose sight of the wild, evolving nature of connection, trading it for a brittle, fixed order that cannot hold the complexities of life.

Rewilding justice challenges these static narratives. It reminds us that masks are not identities but tools—temporary expressions of the roles we inhabit in specific moments. Justice, in this vision, is not a static performance but a living process, where roles shift, break, and are reimagined to meet the needs of the moment. A person may embody multiple roles at once, adapting to the wild interplay of connection and transformation. In this fluidity, justice becomes vibrant and alive—a space that holds tension, contradiction, and change without collapsing into rigid binaries.

This reframing also forces us to confront the value we place on these roles. Why do we insist on casting some as eternal saviors and others as irredeemable villains? What does it mean when a victim moves beyond their vulnerability and no longer needs saving? These roles, when idealized, lose their purpose. The hero becomes overburdened, the victim feels powerless, and the villain is denied the possibility of growth. Rewilding justice liberates us from these constraints, breaking the masks and reimagining them as flexible tools that reflect the evolving nature of relationships.

To illustrate how rewilding justice disrupts rigid roles, we turn to figures like Joan of Arc and Sir Gawain, whose stories challenge and redefine the boundaries of heroism, vulnerability, and power. Joan of Arc, through her defiant silence, refused to be a passive subject of patriarchal control, reclaiming agency and rewriting the script of heroism itself. Sir Gawain, in his encounter with the Loathly Lady, set aside dominance and allowed humility to guide him, creating a moment where shared power—not imposed authority—allowed justice to flourish. hese figures remind us that justice is not found in rigid roles but in the willingness to disrupt them, to hold space for transformation, and to reimagine what connection can look like.

In this rewilded vision, justice is not an endpoint but an unthethered, ongoing process—a dynamic interplay of relationships that resist simplification. It thrives in the gray spaces, where masks shift and fall, where growth emerges from rupture, and where the wildness of connection reshapes what justice can be. Here, amidst the tangled roots of being, justice pulses as a living force—unchained, unpredictable, and vital. It refuses containment, inviting us to embrace the discomfort and liberation of its wild rhythms, which hold the promise of transformation for both ourselves and our communities.

Joan of Arc: A Grotesque Beauty

In the smoke and chaos of the Siege of Orléans, with her white armor gleaming and her banner unfurled, Joan of Arc strode to the front lines, rallying troops with a defiant clarity that defied her youth and station. This pivotal battle marked a turning point in the Hundred Years’ War, where Joan’s leadership transformed not only strategy but the morale of a beleaguered army. Her story is one of striking audacity and defiance. Born into a world where young women were expected to remain silent, obedient, and unseen, Joan instead claimed a place of fierce visibility and power. At this time, France was fractured and demoralized, with much of the north under English occupation and the French king, Charles VII, struggling to secure his legitimacy. It was in this landscape that Joan, at just 17 years old, stepped into a knight’s role, not as a lone savior but as a rallying force, inspiring the French armies to fight for their own liberation during the Hundred Years’ War.

Context and Joan's Role

France’s fractured state and demoralized monarchy created a dire need for leadership. Much of the north was under English occupation, and King Charles VII’s legitimacy was in question. It was in this bleak landscape that Joan, a young peasant girl, emerged as a unifying force. According to military historian Kelly DeVries, Joan’s presence transformed the morale and confidence of her troops: “She raised the king out of the vast abyss on to the harbor and shore by laboring in storms and tempests, and she lifted up the spirits of the French to a greater hope.” Her leadership was not merely tactical—it was profoundly symbolic, rooted in her ability to inspire and ignite a shared vision of liberation.

Joan’s unwavering faith and determination reawakened a collective dignity long suppressed by occupation, freeing the people from the dehumanization imposed by their oppressors. For instance, after the liberation of Orléans, her presence at the coronation of Charles VII in Reims marked not just a political victory but a profound moment of national renewal, as the people witnessed the symbolic restoration of their king’s legitimacy. In doing so, she restored not just the authority of the king but also his place within a community whose strength and hope were inextricably linked to his own. Joan did not act as a servant of power but as a mediator of shared struggle and renewal, uniting the king and his people in a bond of mutual dependence. Her actions revealed that sovereignty and identity are not hierarchical but reciprocal: the king’s legitimacy was born from the people’s resilience, just as their reclaimed identity was forged in his ability to embody their collective spirit. Together, they were liberated, not as subjects and ruler, but as a people finding their voice again.

The Banner as a Tool for Collective Imagination

One of Joan’s most powerful tools for inspiration was her banner, a symbol that transcended its surface-level associations with Catholicism to become a vessel for collective hope and shared renewal. In the transcripts of her trial, Joan described it as “a banner, with a field sown with lilies; the world was depicted on it, and two angels, one at each side; it was white, of white linen or boucassin, and on it were written, she thought, these names, Jhesus Maria; and it was fringed with silk.” While its overt ties to Catholic orthodoxy were evident, the banner’s true power lay in its ability to evoke something greater: a shared vision of resilience and liberation.

