Life and death

You never know when the reaper calls you. Sometimes, it's a bit more obvious. When my father died, he just went to the hospital one weekend, and on Monday I heard about him passing away. When my brother died of lung cancer, it was less sudden. I had months of denial until I realised how deadly lung cancer is. Luckily, I had a chance to see him before it happened, to have the chats needed in the moments of lucidity while he was sedated with morphine.

Both of them didn't make it to 50, and appeared in my dreams afterwards. While I decided not to worry about my own death, the process of dying, potentially dragging on for months, doesn't sound pleasant at all. I was on the other of the globe while my mother lost her battle against cancer and chemotherapy, witnessing on the phone the turn from optimism to giving up.

Our society doesn't appreciate death, and sometimes just admitting that some of my relatives exited this existence made me feel like an outcast. I didn't really celebrated my 50th birthday much, although I cherished somehow staying for longer in this existence than two out of three of my closest male relatives. Average life expectation doesn't mean much, as millions of people make it up. Individual lives end at some point, below or above this average.

The first funeral I attended since decades brought my own strange relation to death back home, while at the same time aligning it more with my firm believe in reincarnation. We danced, and drank, and had a massive party, to celebrate the member in our midst who was gone. Yet I didn't yet dare to talk his immediate family how they coped with the hole ripped into their lives since then.

Today I found out that the best friend I had in Europe kicked the bucket. He contacted me less than half a year ago to notify me of his battle of cancer, and our last conversations were online. He also appeared in my dreams, but I missed the opportunity to hear his voice before it happened. He died just a day after I found out that my favourite niece was diagnosed with lung cancer.

My niece is in her mid thirties, and maybe the only person I witnessed from birth to adulthood. The last time in went back to Europe was mainly to say hello to her first daughter, as I knew that I wanted to stay in Australia for good. I vaguely remember seeing some bits and pieces I gave her before leaving Germany back then.

Call me old-fashioned, but I don't value "remote" communication, be it phone or social media, as much as face to face. Back when only landline phones were used, I knew how much one could fake it. I still felt compelled to phone my niece, and was surprised about the familiarity of her voice, and how connected I felt while hearing about her journey.

She sent me link to her instagram after our conversation, and that blew me away. She memed her fight against her cancer, which allowed me to see a recent photo. It took me some days to check her account (I'm over facebook, which owns instagram, and no longer much into "social" media). What I found, though, filled me with pride. When I left my home country, I gave her some things I didn't want to throw away.

Seeing these items being posted online, more than decade later than when I left them, made me sentimental. My mother inculcated the importance of family into me, so while my niece grew up, I always intended to influence her in a positive way. I gave her books and mixtapes, lend an ear to hear about her struggles and dreams, wanting to be the crazy uncle supporting her to become the best she wants to be, telling her wild stories her parents probably wouldn't have approved.

It breaks my heart seeing her fighting a potentially lethal cancer. Her artwork, like most visual art, offers an insight to her soul. I don't even know when she started drawing, but it looks like her art made it onto t-shirts and tote bags, and to prominent places in her home. As I love immediacy of interaction, I lost track about someone my heart is connected to. Yet losing someone until the next reincarnation takes more than I take at he moment.

Going feral

While I was still working in the distribution warehouse next door, I tended the front yard garden for pleasure and as immediate therapy. Digging my hands into the soil, watching the variety of plants flowering, growing and attracting bees helped me to cope with a boss who seemed to miss the good old times of feudalism. Gardening combines the pleasures of immediate and delayed gratification. Picking a tomato or passion fruit, munching on some fresh parsley, mint or pineapple sage gives a hit of pleasure straight away, establishing some new plant in the mixture and waiting for it to thrive works on delayed gratification.

Pottering about the front yard also provided a great opportunity to get in touch with the neighbourhood, invite them to help themselves to some fresh produce, and have a friendly yarn about what else goes on in the unmarked yet busy place. I intended to create an appealing space, mainly to balance the never ending disorganised chaos which still typifies the remainder of the space.

After all, the company hiding in this massive warehouse markets itself as sustainable operation, engaged in saving the planet and community building. So converting a trashy bit of green strip into a lovely, thriving patch of greenery felt like the right thing to do. Having no pet myself, and believing the marketing spiel kept me on the ball creating a good first impression for visitors fitting the bill of the way the company, or rather its founder and boss, present themselves.

