Lone Wolf

The wolf is a pack animal, but I am a lone wolf.

I dislike the crush of the protesting crowd. My hands don’t grip the placards. My voice rings false when raised to chant.

I prefer the solitary range. As I roam, in descending twilight, I mark territory. Sticking blackspots on ads I don’t like. Laying notes on ATMs and posters in strategic locations. I forgo the tumult of demonstration for the pinprick of consciousness that will catch someone, somewhere, sometime, unawares.

Occasionally, when the moon and the mood are right, I’ll summon a like-minded friend. We’ll pay a stealth visit to the economics department of the local university, posting Kickitover manifestoes in corridors and on professors’ doors, prompting students to consider a paradigm shift in the dismal science. We are intrepid at the periphery.

I love and applaud that pack that unites in collective action, marching, chanting slogans, blocking roads. Their work is righteous and necessary.

Imagine, too, that while they march, a parallel operation is underway. In suburbs, campuses, malls, supermarkets, and back streets around the world, guerrilla activists — lone wolves like me — take to the prowl, executing a never-ending cascade of détournements and direct actions. This too is the drumbeat of world revolution.

The most dangerous wolf is the one you can’t see.

The wolf is a pack animal, but I am a lone wolf.

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