For Joan’s troops, the banner transcended religious iconography to become a focal point of shared imagination. The lilies, traditionally symbols of purity, also embodied renewal and rebirth—concepts deeply resonant for soldiers reclaiming their homeland from years of occupation. The globe at its center, flanked by angels, suggested guidance and protection, representing unseen forces like justice and unity. For those who had endured the devastation of war, these symbols offered not just hope but a sense of belonging, connecting them to something larger than themselves and inspiring renewed strength in their struggle.

Crucially, the power of the banner lay in its flexibility. It did not impose a single narrative but created a space where soldiers could interpret its meaning for themselves. For some, it may have been a symbol of divine favor; for others, it represented the promise of a brighter future and the reclamation of dignity and identity stolen by years of occupation. Carried at the forefront of her army, it acted as a bridge—between the sacred and the mundane, between past suffering and future possibility—allowing soldiers to see their struggle as part of a larger whole without requiring them to conform to a singular belief.

Myth and Humanity

Yet, Joan’s influence resists reduction to simple heroism or sainthood. Her actions carried the weight of mythic resonance, yet they were firmly rooted in the intricate realities of her humanity. She was not a figure of unyielding perfection but a person navigating war, politics, and faith with conviction tempered by the constraints of her time. Folklore often seeks to capture this complexity, with tales of butterflies trailing her banner—symbols of transformation and resilience that mirrored the spirits she awakened in her troops. While apocryphal, these stories capture something essential: an etheric quality that placed Joan between the realms of the wild and the human, where ferality and fragility coexisted.

Joan’s story is not one of rigid sainthood but of a changeling who moved between worlds, embodying a wild-eyed humanity inseparable from myth. Her defiance against established hierarchies and her visceral connection to her troops revealed a leader who was neither distant nor detached. Instead, she wove the threads of the wild into the fabric of her leadership, creating a justice that was alive with contradiction and transformation. It was in this liminal space—between myth and reality—that Joan found her power, offering a vision of justice as both sacred and untamed.

Her fiery impatience with inaction was emblematic of this duality. During the march to Reims, Joan’s frustration with delays reached its peak. As Perceval de Cagny recorded, 

The Maid was very distressed at the lengthy sojourn which was made at that place because some of the men of [the king's] court counseled him not to undertake the road to Reims, saying that he had many cities and other villages closed to him, castles and fortifications well garrisoned with English and Burgundians between Gien and Reims. The Maid said that she knew this well and that she did not take any account of this. And in frustration, she left her lodgings and went to camp in the fields for two days before the departure of the king.

 This was not just an expression of solidarity with her troops but also a deliberate act of imputance—a defiant rejection of the purity and detachment embodied in the logos of upper hierarchies. By lowering herself, abandoning noble comforts, and marking her territory in the fields, Joan challenged the king to reckon with the immediacy of his troops’ lived struggles. Her defilement was an act of raising up—a ferocious declaration that shattered the abstractions of courtly deliberations and demanded recognition of the raw, experiential realities faced by her soldiers. This gesture disrupted traditional narratives of leadership, revealing a figure who used her empathy, defiance, and conviction in her will to demand not only action but the reimagining of leadership itself as rooted in horizontal relationality. In this moment, Joan became both guide and equal, embodying a leadership rooted in shared faith, urgency, and an unrelenting sense of purpose.

Her raw emotional responses further reveal this wild humanity. One of the most striking examples is within the testimony of the Duke of Alencon, “that ‘he had seen her at Saint-Denis . . . with her sword drawn, chase a girl [no doubt a prostitute] who was with the soldiers so that she broke her sword.’” DeVries interprets this account as both a testament to Joan’s spirituality and a possible reflection of her struggles with divine purpose—an attempt to reconcile her faith with the king’s refusal to support her assault on Paris. This moment captures the profound ambiguity of Joan’s character: was her outburst an act of faith, a display of zeal for purity, or a rejection of inaction that sought to challenge the divine will itself? 

Here, Joan is neither polished knight nor ascetic saint, but as a figure forged in contradiction. Her ferality resists categorization, existing in the liminal space between sacred devotion and defiance. She embodies a wildness that disrupts fixed roles, forcing those around her—and those who recount her story—to grapple with the complexity of her existence. In this duality, Joan stands as a human and a story, something sacred and profane, human and otherworldly.

Within these moments—her solidarity with her troops, her visceral emotionality, and her relentless conviction—Joan emerges as a chimera, a creature of dualities. She is human in her vulnerability and imperfections, yet wild in her ferality and defiance of societal constraints. The butterflies of her mythic legacy, often seen as symbols of transformation and purity, also carry a more visceral truth: they are filth eaters, thriving on decay to create beauty. This duality mirrors Joan’s own acts of debasement and defilement, which, far from undermining her purpose, marked her as a figure of transformative redemption through savagry. Joan’s story is not one of a saint detached from the world but of a changeling who moved between realms, forging her path through acts that both desecrated and sanctified. Her unregulated humanity—rooted in the shared struggles of those she led yet unrelenting in its ferocity—makes her a figure who continues to defy simple categorization, embodying the tension between the mythic and the real, the profane and the sacred.