The neighbourhood undergoes quite some massive changes due to gentrification, but most people I got to know while living here where those in for the long haul. I sure noticed some faces which moved into some of the new developments which sprung up lately, yet most of those engaging as neighbours might stay for longer than me. Not only did I quit working next door, our house will be sold soon which means I have to move on. That's another story, which hopefully will have a happy ending.

What a sight

Gardens need tending, even if they have been set up with some permaculture ideas. The mild climate means that any spot which can grow something will be taken over by abundant weeds floating around. The rosemary, which survived probably already for a decade in the front yard. might need no help surviving, but besides this, things go pretty wild. The ivy growing along the fence to the neighbouring property will soon shade out everything beneath it, the passion flower is about to take over the pineapple sage, the ground covering succulent certainly stopped the comfrey from brandishing the abundance of purple flowers which attracted many bees last year.

While the patch isn't that big, it would take probably a day or two of pruning, weeding and mulching to get it back into a presentable and pleasant state. Of course, without caring about the more thirsty plants, a single intervention would probably just help for a month or so, but then, my time here is limited. And it seems like my former boss cares more about his social media image than the impression his place of business gives.

Feral and uncared

My offer to improve the first impression about his space were declined, mainly because of a ridiculous grief over my house mates dislike about the frequent use of the warehouse as entertainment place. A single one star review of his business sparked a conflict which nearly led to mutual intervention orders. While I did my best to remain neutral, I'm now blamed not for bringing my housos in line with his demands, and have to suffer from minor irrelevant consequences of his wrath.

The care about the real life impressions of a feral front yard reflects his care about the "community" he's trying to build. Being present and approachable in front of the warehouse meant that neighbours approached me, but not everybody in earshot of his enterprise is willing to show their dismay about the noise pollution coming from his space. At least not in person. After all, it takes some courage to rock up in the middle of a night to tell a bunch of pissed people that you'd like to have some peace and quiet late at night.

My housemate approached the ongoing noise pollution in a reasonable way, trying to engage the people in a face to face conversation and asking to tone it down. After some unpleasant (and later quite intimidating) responses, she decided to leave a one star rating with the comment: "Would give zero stars if possible." That's when things started to escalate, luckily not to the level of physical violence.

As a single review is obviously capable of single-handedly bringing down an entire business, my former boss knocked fiercer than police on our door, and took about a minute to lose his shit, demanding to remove this review, or else... We managed to ask him to leave and take his temper tantrum with him. As response, he used the A-board, often illegally (without council permit) placed on the pavement, to leave a message: "My neighbour doesn't like music and writes negative reviews on social media. He now gets a concert everyday until he deletes his review. Requests? @nameomittedcozYoucanresearchifyouwantto"

That happened about a month ago, and while I had some relatively normal conversations with him in the meantime, I noticed the grudge he still held today when offering some gardening services. I was surprised, mainly because I had no idea about the other social media stuff which happened since then. He complained bitterly on facebook about the uptight neighbours trying to limit his "right to party" whenever he wants to, and begged his abundant fb followers to leave positive reviews of his business.

I admit, as immediate neighbour I got sometimes annoyed by the random party noises coming from next door, and even while still working there, I sometimes called/texted asking to tone the noise down. In real life conversation, I suggested sound-proofing, as I was certain that our house couldn't be the only one affected. Which seemed an outrageous suggestion, because "all the neighbours love him, just our house causes trouble".

So when I checked out the google reviews again today, I couldn't help but revel in a bit of schadenfreude. When my housemate left her review, the company had maybe a dozen reviews, the oldest from 2 years ago. When I was working there, I served maybe about 100 people in person, dealing with 1,000s of mail orders. Most people didn't bother with a review, and I guess most people didn't check it to decide whether they would come or not.

Now it's a whopping 54 reviews, not even half as much as a Cafe in the same street which opened a couple of years ago. Unsurprisingly, most of them happened about a month ago, some of them explicitly referring about the nasty neighbours. Niall wrote: "Ignore all these 1 star reviews! **** **** ***** is the best! These immature bully boy tactics because a disgruntled man-baby doesn’t like live music! Wow! Support local, listen to loud music! And number 1 allways love! Not hate!" While he might have checked in this year, I haven't seen him in the neighbourhood for a long time, so I guess his, and his girl friends review reflect facebook solidarity.

