I looked up to see Graham watching me, a frown of concern on her face. She put her hand over mine. “I can help you if you like,” she said, sounding kind. I wanted to ask her how she knew about Lyndon, but then I realized she was talking about the lost soul in the photograph.
“I would like to see you again,” I told her, out of the blue. “But don’t tell Anita. She’ll barge in. She and I have been friends since we were little kids, and I love her, but she can be a bit overbearing.”
“A bit?” Graham smiled, which transformed her stern face. “Give me your phone. I’ll give you my number and email address. I’ll pretend to just be studying the Virgin again. Otherwise Anita will get territorial!”
I handed my phone to her and felt like maybe things weren’t quite so awful after all. I had Tim, and now, I had Graham. I also had the ghost of a blacked-out Virgin Mary, but I took a leaf out of Lyndon’s book and decided not to think about that.
16. LYNDON
JASON’S BOOK SEEMED EASY to read but it was quite hard to pin down the specifics of what he was trying to say. Never mind that the content wasn’t my cup of tea—many of the rambles were elaborate and unwieldy, and I wasn’t exactly sure what his point was.
“I thought anarchy meant embracing violence and chaos,” I said to Jason over lunch. “Your book doesn’t have that at all.”
“You’re right. We don’t believe in violence. Many anarchists are violent, but that’s not what the purists subscribe to. You’ll always have splinter groups who use violence as an excuse to vent their own rage, and they hide behind a convenient philosophy that allows them to behave in the destructive manner they desire. We believe in the individual, in complete freedom. We want a society where individuals can co-operate freely and equally. We’re opposed to all forms of hierarchical control, and most of all, we oppose capitalism. Capitalism is killing the world, and man. And by man, I mean men, women, all of us. Capitalism is founded on acts of genocide and greed and it’s responsible for the current global ecological crisis. Most people put their head in the sand and don’t want to admit how evil capitalism is. They don’t want anything to get in the way of their next big car, or computer, or whatever else it is they want to buy. And all they want to do is buy, buy, buy. And, in doing so, they become complicit and contribute daily to the pollution and destruction of our world.”
“But I can’t ever see capitalism being tossed out the window,” I said, insistent. “It’s the only system that works. Socialism, communism, imperialism, and monarchism have all failed or are failing. So, what’s the solution?”
“Ah Lyndon. So solution-driven. Next thing you’ll tell me that anarchy is a beautiful ideal but impractical. Emma Goldman spotted that problem in the early nineteenth century. But should we abandon an ideal simply because it is hard to attain?’
“There was a nice thing in The Dispossessed about ideas,” I said, and collected the book from the living room and paged through it: “‘It is the nature of the idea to be communicated, written, spoken, done. The idea is like grass, it craves light, likes crowds, thrives on crossbreeding, grows stronger from being stepped on.’ All of which is lovely, but what does it mean in terms of action and changing the hold that capitalism has over us?”
“Our role, as anarchists, is to bring the idea to the oppressed people and get them thinking about a collective emancipation. Capitalism’s demand for ever-continuous growth is draining our finite planet and putting the whole human species in jeopardy. We want to save the individual, save the pure human being, save the planet.”
Very noble, I thought, but once again, how? And to what end? I turned to the first line of Jason’s book. “Why is ‘capitalism an occult bruise on the body of the earth’? I get that it’s a bruise, but why occult? Doesn’t that mean supernatural?”
“It does and it doesn’t. It’s also a scientific term. According to the internet, and I quote, it refers to a ‘disease or process that is not accompanied by readily discernible signs or symptoms.’ So, when we talk about capitalism causing global warming and killing the planet, people respond by saying, oh well, there’s no proof really. They say that what we take to be signs and symptoms of our planet’s demise are nothing more than the usual weather patterns that have always had their ups and downs. Some people say that Noah’s Ark was built when the world’s weather patterns changed, and look, there wasn’t global warming then.”
“Noah’s Ark is fiction,” I protested. “But yes, you are right. There are people who refuse to accept that global warming is real. And I see what you mean about the occult bruise. There is no doubt that the world is bruised from our constant pollution.”
“Which is directly caused by capitalism. Capitalist expansion is forever seeking increased profits. That’s the fundamental core tenet of the system. But we already have an over-abundance of stuff, so what do capitalists do? They invent and manufacture new needs and new wants among consumers who continue to buy their products, and thus subscribe to their ethos of greed.”
“Yes!” I sat up, accidentally dislodging Queenie. I immediately apologized to her and tried to pick her up, but she was offended and she stalked out of the kitchen. “It drives me nuts,” I said. “We buy things willy-nilly, but the products are not biodegradable, and they have limited lifespans, which means you are forced to throw them away, constantly adding to the garbage that we are littering on the earth. And space! Space is filled with garbage! And the oceans! Plastic bags are killing our seas, pollution from ships is deadly, our skies are clogged with the exhaust fumes of thousands of planes, there are regular oil spills, and no one says or does anything. There isn’t a single part of this world that, to put it in your words, isn’t bruised by our greed. It all comes down to greed. You’re so right. Want, buy, have, repeat ad nauseam. And the packaging.” I waved my hands around, relieved to finally have the opportunity to tell someone about something that had been making me anxious and frustrated and furious for so many years. “Cosmetics, kids’ toys, gardening equipment, you name it. They all come bound and clad in layers of packaging, none of it recyclable. I tried to do my bit. I recycled so carefully. I took all the family’s garbage and sorted it and rinsed cans and bottles and put things in the right place. But my contributions meant nothing, and did nothing!” I sat back and rubbed my head hard. “I even used my own cup at the coffee shop to try to help and do you know what they did? They used one of their cups to fill mine and then they threw theirs away! So why bother? Why bother at all?”