White Knight No More

Joan’s role in battles such as the Siege of Orléans reveals her unique ability to inspire collective action. Unlike the archetypal White Knight—figures who dominate and impose under the guise of saving—Joan’s leadership was rooted in empowerment. Her banner was not merely a symbol but an invitation to rise, to fight, and to reclaim each soldier’s ability to overcome. Even when male commanders doubted her authority, Joan moved with conviction, rallying troops through her spiritual certainty and the strength of her presence. While she was not always directly engaged in combat, her position at the army’s forefront emboldened soldiers who might have otherwise hesitated. “She may have been just what the French military needed to regain its own confidence and composure,” DeVries argues, emphasizing that her leadership was as much about morale as it was about strategy. These victories, including the liberation of Orléans and others such as the triumph at Patay, were not acts of solitary heroism but collective achievements ignited by her unwavering belief in her mission. In this way, Joan rejected the savior archetype, offering instead a shared vision of liberation where justice grew through collective courage and mutual empowerment.

This defiance of imposed narratives became even more vivid during her trial, as Anne Carson explores in her essay Variations on the Right to Remain Silent. Her inquisitors demanded that she conform to “recognizable religious imagery and emotions,” presenting visions of angels or saints that aligned with established doctrine. They sought to mold her experiences into “a conventional narrative that would be susceptible to conventional disproof.” By refusing to reduce her truth to what Carson calls “theological clichés.” These clichés, which sought to simplify her testimony into established doctrinal patterns, represented the rigid theological narratives of her time. Joan’s resistance to them was significant because it maintained the authenticity of her visionary encounters, challenging the court's attempts to control her narrative and exposing the inadequacy of these frameworks to encompass the complexity of her truth. 

She described her voices as “an experienced fact so large and real it had solidified in her as a sort of sensed abstraction.” This abstraction, by its very nature, challenged the reductive narratives of her inquisitors, as it defied their attempts to impose finite meanings onto her experiences. The idea of a 'sensed abstraction' highlights how her voices occupied a liminal space, resisting confinement within doctrinal or logical structures and instead asserting a truth that was both deeply personal and universally elusive.

Joan’s resistance underscores Carson’s critique of language’s limitations by revealing how silence, interwoven with speech, can be profoundly generative. When the inquisitors pressed her to explain how she knew her voices were godly angels, she answered, “the light comes in the name of the voice.” Rather than offering a doctrinal explanation, this statement defied their expectations, refusing to reduce her experiences to those theological clichés. Her silence, shaped by what she left unsaid, became an active presence that enriched her words with ambiguities--- ones which resisted reductive interpretation. This interplay of voice and silence disrupted the inquisitors’ rigid frameworks, asserting a truth too expansive for  containment within any one given orthodoxy. Her banner, much like her enigmatic response, became a material symbol of this layered communication, while the butterflies of her mythic legacy embodied the transformative power of this ambiguity. By refusing to simplify her experiences, Joan bridged the human and the mythic, ensuring her story’s enduring evolution within the collective imagination.

In rejecting both the savior archetype and the confines of rigid language, Joan’s story challenges us to envision justice as something untethered from traditional frameworks of dominance and control. Her leadership and resistance manifest as feral justice: a dynamic force that thrives in the tension between ambiguity and clarity, refusing the false security of absolutes. Rather than imposing simplistic solutions, Joan’s approach to justice was fluid and relational, shaped by a commitment to connection and the courage to navigate contradictions. Her silences, laden with potential, extended her truth far beyond the confines of the courtroom or battlefield. Like her banner—a symbol both personal and collective—they carried her vision into the collective imaginal, where it continues to inspire a justice that is alive, evolving, and deeply human.

Through this interplay, the trial became a crucible where Joan exposed the failure of fixed language to encompass her truth. Her silence, laden with deliberate ambiguities, did not seek to transform into clarity but instead resisted conventional articulation altogether. Her steadfast answers became a defiant counterbalance to the rigid structures that sought to box her experiences into orthodoxy. This refusal to conform challenged not only her inquisitors’ frameworks but the broader patriarchal systems determined to silence her. In holding her ground, Joan created a space where justice was not codified into dogma but allowed to breathe—raw, exuberant in its petulence, and profoundly transformative.

Carson frames Joan’s resistance as an act of genius—what she terms “a rage against cliché,” a visionary process of disruption that preserved the full vitality of her lived experience. For Carson, genius transcends intellect, becoming a creative force capable of dreaming beyond the confines of fixed narratives. This visionary genius resists cliché, which Carson sees as the ossification of language, draining it of its capacity to evoke transformative possibilities. Joan’s defiance during her trial embodied this quality, particularly through her cryptic responses and charged silences, which fractured the reductive expectations of her inquisitors. Her statement, "the light comes in the name of the voice," became a luminous act of imaginal expansion, refusing doctrinal containment and gesturing toward a broader, more raw encapsulation of potentiality. By transforming the trial into a crucible of creative resistance, Joan’s visionary disruption opened space for new interpretations and possibilities, ensuring her truth could evolve and resonate far beyond the constraints of orthodoxy.

