Cream Scene Carnival

When the Trickster starts a-walking
He sends the whole world askew
Just when you think that it’s all through
Its just a birth of something new

When our Dad was in a coma, we read to him. I bought a soothing stack of Amy Tan because he’d once read the Joy Luck Club, aloud, while following me around the house. Sky read The Fight Club. The nurses thought our father might disapprove of our reading materials, which made us laugh. (I digested Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, while Dad read over the phone, during one long never-ending night, that was followed by a vegetarian phase.)

Outside the hospital, for a smoke break, Sky shared the part of Fight Club where Chuck Palaniuk says that our version of God is our father.

I’d never heard anything more true. By then, I was well into my own personal “religion” which is simply to invite trickster energy into my life, to deliberately put myself at the crossroads. The main benefit of this is that I get warnings when I’m on the wrong path. I will likely ignore those warnings, because human beings often want wrong things. If I ignore the sounding for long enough, I get an absolutely epic ass-kicking, which maybe you’ve never had your ass kicked by a seven tailed fox, but it’s brutal. I am always somewhat jubilant when this happens. If I won’t hear the truth, I will WITHSTAND it. 

Sure, I get it. I sound like a nut. But I promise  ya, the trickster has poked around in your life too. Eshu isn’t a vampire. He does not require an invitation.

The mythic trickster exists across many cultures, all over the world, and when he comes a’poking, he fucks with us on a cultural level. 

Let’s imagine America going to a tarot reader. Since we’re personifying her, let’s dress her up in juicy couture with a Gucci purse and 900$ manolos. America drives a Hummer, of course. Straight away, she pulls the tower card. Why? Because she’s an asshole. Because she’s too high above the earth. She’s hoarding wealth and goodwill. She wants all the fossil fuels for herself. 

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing divine about terrorism, but we can’t pretend that we weren’t dicks. Two towers – like two middle fingers – a big fuck you to the rest of the world. I sometimes find it helpful to interpret cultural events the way I might read an esoteric text. I try to notice the repetition of patterns or the modern equivalent of sacred symbols. It’s interesting to assess our environment as we might interpret a dream or a Jungian vision.

There’s not an actual physical trickster running amok and causing trouble.

(Well, there might be one, but he’s a straight up tool. A sleeper agent of chaos.)

I don’t believe in god or gods either, but I believe in storytelling. I believe in patterns, myth, and art. I believe in the power of suppressed energy as it resurfaces – and it always does. 

The trickster calls bullshit. 

Palahniuk says our version of God is our father …

While staying at a fancy hotel in Santa Fe, Dad urinated on an ancient Navajo rug. He was blotto. Banned forever. Mom was mortified. She still talks about that night. I always laugh, because it’s classic. Right outta trickster myth!

If Coyote is your dinner guest, the fucker will piss on your sofa.

It is known.