Folk etymology kindly finds relations for orphaned words: geneological 'truth' is played down to the ascending hospitality of genies.

One difference between the kind of anarchist groups I like and the classic Marxist group, for instance, is that we don’t start by defining reality – our points of unity are not our analyses of the situation, but rather what we want to do, the action we want to take, and how we go about it. Plus you have to give one another the benefit of the doubt. One of the principles of the consensus process is that you can’t challenge anyone on their motives; you have to assume that everyone is being honest and has good intentions. Not because you necessarily think it’s true, but as an extension of what might be considered the fundamental anarchist insight: if you treat people like children they will tend to act like children. If you treat them like adults, there’s at least some chance they will act responsibly. Ironically, I found this habit of generosity, this giving people the benefit of the doubt, was the exact opposite of the way I was taught to argue as a scholar.

– David Graeber

Well, young master Græber, it becomes more clearly while certain youthful bs-detectors flash red and blue crossing lines when you speak of consensual decromancy, err, demoncracy, decrymentics, whatever. (Many rather prefer anthelmintics). It would almost seem like you have no great fondness for children (except perhaps, those who behave like adults never do – but think ought: backs straight, hands on lap, an attentive stare well avoiding the window, sill and clock beaming bleached teeth like a synchronised swimmer).

Have you not noticed that "adult" and "civilised" and "responsible" (surely, an allusion to debt!) have nearly always been spun interchangeably, particularly by well-intensioned, that is, seriously tightened authorities like screws who know best our needs and are here to proclaim and then provide them, or their outspoken delegates casting forth persuasive serial lines to grab hold, mouth-to-mouth, for our own salvation and hegemony in the perfect image of post-pubescent facial growths ready to plop all over the mirror with a symetrically ascending twist? Or that adult committees and their forward clamations, invocations and otherwise blinding promissory oaths are most typically themselves irresponsible, argumentative, self-imposing and in fact, hypopostumously contradictory crates providing valid dictorian models to be built but never practiced? Could it be that the kind of anarchist groups you really like are in fact not adultish at all?

My suggestion for a correction would follow thus:

if you give treats to people like children, they will tend to act as children do, following your every move until distracted by a bug or two, then remember fondly when sharing new-found gifts with friends who may later seek you out for no predictable agenda or foul motive beyond a shy but generous greeting or presentation of a frog or shiny marble before running off. If treat them like adults you do or as adults do you, there’s at least some chance they will act justly, responsibly or reciprocally, taking what else you'd be carrying before returning abash on your pate, with interest, or selling it "cut-rate" to accomplices for the win.

Do such responsible adults actually frolic in their partisan ensembles? Who else could play with boxed assemblies but the young or impish-minded having ripped apart the packaging for a brief sparkle of joy, or secret glimpse of adrenalin shot therein, hoping their own constraint won't follow soon but are too imbued with moments to keep quiet and still? Would I, for instance, be welcomely categorised, that is, invited down at the forum feast for a peaceful uprising or refereed to a flaming dumbster for wrongspeak?

honestly,
– Peter Pan

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world inside of a leather cup. But all his sexless patients, they're trying to blow it up. Now his nurse, some local loser, she's in charge of the cyanide hole, and she also keeps the cards that read "Have Mercy on His Soul". They all play on penny whistles. You can hear them blow if you lean your head out far enough from Fremont Avenue

Across the street they've nailed the curtains. They're getting ready for the feast. The Phantom of the Opera in a perfect image of a priest. They're spoonfeeding Casanova to get him to feel more assured. Then they'll kill him with self-confidence after poisoning him with words and the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls "Get outa here if you don't know Casanova is just being punished for going to Fremont Avenue".

Now at midnight all the agents and the superhuman crew come out and round up everyone that knows more than they do. Then they bring them to the factory where the heart-attack machine is strapped across their shoulders and then the kerosene is brought down from the castles by insurance men who go check to see that nobody is escaping to Fremont Avenue.

Praise be to Nero's Neptune, the Titanic sails at dawn and everybody's shouting "Which Side Are You On?" And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot, fighting in the captain's tower while calypso singers laugh at them and fishermen hold flowers between the windows of the sea where lovely mermaids flew, and nobody has to think too much about Fremont Avenue.

– Robert (bobby) Zimmerman, Seattle '71