Joan’s rage can then be seen as not just defiance, but as a creative act of preserving the ambiguity and magnitude of her experience, forcing those around her to confront the inadequacy of their categories and assumptions. Her defiance unfurls as if walking a taut thread suspended in the void—each step demanding the audacity to balance between clarity and obscurity, the courage to embrace uncertainty as its own form of truth. This delicate equilibrium shaped perceptions of Joan’s leadership and resistance, where her refusal to conform embodied a justice alive with contradiction. Her ability to hold this tension transformed her into a figure of both inspiration and enigma, compelling those around her to reckon with the complexities of faith, authority, and defiance. 

Justice, in her movement, becomes a trembling dance—alive, kinetic, and ceaselessly recalibrating, a balance struck not in certainty but in the tension of contradictions. Her steps wove a delicate choreography, each motion embracing ambiguity while refusing the rigidity of fixed answers, echoing the intricate balance she held between silence and speech. It holds its integrity not in the stillness of fixed answers but in the tension of opposing forces leaning against each other. In refusing to provide answers that could be captured and tamed, Joan kept her truth shimmering at the edge of reach—a paradox of presence and absence that defied the patriarchal structures striving to contain her. Justice, as she embodied it, required this tension—the insistence that what is most vital cannot be pinned down, but must instead be lived in the delicate and dangerous act of balance.

Joan’s genius lies in her ability to navigate these constraints, turning silence into a form of resistance and self-definition. By refusing to submit to reductive narratives, she not only destabilized the structures seeking to dominate her but also redefined what justice could mean. Her defiance was a feral act—a refusal to be tamed by the oppressive frameworks that sought to contain her. Her actions exemplify rewilding as a radical reclamation of agency, breaking free from rigid binaries to return justice to a state of relational complexity and shared vitality.

Through her cryptic answers and deliberate silences, Joan preserved the ambiguity and power of her truth, embodying a justice that was alive, dynamic, and unrestrained. She rejected the hierarchical control inherent in the WK archetype, instead crafting a vision of leadership rooted in solidarity and horizontal connection. Joan did not merely inspire; she compelled those around her to confront the inadequacies of their categories and assumptions, making space for a justice that could not be pinned down but had to be lived in tension and contradiction.

Her legacy is not one of simple heroism but of Chimera—a grotesque and radiant amalgam of defilement and sanctity, defiance and devotion. Joan embodies justice as a feral force, one that claws its way out of the rigid binaries imposed by patriarchal and theological structures. She is not the pristine knight of moral absolutes, but a creature born of contradiction: saint and devil, martyr and warrior, changeling and beloved. Her justice is Luciferian beauty, weaving the decay of old orders into the blooming vitality of something new.

Joan’s defiance roars through the tension of her existence. She held the balance between clarity and obscurity like a dancer on a trembling tightrope, each step refusing the safety of stillness or certainty. Her silences, deliberate and sharp, were not voids but vibrant spaces where the inadequacies of her accusers' language and power unraveled. Her words, cryptic as they were luminous, refused capture, shimmering with the paradox of their absence and multiplicity. This is justice as a raw, living process—a chimera that snarls at the edge of the possible, challenging the comfortable. Her story invites us into this feral dance, into a justice that does not seek to purify or perfect but to hold all things—sacred and profane, grotesque and divine—in a trembling, uncontainable harmony. She is not a relic of a static past but a flickering vision of a world where justice is unrelenting, alive, and untamed.

Sir Gawain and the Loathly Lady: Rewilding Virtues

The tale of Sir Gawain and the Loathly Lady offers another compelling contrast to the White Knight archetype, illustrating the transformative power of humility and shared agency. I choose this story because the Knights of the Round Table serve as mythic archetypes, representing diverse possibilities of knighthood and challenging fixed assumptions about heroism. This tale disrupts idealized notions of chivalry by showing how knights can embody forms of heroism that are relational and transformative rather than static or one-dimensional. The narrative flexibility here reimagines knighthood as dynamic and collaborative, emphasizing how breaking away from rigid archetypes invites imaginal expansion and deeper expressions of justice and identity. By stepping outside formalized narratology, the tale critiques the tendency to confine characters within fixed roles, demonstrating how rewilding narratives can foster dynamic transformations. Characters like Gawain and the Loathly Lady exemplify this shift, challenging static roles and opening space for human connection and mutual agency to redefine justice in profoundly relational terms.

The story itself can be summarized as follows; One day while chasing adventure and mystery in the woods, King Arthur encounters a fearsome black knight who demands an answer to the riddle: "What is it that women desire most of all?" Failing to answer within a year and a day will cost Arthur his life. So of course, on a quest he must embark! Arthur and his loyal knight, Sir Gawain, search tirelessly for the answer, gathering countless responses—none of which seem certain. As the deadline nears, they meet a hideous old woman at a crossroads, the Loathly Lady, who claims to know the answer but demands marriage to one of Arthur's knights in return.

