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Worshipping Lali

The rise of tricksters

I suppose that one of the less obvious signs of civilizational decline is the rise of tricksters. Tricksters are stewards of queer hope, coaxing us away from safe grounds to the monstrous ambiguities of being more fully present. The disturbing mist in the way. The comedic is not merely about laughter, it’s about accounting for the awkward. Acknowledging limitations. Thwarting the tried and true. Perverting the obvious. So, when things start to get irresistibly funny; when what was once serious and absolutely certain becomes a caricature of itself; when what feels true is spoken from the mouths of jesters and ‘lies’ becloud the wisdom of the wise; when the sentences of the normal start to sound like gibberish; when the righteous spear tips of fundamentalism become the blood-stained claws of unbridled hate; when differences become weaponized territories; when nuance is sacrificed at the guillotine of political convenience; and, when ‘reason’ itself bends over backwards to touch his own private parts, look for cracks in the pillars. Look for the trickster: run to the safety of trouble. A happy chuckle precedes the lightening bolt that kindles the fire – for those whom the gods wish to kill, they first make mad – with ecstasy.

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Falling might very well be flying – without the tyranny of coordinates.