Anonymole – apocryphal agitators

Blackfoot, Pawnee, Cheyenne, Crow, Apache, Arapahoe…

The reality of tribes is sadly unavoidable in discussing the troublesome “social animal” design (flaw) of our species, but it’s something that makes me feel a little gross whenever I talk about it.

If you interpreted that to mean that I personally find people to be gross, that’s not too far off the mark.

Of course, we all have an ever-shifting assemblage of tribes to fulfill our strange need for a consensus.  As you accurately surmised, my current circle of influence is relatively small, and the most significant constituent of those interlocking associations happens to be a dog.  In high school, I fell in with a singularly bizarre and fiercely independent group of friends who stayed in touch far longer than one might expect post-graduation.  In recent years, it seems we’ve all realized the wisdom in finally cutting that umbilical, but a few remain close friends.  In the late 80s, our common bond was a ludicrous sense of humor and an affinity for partying.  These days, the only sure common bonds that remain are bilateral symmetry and opposable thumbs.  Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.  Regardless, much of their former influence has proven indelible.

I’ve had my drinking tribe that necessarily moved on once I stopped imbibing.  The specifically non-drinking “recovery” tribe with whom I briefly fell in at that point quickly proved far too insipid and childishly religious for my tastes.  I’ve inadvertently found myself in the midst of other appropriate tribes revolving around punk rock, writing, philosophy, Buddhism, shared political views, and terrible Nickelodeon shows.  I am a person and I am not quite a hermit (yet), so all of this is naturally par for the course.

But as you alluded to in the final paragraph of your letter, the word itself with its newly odious sociopolitical implications makes me bristle at its very utterance.  I remember just a few short years ago, I often found it cute when another blogger would refer to their readership as “their tribe”.  It was relatively innocuous and seemed to foster a sense of inclusion and acceptance.  I no longer find it cute.  It’s gross.

I don’t consider co-workers to be a tribe.  Generating income in a soul-crushing job is the new pursuit of former hunter-gatherers, and the randomness of a company’s staff coupled with the involuntary nature of having to work for a living takes the common bond tribal aspect right out of it.  It can be a tribe if you’re lucky enough to enjoy the company of your fellow automatons, but I would guess that this is a comparative rarity.

People will continue to float in and out of my life for as long as I continue inhabiting this planet.  I try not to attach to them.  Emotional independence is literally all I’ve got going for me.

I also have a very short attention span, my recent monomaniacal blog page notwithstanding.  Usually, within a pretty short time frame, I can extract all the inspiration, education and camaraderie that I seek from a person.   After that, I simply remember them fondly as having been among that rarest of tribes: people who don’t make me want to vomit.  Is it any surprise I’ve never had the desire to marry?

I know that some of this might sound pretty cold, but I venture that it’s true of all of us, to varying degrees.  Embracing an ever-shifting cast of characters while former tribe members necessarily fall off is a form of non-attachment and as such, seems to be a somewhat healthy psychological outlook.

Do you, like me, secretly admire the simple and the stupid?  They may need bigger and more clamorous tribes than you and I, but I also surmise that most of them are considerably happier.  Am I just jumping to arrogant conclusions when I assume such things or do you agree that the bigger one’s intellect, the more potential for depression and existential ennui?

Does my aversion to social media have anything to do with my ever-increasing lack of tolerance for my own species?

Forget that last question, I don’t care if it does.

Fuck Zuckerberg,

‘Mudge

Does complacency equate to surrender?

I must admit that your seemingly straightforward query presented quite the stumper for me.  After several unsuccessful attempts at answering your question as posed, I realized that I view this problem in reverse, asking instead, “Does ambition equate to surrender?” since the world at large seems determined to dutifully fulfill their “societal obligations”, probably owing to the fact that a willful lack of ambition is what’s truly anathema in our collective finger-wagging discourse.  Or, if you prefer, the reworked question could be phrased: “Do you have the balls to do nothing?”

Apparently, I do, because I managed to avoid working a single day in 2019.

Every year, I buy a new wall calendar to hang in the kitchen.  Last year, appropriately enough, it was this:

This year, I realized that if I’m to suspend disbelief and embrace the humanity in my DNA enough to enjoy the new year in ways that go beyond bong hits and iCarly marathons, a different type of wall calendar message for me to superstitiously consult would be in order.  I settled on Rick & Morty, but as soon as I opened it and hung it on the wall, I saw January’s message of surprising and hopefully prescient profundity:

And that’s really it, isn’t it?  When we know nothing matters, which we of course do, then The Universe is ours.

Can’t wait to see what you choose to do with it, ‘Mole.

In A Single Atom,

‘Mudge

Now that the remains of the Saturnalia dinocrow have been swept into the trash bin, it seems appropriate for me to blow off a little steam here on your page which is far more conducive to acute cynicism than my own.

Elevating Pagan beliefs above those of the Judeo-Christian crowd seems a bit like extolling the virtues of Scientology over those of EST – in other words, it feels like an emotional splitting of hairs to select the most suitable fairy tale for one’s innate proclivities.  Regardless, I do acknowledge the comparative lack of aggression in the nature-worshipers of old, and that’s no small thing.

I say that it’s no small thing, of course, because no group is more responsible (aside, perhaps, from former KGB operatives) for the current ascendancy of fascism in the U.S. than those who claim to base their lives on the moral code expostulated by “The Prince of Peace”.  Ironically, these are the same people who scream the loudest about the evils of radical Islam, often referring to it as the most significant threat to our species.  Hogwash.  If these people had any self-awareness, they’d realize that the radical, perverted strain of Islam that inspires global acts of terror is the perfect religion for them.  It’s got everything they love: monotheism, rigid power structures, self-righteous judgment, holy wars, misogyny, homophobia, megalomaniac preachers, and of course – HATE, HATE, HATE.  What more could they want?  I know why American “Evangelical Christians” are so triggered by radical Muslims: envy, plain and simple.  Give them the theocracy they so obviously crave and voila – they will find themselves on the same fertile ground for religion-inspired totalitarianism as their alleged enemies currently enjoy.  And let’s face it, we’re just one election away from that being a reality.

So, yeah, my tolerance for the terminally religious is at an all-time low.

Regardless, 2020 is going to be an interesting one.

Take your protein pills and put your helmet on,

‘ Mudge