the spirit of the jaguar
this is the last day of my so-called holiday, alone, in the house that was once half mine — or to be more accurate, i used to owe half of what the house is worth to the bank. i wonder what makes owing a vast sum to the bank and working really hard to earn the money for the repayments each month such a popular pastime.
this is the second biggest furphy that has ever been sold to humankind : that being in debt is desirable.
the biggest furphy ever sold to humans of course was that you are indebted to god because he gave you Life, even though you didn't ask for it and you don't want it because being a human is mostly miserable as fuck, ah but then you see, when you're dead it will all be good and beautiful and you'll be happy.
i watched a documentary about the waorani people who live in the amazonian jungle in ecuador. they didn't buy it. five of the missionaries that went there and tried to sell it to them became subject to the spirit of the jaguar that lives in the waorani : they were speared by them and died.
even though i'm homeless, neither owing the bank any money nor living in a small room out the back of my mother's house is quite liberating.
i am starved of human contact, but most humans are so awful i don't want to have any contact with them. it is the 1% of humans that are not awful that i would like to connect with.
one of my favourite humans is back from their holiday in spain, in andalusia ... no wait ... catalonia where the pandemic is raging, so i don't get to see them for two weeks — or i probably should not see them for two weeks — but it's quite possible that human contact is more important than the pandemic.
another one of my favourite humans hasn't communicated with me for over a month. the last communication i received was just before i moved into a hotel close to where they live for three days so that if they wanted to see me it would be easy to do so.
and then i waited. many good things happened in those three days. i walked alone in the beautiful landscape all around there, ate a memorable meal cooked by someone who cares about food, had a superb haircut by someone who cared, just long enough, about my head, they reminded me of oren ambarchi, and i wrote thousands of words, but they did not come to see me.
i said that i wouldn't be disappointed and i was not. and i was not humiliated. to be humiliated takes two (or more) people. one to do the humiliating and the other to be prepared to be humiliated and to experience it as humiliation — and neither of those conditions were met so : no humiliation. i worked that out with one of my other favourite humans this week.
in my book i wrote something which someone i like and respect took issue with, about humiliation. i wrote that you can only be humiliated if you allow yourself to be humiliated. they strongly disagreed.
so what makes a person allow themselves to be humiliated?
in the documentary they talk to the son of one of the missionary killers and ask, what happened to him? in the end he laid down his spear, the son says, and became a believer. and now he loves god and jesus.
i am sad. what happened to the spirit of the jaguar?
i guess if you believe in one kind of spirit, it's not such a big leap to believing in another one. i wonder if he's got a mortgage now too?