The impulse was to intervene in discussions about the very wealthy. But once I started, I found I had no business claiming to be a truth-teller. Addressing wealth demanded that I look reflexively at my own voice, at how I was complicit in the power I wanted to take down. I ended up on this whole thing about my father. I realized that my desire to fight the ‘1%' was all tangled up with an ongoing fight with the Oedipal daddy.
So I took a good look at myself, thinking I could appropriate my own story—mould my life into an artistic composition by manipulating the given narrative. But at a certain point I realized my life was already cut up: some phantom had arrived and done the job for me. Hijacked by discursive tropes long before it occurred to me to get in, my inner voice became indistinguishable from the outer, and my self-analysis grew more and more confused.