Another item of this kind of solidarity: "These guys ran a fundraiser for my friends at their warehouse, and now the neighbour is getting their friends to write fake reviews? I rate that 0 out of 5, and the good people at **** **** 5 out of 5." Hmm. If I find someone offering their space for free to raise funds for a theme camp for a festival (remember, parties are totally sustainable and the best way to change the world for the better), and probably throws some free drinks in the mix, I would absolutely vouch for him.

As mentioned, part of the image of social engagement, and image building works out on social media. "Amazing ********. Wonderful social events. Proprietor is a real environmental activist and a generous kind-hearted gregarious human being" I don't know whether this poster is aware that the warehouse is in a residential area, without liquor license and not classified as entertainment venue. Many of the former, quite fast changing employees might disagree with "kind-hearted", but then, I'm biased.

"Social events" often need a lubricant, and bribing with free booze works like a charm. Yet even pubs are well aware that it's better to have their drunken patronage indoors after 10pm. Well, that doesn't apply to this warehouse, and so unwillingly listening to highly intellectual conversations of pretty pissed people often continued long after midnight.

Another commenter also has nothing but praises: "Great tasting ******** made ethically; solar powered and empty bottles can returned to place of purchase and will be reused.
Be dubious of negative reviews, as they may have ulterior motives."

While the bottles were indeed (illegally) reused up until about two or three years ago, this practice has stopped. Unlike the marketing for it. One of the reasons I stopped working in that place was the obvious discrepancy between what's on the label and what actually happens. Don't get me wrong, I appreciated the maverick approach to wash and reuse bottles, and private customers might still get a refund. But just like the front yard, the ethics have gone a bit feral.

Dying and disrespected

So let's have a look at the "ulterior motives" for negative reviews. In my naive view, community literally begins next door, in your immediate neighbourhood. Online communities, just like party communities, seem a bit vapid to me. They might sometimes offer similar benefits like real life communities. I'm totally willing to believe that, despite not having experienced it. Being the old fart I am, I dearly miss the social glue I experienced before the rise of mobile phones and social media.

What do actual neighbours of this company say? "Deplorable people who disturb the peace of neighbours due to “bad comments”. Don’t know how old the people who operate the place are but they need to grow up and not create a public nuisance of themselves in the neighbourhood". This surely sounds like someone having read the sign mentioned earlier. "Not very nice humans operating a business, you need to be able to work with the community not against it." Olivia certainly seems to have doubts about the "community building" aspect of this business.

Paul writes plain and simple "Respect your neighbors." Which just sounds to me like he lives close enough to have an opinion about the things happening in the warehouse. Greg leaves no doubt that he lives close to the place where beautiful social events happen. "About time people spoke up about these idiots, I have two young kids and live within ear shot of that place and for years we have had to listen to foul language and vile and degrading comments made to other people coming from that place, all while hiding inside that building. Don't know whether they have the mind set of a bunch of three year old's or if they really are a bit simple, most people in the area despise them and ignore/avoid them, there have been countless complaints made to both council and police about them over the years, sooner those supremacist are gone the better." (emphasis added by me)

I haven't met Greg, probably because he might associate me with the warehouse, and therefor ignores/avoids/despises me. No hard feelings, especially as he voices something I tried to communicate to my former boss for some years, without any success. However, it seems like even some random visitors have some doubts about the loving, beautiful people working in that warehouse... Stu writes: "Really friendly people as long as your not Black Asian or gay" and gets immediately backed up by Sally: "Well put Stu, I have heard some of the most derogatory comments directed at people coming from that place"

Just like the comfrey in the corner of the front yard, I guess I'm burned in the neighbourhood. I was visible a lot while I was working in the warehouse, tending for the front yard on a near daily basis. Most likely I will be associated with the nuisance it caused over the years to those "living within ear shot of that place". This attempt to settle down and engage with my neighbours didn't work out. Then again, I will have to move out soon anyway, without even knowing whether my strange situation will allow me to find a roof over my head at all.

The uncertainty about my future does my head in. I learned to appreciate gardening, hanging out with our shared pet, becoming local. I feel as connected to this place as I felt to the place I grew up in. I can only hope not to get as feral as the front yard garden I set up.