Despite her hideous appearance and the discomfort of others, Gawain steps forward, agreeing to marry the Loathly Lady in exchange for the answer and his king’s life. The answer, she reveals, is that what women desire most is “power over their own lives.” This answer saves Arthur’s life, but Gawain must now uphold his promise and marry her. On their wedding night, as they lie alone in bed the Loathly Lady surprises Gawain by transforming into a beautiful young woman, explaining that his willingness to honor his promise broke part of a curse binding her. She then gives Gawain a choice: she can remain beautiful during the day, when others will see her, or at night, when they are alone together. Instead of choosing, Gawain humbly relinquishes control and leaves the decision to her. This act of trust and respect breaks the curse entirely, allowing her to remain beautiful at all times.

Bakhtin’s Grotesque Body

Mikhail Bakhtin's insights on the grotesque, particularly from Rabelais and His World, provide a profound lens through which to interpret the divine elements embedded in the embodiment of the Loathly Lady from Sir Gawain and the Loathly Lady. Bakhtin’s study focuses on how the grotesque operates as a counter-narrative to classical aesthetics and hierarchical authority, emphasizing its roots in medieval and Renaissance folk culture. For Bakhtin, the grotesque body is both subversive and regenerative, challenging fixed boundaries and creating a space where societal norms can be reexamined and transformed. In Rabelais, he describes the grotesque body as a form of embodiment that is "unfinished, outgrows itself, transgresses its own limits." It exists in a state of perpetual becoming, refusing closure or confinement, and emphasizing a radical openness to the world and to transformation. As Bakhtin explains, the grotesque "brings together the earthly and the cosmic, the finite and the infinite, the bodily and the universal," indicating that the grotesque challenges fixed notions of identity and hierarchy, connecting cycles of decay and rebirth to an ongoing communal renewal.

For Bakhtin, the grotesque is far from being a mere visual disruption; it is an aesthetic that embodies the continual transformation of life itself. It is rooted in the principle of degradation, but not in a destructive sense—rather, it involves bringing down what is abstract, spiritual, or ideal into the realm of the earthly and the bodily. As Bakhtin puts it, “The essential principle of grotesque realism is degradation, that is, the lowering of all that is high, spiritual, ideal, abstract; it is a transfer to the material level, to the sphere of earth and body in their indissoluble unity.” This lowering of ideals into the material world is not an act of reduction, but of reimagination. The grotesque is not about pure ugliness but about transformation, constantly becoming, constantly in motion.

The grotesque therefore knows no fixed boundaries—nothing is static or finished. It is a realm of perpetual change, where old and new, death and birth, decay and regeneration are inseparably linked. As Bakhtin explains, the grotesque “reflects a phenomenon in transformation, an as yet unfinished metamorphosis, of death and birth, growth and becoming.” It embodies time itself, capturing both the end and the beginning of a cycle. It is ambivalence personified: holding opposites—decay and growth, the past and the future—at once. For Bakhtin, the grotesque’s ambivalence is its strength: it doesn’t resolve into one fixed form; instead, it opens up possibilities, offering a space where transformation can happen.

The grotesque, in this way, is about creation, about the potential inherent in everything, even in decay. It is the fertile earth, the womb, “always conceiving,” always in the act of becoming. The grotesque is not merely a critique of beauty, but a radical reimagination of what beauty, power, and identity can be when they are in flux, when they are open to transformation.

Grotesque Influence

In Bakhtin’s framework, the grotesque is a force that resists fixed identities, embracing instead the fluidity of transformation. The Loathly Lady embodies this principle of perpetual becoming, existing at the crossroads of beauty and ugliness, the sacred and the profane. She is neither fully one nor the other, but a figure who occupies an ambiguous space where transformation itself is the defining characteristic. With her “scaly skin,” “weeping sores,” and “mouth like a gash,” she is neither wholly beautiful nor entirely repulsive. Her appearance disrupts the expectation that beauty is a fixed, idealized state. Instead, she represents the process of becoming—transforming not just in physical appearance but also in power. By existing at the crossroads, she embodies the potential for change, where both decay and renewal are always in motion. The Loathly Lady is therefore representative of a figure in the act of becoming, fluid in her metamorphisis and timeless in her wisdom.

When Gawain refuses to choose for the Lady, he honors her not simply as a woman, but as a figure who transcends rigid identity. By leaving the decision in her hands, Gawain acknowledges that her power lies not in conforming to an ideal of beauty but in her autonomy—her ability to shape her own transformation, which is beauty in its own right. In doing so, he relinquishes control and respects her as a sovereign being, one whose identity is defined not by external judgment but by her own self-determination. Through this refusal to impose a fixed identity on her he restores her to a shining light.

Gawain’s act of humility here is not just a passive submission to her autonomy. Instead, it’s a recognition of the transformative power she holds, which invites Gawain into his own process of becoming. By refusing to choose whether she should be beautiful by day or night, Gawain opens himself to instability, acknowledging that this choice is beyond his control and could challenge his own social identity and physical desires. If she remains ugly during the day, Gawain’s reputation as a knight could be at risk. If she remains beautiful only by night, Gawain might be repulsed by her physically, disrupting his relationship to sexual pleasure. These are both situations that force Gawain to confront the instability in his own identity, desires, and social role.

