The Trickster Diaries/Epilogue, Part 1
The human condition is to seek tribal acceptance. The human potential is to crack through the illusion of tribe, brand, occupation, gender, genre, political affiliation, favorite band, movie, fashion designer, book—all the shit attempting to drag you this way or that, keeping you confined and surveilled, opinionated and needing, wishing, trying, lying, pretending, hoping for a cocksucking break.
Tough to even see the potential when the condition is designed to lock you up, keep you distracted with tech, sex, sports, politics, so on.
And it’s crazy to me that people want to fit in to a genre rather than create their own. Crazy that the Occupy Movement people, in truth, wanted to BE the 1%ers instead of those spilling their blood, trying to break the 1%er’s stranglehold on capitalism.
So, in the course of the 20 year memoir The Trickster Diaries explored, the overwhelming conclusion is that nobody breaks through, even when tribe is recognized for what it is. We’re just too embedded in the system. Too conditioned. Too afraid.
The difference between the mid ’90’s and now is the degree of the etherized sleep; the mirage of light at tunnel’s end exists right there on your keyboard, on your next upload of original art on sites like Ello (its blockage or promo a whim of internal tribalism).
So you bend your shit to fit. You switch genres, mood.
Then you post a completely plagiarized photo of splattered blood and add a completely meaningless caption and people go nuts. It’s reposted four times.
You’re one of them.
But, see, I’m not celebrating. Nor am I wondering WTF. I’m instead dealing with my latest sweetheart landlord, Laura, succumbing to the wishes of a Silicon Valley, SF residing millionaire, Doug, who’s given her an offer she can’t refuse.
Yep, my cat’s necks are on the line once again.
Welcome to 2018.