To be or... to do

Sometimes, asking for advice just happens to deflect responsibility. Sometimes, it happens out of cluelessness. Sometimes, it doesn't happen at all, instead, the hodge-podge of ancient unsolicited advice just crawls out of the crevices of my memory.

As I spend already quite some time on this planet, I had plenty of times being "unemployed". Most of them didn't bother me much, as I had enough resources to pay my bills and have some fun. This time, I came full circle. Just like before I started working, I'm broke af. Unlike then, there's no one I know to help me out, and not only my age limits how I can potentially make some coin again. Dole isn't an option, and after having spend some time homeless the possibility to lose the roof over my head doesn't entice me at all.

After some rather unpleasant way of earning money, I nearly processed the PTSD related to it and I'm willing to move into the next adventure. How to go about it still puzzles me. Initially, I envisaged offering my services as healer and teacher, promoting these with workshops I held. I underestimated the difficulties to find participants for workshops using traditional ways of advertising. While I gave up fairly soon, it just prevented me from spending more money than I made, and limited my frustration about the downward trend of interest I noticed. I did, and I failed.

Besides this, I spend lots of time to offer my artwork on the street, at least while the weather permitted it. I had moderate success, by far not enough to pay bills, but I thoroughly enjoyed most of the time I spend like this. I was, and I didn't really succeed.

As I grew up in a protestant family, I have no trouble with protestant work ethics. In most jobs I provided those who paid with good value for money, and usually didn't shy away from putting the hard yards in if required. While I pride myself for my professional attitude, I rarely had occupations worthy of putting my heart in. Mostly I felt like a prostitute despite not giving sexual services.

I spend more time in the same place with my last job, mainly because I wanted to believe to work at a place which is part of the solution, not the problem. However, that was just part of the potential of this company, definitively part of its marketing strategy, but not the reality of day to day proceedings. I did as much as I could, but I had to realise that image was more important than facts.

I listened quite a bit to Jordan Peterson lately, and he would advise to do, just like many others prescribing hard work as necessity to succeed. I require only moderate "success", as my material desires have decreased, paying my bills without prostituting myself seems well achievable. All I want is to maintain my integrity.

From a spiritual point of view, the advice was distinctly to be. I undeniably feel attracted to this approach, but I struggle to develop sufficient trust, despite affirmation from my subconscious. I do no longer want to "make things happen", as this led only to ego-driven plans in the past. As I don't notice any divine inspiration, I'd rather trust in a lucky turn of events. Currently, this sounds more like a recipe for shit hitting the fan.

One lesson I surely learned from my last job is that running at full speed without direction is tiring, frustrating and unsustainable. May patience and trust open the next door.

Debrief

I wonder why I manage to attract regularly people somewhere on the NPD spectrum, I guess it might some family heritage mixed with being on the empathic side of the equation. My love life is sufficiently sparse not to be effected much lately, my latest job left quite some wounds which need some processing.

More than three years ago, being homeless and jobless, I took the opportunity to start working for Damo, who ran and still runs "We, the dogbro company", or dogbro for short. Don't google it, I changed names for a variety of reason you can guess about. dogbro sells a fermented drink, praised as some sort universal remedy for all sort of ailments, especially when you listen Damo's sales talk.

I knew Damo and Dara, his girl friend at the time, from a few encounters before, mostly linked to Damo's engagement with a small political party wanting to save the planet. A real power couple, both of them outgoing, confident and quite charming initially. After working in the financial industry ages ago, I didn't want to engage anymore in any company I consider part of the problem, and dogbro ticked all the boxes for working on the solution.

The niche product offered an alternative to soft drinks, might have health benefits, it definitely tasted and felt good when I sampled it, the brewery used solar technology, bottles were reused, labels printed with vegan ink. Damo appeared to walk his talk to compete on the market with a useful product made in as sustainable ways as possible. Yeah, it meant I was working for the man again, not as independent as I want to be, but as least not for the forces of evil.

The arrangement offered cash in hand convenience, and a bed in his distribution warehouse in my favourite neighbourhood. Initially I agreed to pay by two hours of daily work for the crash pad, managed to negotiate it down to one soon, before I managed to find a sharehouse close by. Before I started with dogbro, I "planned" to go wherever fate would blow me, so it felt right to me to engage there.