This is where Gawain’s humility becomes active and significant: by allowing her to make the decision, he engages in a process of self-degradation—not in the sense of reducing himself, but in the sense of giving up control over an outcome that could cause him to be viewed as lowly, ugly, or debased It’s a conscious choice to step outside the rigid confines of knightly expectations and embrace the unpredictability that the Loathly Lady brings into his life.

In relinquishing control, Gawain opens himself up to transformation. His humility leads him through a process of personal change, where his identity is no longer defined by his status or external expectations, but by his willingness to surrender to the unknown. This process of degradation, as Bakhtin describes it, is not about diminishing oneself, but about embracing change, which ultimately leads to a new understanding of self. Gawain’s act of humility is not just about respecting the Loathly Lady’s autonomy—it is also about engaging with the uncertainty of his own life, allowing himself to grow and change.

By giving her this power, Gawain acknowledges that beauty, identity, and justice are not fixed concepts. They are fluid and ever-changing. The Loathly Lady’s transformation becomes a metaphor for Gawain’s own transformation: his willingness to embrace instability and uncertainty opens him to a more complex understanding of who he is.

The Lady therefore functions not as a passive object but as a mirror, reflecting and inviting Gawain into his own transformative journey. Their exchange is not just one of power—it is a reciprocal process where both of them engage in the fluidity of light and becoming, as seen in the Lady's transformation from grotesque to radiant and Gawain’s simultaneous internal reckoning with vulnerability and humility. This dynamic interplay illustrates how both characters embody the constant motion of change and mutual growth. Gawain’s humility, his choice to respect her autonomy, and his recognition of the complexity of identity and desire allow both him and the Lady to transcend the rigid boundaries imposed by society and chivalric ideals.

This mutual transformation, rooted in respect and humility, not only lifts the Loathly Lady’s curse but also liberates Gawain from the constraints of his idealized heroism. For example, at the story’s outset, Gawain’s agreement to marry the Loathly Lady is an act of martyrdom, a sacrifice made in adherence to the rigid chivalric ideals of loyalty and duty to Arthur. This action places Gawain within the framework of traditional heroism, where his worth as a knight is measured by his willingness to endure personal hardship for the sake of honor and justice in the name of his king.

As the story unfolds, however, this act of self-sacrifice takes on a deeper and more nuanced meaning. Gawain’s willingness to sacrifice remains, but it evolves beyond adherence to external, fixed ideals of chivalry and justice. Instead, these ideals are reimagined as dynamic and responsive, requiring engagement with ambiguity, relationality, and transformation. This shift represents a recursive blending of the hero archetype, where the static, one-dimensional knightly ideal gives way to a fluid, multifaceted identity. Gawain’s transformation reflects an emerging understanding of justice and identity as active processes shaped by life’s unpredictability and complexity.

In contrast to his initial view of honor and justice as rooted in service to the king, Gawain begins to see these values as inherent in all individuals, regardless of their status. He comes to recognize that sovereignty and worthiness are not confined to those who are high-born or royal but extend to all, even those who appear lowly, ugly, or degraded. This profound realization reshapes his understanding of heroism, as he now views each person as possessing a potential kingliness, deserving of respect and autonomy. Through her wisdom and challenge to his fixed identity, the Loathly Lady has therefore opened a space for Gawain to embrace the messy, transformative nature of humanity, breaking free from the static constraints of an idealized life.

Wild Honor: The Knight Reformed

This narrative illustrates a profound rewilding of the White Knight archetype. Traditionally, the White Knight represents a figure of unyielding ideals: unwavering loyalty, an unassailable sense of justice, and a duty to uphold honor in the name of a higher authority, such as a king. However, in Gawain’s journey, these ideals are destabilized and reimagined. The story challenges the notion that heroism must conform to rigid structures and instead suggests that true knighthood lies in navigating the complexities of relationality and ambiguity. This process breaks open the archetype, allowing it to evolve into a model of fluidity, humility, and mutual growth.

Gawain’s transformation demonstrates how the rewilding of the archetype fosters a deeper engagement with life’s inherent unpredictability. By stepping outside the traditional knightly paradigm, Gawain redefines heroism as an active process of negotiation and transformation rather than a static performance of chivalric virtues. This shift acknowledges the value of ambiguity and relational justice, moving beyond the binary of good versus evil or high versus base. Instead, Gawain embraces a mythos that is dynamic, rooted in respect for autonomy, and attuned to the complexities of being human.

The story’s critique of the WK archetype also underscores the limitations of fixed ideals in addressing the nuanced realities of sovereignty. Gawain’s recognition of the potential kingliness in all individuals, regardless of their status, disrupting the hierarchical framework that traditionally governs chivalric values. This genius not only liberates Gawain but also redefines the scope of justice as a relational and inclusive practice. By rewilding the archetype, the narrative reclaims it as a symbol of transformation and growth, adaptable to the ever-changing demands of life.

