The Inner Party
The Inner Party
This performance was given as a pecha-kucha style presentation at
AAF KC’s Bulletproof 420 event at The Guild in Kansas City, MO. It is a joke.
We are The Inner Party. The ghosts in the machine. Those who excavate the interior so that we might shape the exterior. The Inner Party moves invisibly underneath and above what is seen.
As advertisers, our primary creative medium is consciousness. We bridge the distance between perception, emotion, belief and action. The product of our distilled intention shapes the evolution of civilization with suggestion. An inception of the grandest proportions, our achievements know no bounds.
Visible everywhere are the fruits of our labor, but their roots are hidden in plain sight. Our charge is to master the liminal spaces between knowing and understanding, imagining and believing. Between perceiving and receiving. We must become wayfinders of the interior, explorers, nay, conquerors of a landscape yet uncharted by anyone. If you don’t count scientists.
And like our elders, the heroic wayfinders who explored the oceans without instruments, we, too map the vast regions of consciousness with nothing but our intuition to guide us. Because the research did come in, and we were not feeling it.
The research came in and said our core demographic is delaying their purchase decision due to an uptick of available options in a parallel value subset. Without a brand overhaul that elevates our value prop and disrupts the industry while remaining within the innovation budget, the quarterly forecast is bleak.
Our core demographic has engaged the spiral of defeat, the quicksand that will not only alienate them from their liberation, but from our primary product offering. Our core demographic is taking the action that puts the whole of their lives in our hands. Our core demographic is deliberating.
Fortunately for us, deliberation is the devil we know. The devil we have battled on the stormy seas of consciousness. The devil we defeated. And then hired as a consultant on a contractual basis. Deliberation is our bitch. We have fed her and groomed her and broken her spirit. She is ours now, though she is not one of us. She is merely one weapon in our arsenal.
And she was defeated squarely by a power so omnipotent, we now find few bulwarks unpenetrated by his radiance. So gentle, few demons are untamed by his grace. And so interdepartmental, we find few places he can not take us, or be taken.
The radiance of whom we speak so solemnly is none other than Marijuanananda. Destroyer of deliberation! Healer of all maladies! Unifier of worlds! He is our key to the spirit gate. Marijuanananda is our wayfinding compass, the north star that guides us through the darkness of improperly color-corrected proofs.
As we work vigilantly with the material of consciousness, he remains close to our hearts, usually in the inside jacket pocket, unless our jackets don’t have one. In which case he tucks into a pack of smokes nicely, but not since we quit last fall. We had to. We’re almost 40. And smoking is for kids. We know that, because we did that.
And we did it without question or critique, because we had Marijuananda at our side. Gone are the days of challenging our challenges, questioning our questions. We no longer strategize to optimize efficiency. We simply receive and respond. Inhale the essence, exhale the experience. Inhale the briefing, exhale the campaign. It’s ok. You can close your eyes. Relax. Soften your jaw, release your shoulders. Allow your mind to rest.
See the heart as a light in the chest, warming and brightening the body. And imagine that light is merely a reflection of the great light of Marijunananda. A moon to the spirit’s sun. Let the skin soften, as you feel every inch warmed by the fire of the heart. Glistening with golden honey flowing over the arms and legs, face and chest.
And it’s not weird, what we’re doing. It’s not weird. We are all here now. We surrender together. We can let it come over us. Because we are joined in unison, in ultimate loyalty: Marijuanananda has taken us to the great beyond together, and we now have significant dirt on one another.
Let the warm honey melt the body. And turn your gaze to the great light, as you see the radiance flickering. Buzzing. Moving outward from the center. Like a swarm of bees chanting a forgotten name. And it is our name. They are coming for us, they are. But it is ok. Because we are in this together now. There is no more you. There is no more me. My heart is our heart. Your blood is our blood. Our breath. Our sweat. We find unity in our terror. The way we found unity in our rage at Pepsi and Kendall. We know that the shadow is our friend.
And so the bees come closer, eclipsing the light of the sun, and we swarm together, pressing our hot, honeyed, predominantly white bodies into one another to form an enormous Rice Krispies® treat. And exhale, we soften outward.
As our bodies begin to separate, strands of honey grow firm, binding us to one another around the wrists and ankles like sweet, golden handcuffs. Yes. But the gold. Yes. So sweet. We let go. The eyes open. We are free in our captivity. Because we know that the body is not our container. Our world expands far beyond the reaches of the known. Marijuanananda has given us the gift of expanded consciousness. And taught us to shape the consciousness of those who are yet asleep.
The deliberators. Are everywhere. They walk blindly through their world, guided by designed perceptions, targeted branding, and weak strategies — that we created. We walk among them, but we will never become them. Because we are the inner party. Voyagers of the interior.