Dara didn't like the idea that I lived in the warehouse, she was concerned that it would turn into a hippie hangout instead of a place of business. It looked like one anyway, while it was spacious it was cluttered with lots of things, the majority of which were not related to the business. While I lived there, I tried to keep it tidy, which was basically a mission impossible. Damo's attention span is extremely short, so he doesn't care where he drops whatever he carries into the space, forgets to put lids back onto jars he opens, to close taps and so on.

In other words, no matter how clean and organised the different spaces in the warehouse were, it took Damo usually less than an hour to transform it back into dysfunctional, cluttered spaces. A lot of time at work was spend to find items which have gone lost in the chaos. When Dara broke up with him, things turned worse, because know we shared the warehouse most nights. Party was his preferred remedy, more important than my desire and need for a good nights sleep.

The business wasn't really thriving too much, so I had enough time to start tending the garden in the front yard. The slow pace of plants growing offered a relief from random context switching when Damo's monkey mind went ape shit, which happened lots after the breakup with Dara. I ate out lots, mainly because the kitchen was most of the time in a terrible state, and due to the amount of people coming through the space everything in the fridge was considered 'communal'.

I realised that I made enough money to afford my own space in a share house, creating a retreat from the ever changing chaos at work. Many unhealthy patterns of interaction between Damo and me were already established in these early stages, but I felt strong and equanimous enough to take it not personal. Being Alexander Technique teacher should imply that I can master my reactions to stimuli, right?

Yes and no. We all assume to a certain degree that the people around us are similar to us, which would predict much less conflict than we generally experience. At some point, I read up a bit on the Myers-Briggs personality test and estimated that Damo and I probably differ in all four dimensions. While I don't think this personality test offers more than an indication, and none of us is doomed to get stuck in any of the 16 outcomes, these differences provided often a too high stimulus for me to keep calm.

"Judging" causes me the greatest troubles, or rather, being judged. It often goes together with the blame game, in my point of view an utter waste of time. However, a judgemental person usually understands any observation as judgement, which creates a large obstacle to "Talking about it" as conflict resolution. Our culture has developed a cult of judgement, based on violent communication. Finding solutions, while essential for long-term relationships, offers much less entertainment than the drama of emotionally laden conflict.

The blame game drained me, and started to reactivate old, bad habits of defence. Depending on my mood, I either reacted with cynicism, or confrontational. Sometimes I just laughed about it, but most of the time it ended in full confrontation, both of shouting at each other. Usually, a bit of time out managed to forget about the "cause" of confrontation. The fact that technically I got fired each time we had a clash like this, left me feeling quite insecure. I didn't notice at the time how much Damo enjoyed this kind of emotional exchange.

I could have noticed earlier if I connected the dots. In the breakup phase with Dara, their interactions had a similar toxic dynamic. She told me at some point that she basically tried to educate him similar to a dog, with positive and negative reinforcement. That was reflected in the way they talked to each other. Obviously, she gave up at some point, despite a few bouts of break up sex. As last resort, she threatened him with an intervention order.

Damo's promiscuity and unwillingness to remain faithful proved the primary reason for the break up. Despite him admitting to have broken more than one promise to keep his dick out of other women, he presented himself as a victim towards other people he shared this "misfortune" with. At this time, I still considered him as friend, and suggested taking a bit more responsibility for this failed relationship. As a consequence, he avoided talking about her to me.

I simply accepted that he was in a bad mood due to this, which helped ignoring a bit when ever he lashed out verbally against me. The "blame Winston" pattern got established for as good as everything not right in the warehouse. While I had initially offered to provide my expert skills, I got tasked with menial jobs, including cleaning up after him. I didn't mind it too much, being paid meant I could pay the bills.

Things got worse when Willie, an old friend of Damo, appeared. He got introduced as "loose unit", and indeed, he had even more talent than Damo to create chaos around him, without being as charming or generous as Damo usually was when he met new faces. Willie commented as "permaculture expert" about the state of front yard, before chucking his cigarette butt into it. Like Beavis and Butthead, the two of them focussed exclusively on having a good time, unlike them they added lots of alcohol and drug use in the mix.

I got the impression that Damo wanted Willie around to look reasonable, and have another person for his blame game. The average tension level at work increased, just like the off times I was given. I just scraped by financially at the time, used smoking as expensive stress relief which increased the financial pressure. Damo seemed to be able to draw in an unlimited supply of unpaid helpers, attracted by the idea to work for a planet saving business, and random women he had sex with, and did lots of cleaning work in return.