Ultimately, this reimagining offers a compelling vision of heroism as a collaborative and fluid endeavor. The Loathly Lady’s challenge forces Gawain to confront the limits of his own identity and ideals, propelling him into a process of mutual transformation that redefines what it means to be a knight. In rejecting static ideals, the narrative showcases how heroism demands both vulnerability and adaptability, qualities that allow Gawain to transcend societal expectations and embrace the unpredictable, relational nature of our interdependent existence.

This rewilding challenges us to rethink what it means to wear the mask of the Knight, highlighting the tension between the static ideals of traditional knighthood and the dynamic, evolving nature of a rewilded world. To rewild a knightly virtue is to infuse idealized perceptions with adaptability, a willingness to embrace ambiguity, and the courage to prioritize relational justice over rigid hierarchy. This process transforms the Knight from an enforcer of static ideals into a participant in dynamic, evolving systems of respect and sovereignty. In the context of the story, these systems reflect the reciprocal relationships that underpin true heroism—where virtues are not fixed traits but adaptive responses to the complexities of human experience and connection.

For example, one rewilded virtue we find in Gawain is humility—not as self-abasement, but as an openness to transformation and the recognition of the inherent worth of all beings. This contrasts with ideal humility, which often centers on submission to external hierarchies or adherence to prescribed notions of honor. Ideal humility positions the knight as a servant to rigid structures of chivalric duty, where personal sacrifice is framed as a demonstration of loyalty to king and country. In contrast, rewilded humility fosters a deep respect for the autonomy of others, exemplified in Gawain’s decision to let the Loathly Lady determine her own fate, an act that prioritizes mutual respect and relational growth over deference to societal expectations.

Another rewilded virtue demonstrated by Gawain is relational courage, which values engagement with life’s uncertainties and complexities over adherence to static principles. Unlike the ideal knightly courage, which is often characterized by unyielding bravery in the face of external threats, relational courage requires the knight to confront internal vulnerabilities and navigate ambiguous moral landscapes. This form of courage allows the knight to act with integrity even when the path forward is unclear, embracing the dynamic and transformative nature of human connection.

By embracing these virtues, the rewilded knight becomes a figure who thrives in the fluidity of human connection and change. They step away from the rigidity of singular ideals and move toward a practice of heroism that is alive, responsive, and deeply attuned to the needs of the moment. This is the ultimate lesson of Gawain’s journey: that heroism is not about perfection or control, but about the willingness to adapt, to grow, and to honor the interconnectedness of all beings.

What We Learned Today

Knight Rewild

Through our previous examinations, the White Knight archetype, once a static symbol of rigid ideals, emerges rewilded as a dynamic embodiment of transformation and complexity. Joan of Arc and Sir Gawain demonstrate how silence can disrupt entrenched power, how the grotesque can unveil unexpected beauty, and how relational justice thrives in ambiguity. Their stories remind us that true heroism is not found in perfection but in the willingness to adapt, to engage, and to grow. To rewild the White Knight is to reject binaries and embrace the fluid, unpredictable nature of becoming—a process that reinvigorates the archetype and keeps it alive in the evolving landscape of human connection.

By dismantling the rigid structures that have historically defined heroism, rewilding invites us to look beyond surface-level ideals. It compels us to see how strength can emerge from vulnerability, how transformation can arise from disruption, and how connection can flourish through mutual respect. The archetype is no longer a fixed role but a living, breathing process of engagement with the complexities of life and identity.

To Summarize;

Silence as a Force of Transformation

Silence in traditional narratives often signifies submission or weakness, but Joan of Arc redefines it as a form of resistance. Her refusal to adhere to theological clichés during her trial demonstrates the power of saying little yet revealing much. When pressed by her inquisitors to explain how she knew her voices were divine, Joan replied cryptically, "The light comes in the name of the voice." This statement, layered with ambiguity, turned silence into a fertile space for interpretive potential. Rather than conforming to static dogma, Joan's silence disrupted the structures of power and created a space for her truth to resonate beyond the courtroom.

Similarly, silence becomes a transformative tool in Sir Gawain’s journey. His humility, exemplified in his quiet deference to the Loathly Lady’s autonomy, reconfigures the dynamic of knightly power. Gawain’s silence is not passive but active—it allows space for relational justice to take root, where mutual respect and shared agency replace rigid hierarchy. In both narratives, silence becomes a roar, challenging fixed ideals and inviting transformation.

Silence, in these contexts, transcends its traditional associations. It becomes a medium through which agency is reclaimed and authority is subverted. For Joan, silence resists the reductive nature of theological interrogation, while for Gawain, it dismantles the expectations of chivalric dominance. Together, their silences create a new lexicon of power—one that values ambiguity, reflection, and the potential for change over clear, fixed answers.

The Grotesque as Renewal

The grotesque occupies a central place in rewilding the White Knight archetype. The Loathly Lady, with her “scaly skin” and “mouth like a gash,” embodies both repulsion and renewal. Her grotesqueness disrupts conventional notions of beauty, making room for a more dynamic understanding of identity. When Gawain respects her autonomy, her transformation from grotesque to radiant becomes more than physical—it symbolizes the power of mutual respect and humility to break curses, both literal and societal.

