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The Virtually Automotive Jello of the Civilized Whitebread Television Now

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Tattooed limbs; painted faces; body-piercing ornaments; ritualistic dances through the mystic night to pounding primitive rhythms; native dress; painstakingly patterned hair; eyes with the gaze of the jungle; spirit-based, esoteric language; loss of tradition looming as they struggle to preserve their dying heritage— you see the tribe every day at the mall.

We’ve all been tribally young on our ways to middle age, the apparently brand-new ontogeny recapitulating what turns out to be the same old phylogeny as we pass all too briefly through our primitive origins on our unwilling way to assimilation in the macrocosmic melange that the present has become, the defanged, declawed, virtually automotive jello of the civilized whitebread television now, where we status what’s left of our quo wondering what the hell ever happened to the world we used to know in that heart of our hearts, missing those good old days when there weren’t yet any good old days, when reality was what reality had always been, right on the mark and no mistake, when every blade of grass had meaning and every eye shone with spirit that had substance, if not reason, and required no justification.

Yes, we were once all untelevised tribespersons, to be virtually automotively politically correct; and in deep in that aforementioned heart of our hearts we still are tribespersons, despite our transmogrification into ingredients of said virtually automotive jello of the civilized whitebread television now.

This explains that secret calling you’ve been feeling from out there in the dark beyond the edge of your career; the ceaselessly pounding drums at the core of your merely quantifiable bank account; the primitive melody welling up from far below the bottom line; the enchanting shimmer that draws your eyes toward the depth among the remaining trees, yearns your legs toward the forest path; it’s your phylogeny on hold on the other line; you gonna pick it up or what?

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