All of that made my life more complicated. I enjoyed the people coming through, but less the fact that I had introduce new people to the same procedures on a regular basis. Also, lots of reorganisation of the spaces happened on "working bees" in my absence, usually meaning that I couldn't find what I needed for my job anymore. The social aspect, however, established the "I don't pay you for sitting around" pattern. I no longer got paid for the hours I spend there, but interactions with customers or new helpers were simply subtracted as unproductive leisure time.

Damo expected a 24/7 availability, and often rang me late at night to organise pick ups, or because he lost his keys and needed me to open the door for him. This impacted me a lot in having a social life, and getting sufficient rest to keep my mood and motivation up. Occasionally I got some booze or weed, which I basically couldn't afford, and drowned my grief, concerns and worry with these unhealthy means.

The business took a dive for some months, and with no silver lining in sight Willie left for a while. He went through several boom and bust cycles since I met him, always returning with the next splendid business idea he hasn't got the stamina to materialise properly. Just like Damo, he likes to get people to work for free for him, or for favours which usually work in favour for him. Unlike Damo, he's got little skills and no real income from his various ventures. He's got full support from Damo, though, who allows him to use his space, take his drugs and drink his booze.

While I'm not too certain, I presume it was Willie who spread the idea of me being a "negative" person. While I was the primary target for the blame game, I simply pointed out who was responsible for things I got blamed for. Any form of constructive criticism got labelled as "being negative". Instead of preventing things from systematically going wrong by changing the way they were approached, my "negative attitude" became the one and only problem in need of fixing.

This made it more and more difficult for me to see every day as a new opportunity to participate in what I initially perceived as a business involved doing something good. I managed to claim some of the routine tasks, which kept me sufficiently busy without becoming too involved in the drama which happened regularly. Days without seeing Damo allowed me to minimise emotional damage, but I felt the need to drink a lot, sometimes starting already around lunch.

I find it still difficult to remember some of those drama days without the emotional maelstrom that went with them. I want to be able to forgive myself for my inertness not to have moved on earlier, and those who treated me as emotional punching ball, without forgetting what happened. Suppressing my discomfort with alcohol and weed didn't work, it turned into a band aid preventing wounds from bleeding, but also from healing.

My opportunities to generate income are severely limited due to my own choices some years ago. I coast along on the tiny safety net I set up for myself, which also means that luxuries like alcohol, tobacco and weed are off limits. Sobering up for some weeks now makes me aware how toxic in many dimensions my way of life as part of dogbro had become. I wish the story would end here, but I have a hunch that the last chapter has been written yet.

The art of letting go

If I continue this craving 

for you, I'm only paving

myself a road to misery,

that ain't no mystery.

Instinctively, right from the start,

we connected deeply from the heart.

Soon our relation changed its kind,

and become a battle of the mind.

While I enjoyed our immersion

in soulful flow, it led to aversion.

Now, holding on to hopes in vain

will just manifest some more pain.

Whilst your ego runs the show

I can only let you go. 

Triple trouble / Alexithymia

You wished me into your life,

shortly allowing us both to thrive.

Two souls connected by touch

which soon became too much.

I knew I could only lose

by giving you freedom to choose

to decide with your mind or soul

I wanted you whole, and lost all

. 

I saw you shedding some tears,

while submitting to your fears.

I planted seeds of freedom in you,
would've loved be around for harvest, too.

The mix of cheap wine and deep sorrow

now has me waiting for a better tomorrow.

Interim

There's some shadows of the past

which seem to want to last,

fuelling again the futile fight

for what's wrong and what's right.

The straight gait becomes a sway,

won't those shadows go away?

Won't there be eternal laughter

of being happily ever after?

One step forward, two steps back -

is it really the right kind of track?

For as long as you follow the flow

your intuition guides you where to go.

Yet for each thing you've been shown

another million things remain unknown.

Authentic spiritual teachings are teachings from direct experience devoid of prejudice, provincialism, or predilection. That is based on eternal living tradition motivated and animated by a living truth. Compare that to dead teachings, rote memorization, conformity, and mechanical obedience to external authoritative systems and one can easily understand human history and its discontents. The champions of institutionalized tradition only create prisons and traps, because their own egos and and prideful identities live in a mental prison. They become jealous and scornful of those who have escaped.