Joan of Arc, though not physically grotesque, similarly embodies disruption. Her gender defiance, military leadership, and spiritual conviction place her outside societal norms, rendering her “grotesque” in the eyes of her accusers. Yet, this otherness becomes her strength, forcing those around her to confront the fluidity of identity and the fallacy of rigid binaries. In both Joan and the Loathly Lady, the grotesque reveals a beauty that is not fixed but always in motion, alive with the potential for transformation.

Rewilding the grotesque also challenges the dichotomy of attraction and repulsion. In both narratives, the grotesque invites us to reconsider what we find beautiful and why. The Loathly Lady’s transformation is not merely a reward but a revelation of her inherent worth, untethered from societal expectations. Similarly, Joan’s defiance of gender norms compels us to see power and beauty in forms that defy conventional standards. Together, they reframe the grotesque as a space of possibility rather than a site of exclusion.

The Reconfiguration of Beauty

Rewilding beauty means seeing it not as a static ideal but as a site of rupture and renewal. For both Joan and the Loathly Lady, beauty is relational, rooted in respect and autonomy. Joan’s strength and conviction, though dismissed by her accusers, create a legacy that redefines heroism. The Loathly Lady’s transformation, catalyzed by Gawain’s humility, underscores that beauty emerges not from conformity but from connection.

This reconfiguration of beauty dismantles the idea that heroism must conform to perfection. Instead, it suggests that true heroism lies in embracing ambiguity and transformation, where beauty and power intertwine in dynamic, unpredictable ways. For Joan, her beauty is found in her commitment to genius—an unyielding devotion to her divine mission that transcends physicality and asserts a deeper spiritual and intellectual resonance. This genius, a force of conviction and creativity, disrupts conventional ideals of heroism by placing inner strength and purpose above external validation.

Beauty, in this context, becomes an active force rather than a passive attribute. It is not something bestowed or achieved but something that emerges through interactions and mutual recognition. This shift from static to dynamic beauty mirrors the broader rewilding of the WK archetype, where connection and growth take precedence over rigid standards of perfection.

The Rewilded Knight

Rewilding the WK archetype challenges us to rethink heroism itself. It transforms the knight from an enforcer of static ideals into a participant in evolving systems of respect and sovereignty. To rewild knightly virtues is to infuse them with adaptability, ambiguity, and relational justice, moving beyond rigid hierarchies to embrace the complexities of human connection.

For Gawain, rewilded humility means recognizing that sovereignty and worthiness are not confined to kings or noble-born but are inherent in all individuals. His journey teaches that honor and justice are not fixed ideals but dynamic processes that demand engagement with ambiguity. Similarly, Joan’s silence and defiance show how disruption can open pathways to relational justice, forcing a reimagining of power and autonomy.

To rewild the White Knight is also to redefine courage. Traditional courage often centers on the external—slaying a dragon, defending a kingdom, or standing steadfast in battle. Rewilded courage, however, looks inward. It is the willingness to face one’s own vulnerabilities, to step into the unknown, and to engage with the messy realities of relationality. Both Joan and Gawain embody this inward turn, showing that heroism is as much about inner transformation as it is about outward action.

Conclusion

To rewild the White Knight is to make justice a living force, a creative act that pulses with the unpredictable rhythm of human connection and transformation. Joan of Arc and Sir Gawain do not just redefine what it means to be a hero; they expand the boundaries of possibility itself. Their stories teach us that heroism begins not in perfection but in the courage to step into the unknown, where humility, adaptability, and relational justice thrive.

This rewilded archetype calls us not only to reimagine heroism but to embody it. How do we confront our own vulnerabilities and embrace the fluidity of identity? How do we foster relationships where power is shared, and transformation is mutual? The answer lies in daring to engage with life as it unfolds, untangling the static myths we have inherited and weaving something vital and new.

To rewild the White Knight is to stand at the precipice of tradition and leap into an untamed horizon, not into chaos but into a vision of justice that dances with ambiguity, thrives in complexity, and flourishes in connection. It is a leap of faith into the unknown, where courage is not a shield but a willingness to grow, and justice is not a throne but a shared path forged through mutual respect and transformation. This is not merely a narrative shift; it is a call to action, a demand for stories and lives that honor the beauty of becoming through tangible acts of courage, humility, and connection. This implies fostering relationships that prioritize mutual growth, to challenge rigid systems with adaptability and empathy, and to embrace the uncertainties of transformation as a source of strength. 

The rewilded knight does not fight alone but grows in relation to others, drawing strength from the shared struggle and renewal that comes with each step forward. It is an invitation to live with courage, as Joan did in her unwavering commitment to her vision, and to create with intention, as Gawain did through his acts of humility that prioritized relational justice. To honor their legacy is to recognize that transformation is not an isolated act but a collective endeavor, one that demands we challenge systems of power, reimagine beauty as a force of connection, and redefine justice as a shared, evolving practice. In Joan and Gawain's stories, we find not just a challenge but a luminous promise: that Knighthood is not a static ideal but a living, breathing journey of shared growth and boundless renewal.

Saúdo o povo de conscientização!
Salvé Pomba Gira Maraba! Salve Exu Lucifer!
Viva a revolução!

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