The Trickster Diaries/Epilogue, Part 5
Jones was right. Again. Everybody was damaged. But I didn’t feel that way because of glaucoma, a dysfunctional childhood, unrequited love, physical or psychological trauma, etc.. Stagnation and compromise—conditions typical in cats my age—were responsible, and had settled in only because I’d failed to do the crazy shit that felt right despite its illogical, impractical, seemingly futile nature.
And because I’d foolishly listened to people who cared about me.
Time to change all that.
Jones: That’s your backup. It’s always there, the wilderness. But right now, man, it is fucking COLD out there.
Me: Uh huh. And that’s what life’s about, right? Comfort—soft cushions and delicious dinners— as opposed to a direct encounter with the nagual, the unknown?
Jones: No. Of course not. I hear you, amigo. I truly do. Just don’t jump on it till you need to, till nothing better or unexpected between now and the time you’re forced to leave materializes. That’s all I’m saying.
Me: Ray Davies for president.
Jones: Ray Davies for president. A-fucking-men!