I was furious, all fired up. Jason looked at me calmly. “The solution is to bring it back to the individual,” he said. “What you were doing was right. You felt frustrated because no one was on the same page as you. But I want you to think about this too—how many people actually like their jobs? ‘Anarchism aims to strip labour of its deadening, dulling aspect, of its gloom and compulsion. It aims to make work an instrument of joy, of strength, of colour, of real harmony, so that the poorest sort of man should find in work both recreation and hope.’ I am quoting Emma Goldman there, by the way.”
I blinked. “But I loved my job,” I said. “I was gutted when I lost it. I think the loss sparked off my entire breakdown or whatever this episode is or was.”
“You weren’t having a breakdown, you were having an epiphany. You were suffocating as the seas of capitalistic enterprise threatened to overwhelm you. Your world trip forced you to confront the reality out there, and your psyche couldn’t handle seeing the destruction of the planet on the global level.”
At first, I wasn’t sure I agreed with his diagnosis of my motives. I couldn’t imagine my psyche being that altruistic. I flipped through The Dispossessed again. “‘Reality is terrible. It can kill you. Given time, it certainly will kill you. The reality is pain—you said that! But it’s the lies, the evasions of reality, that drive you crazy. It’s the lies that make you want to kill yourself.’ Maybe you’re right, Jason. The world trip forced me to see t
he lies for what they are.”
“Your soul realized you needed to break away, do something, and find meaning. Do you think it’s an accident that you are here? Nothing in life is random, not to those who seek meaning, anyway. You found me, us, because you want to make a difference.”
That made sense. “I knew I was tired, but I didn’t realize I was angry or anxious,” I said.
He laughed. “No one ever does. But there are those of us who will not remain silent. You were deadened, numbed by your comfortable job. But you liked it because it was an opiate, it made you feel lulled, reassured, sleepy, and calm. And then when it was pulled out from under you, you had nothing to kill the pain, the pain of realization that this world is on its last legs, and we’re the buggers to blame.”
“I will carry on reading,” I said as Jason started to clear away our lunch plates. “And we will converse more.”
Jason looked delighted. “And watch Sean work,” he said. “We want to get you into the game soon.”
17. MARGAUX
WHEN I RETURNED to the hostel, having successfully evaded Anita, I decided not to tell Tim about Lyndon’s email, though I had to tell him about the blacked-out ghost of the Virgin Mary. But Tim was over at Dames getting ready for his show.
In the meantime, I realized I hadn’t checked in with Helen to see how she felt about Lyndon’s message. I texted her to Skype if she was awake. It was her three a.m., but she immediately dialled in.
“Are you okay?” we both said at the same time, and we laughed. I was relieved. I could always rely on Helen. I was afraid of her at times, afraid of her brusque no-nonsense self, but I could always rely on her. I felt like she got the best of Lyndon while poor Adam had got the worst of me. Helen looked like me, but she wore her hair platinum blonde and spiky. She had a nose and brow piercing, along with half a dozen earrings in each ear. Helen was broader than me and taller, and she had generous breasts. They were so large that a doctor had told she could qualify for surgery, should she wish to have them reduced. But she’d laughed him off. “I like them,” she’d said, shrugging. And that was that.
“Adam is upset,” I told her. “And I really hurt his feelings this time.” I relayed our conversation.
“Don’t worry Mom,” she said. “Adam’s old enough to deal with his own shit. I love him but he needs to see that the world doesn’t revolve around him and his daddy issues. And the same with Dad. He needs to do whatever he needs to. It’s not our problem to solve and at least we heard from him. But Mom, I’ve got some news.”
She paused. From the expression on her face, my gut clenched, and I gripped the laptop with both hands. “What is it Helen? Are you ill?”
“Um, nope. I’m pregnant,” she said, and I let out such a squeal of joy that she looked startled, then relieved, then delighted.
“Oh Helen! That’s fantastic! I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”
“He’s married,” she admitted. “He works with me. I’ve been seeing him for three years actually.”
And then it all made sense. Her sense of private happiness while seeming so alone; her constant texting at the dinner table at family events; her long working hours; her odd disappearances; and her mood swings, which went from euphoric to dark.
“I’ve told him. I don’t know what he’s going to do. I didn’t get pregnant on purpose to make him leave his wife, but I did stop taking the pill. I wanted to get pregnant with or without him in the picture, and I figured, after three years of promises and lies, that at least I deserved to get a baby out of it. And I really want a baby. And I do love him, so I wanted his baby. He’s angry with me right now and I get that. But I’m not sorry for what I did.”
“I’m not sorry either,” I told her. “I’m going to be a granny! That’s wonderful! Well, you can count on me, Helen. I’ll change nappies, babysit, make formula, whatever you need. How far along are you? Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“Twelve weeks and they think she may be a girl, which is also hilarious since Alex has four boys and they wanted a girl for the last two.”
“How old are his kids?”
“Twelve, eight, six, and two.”
“Two? He had a child while he was having an affair with you?”
“Yes. That didn’t make me happy, I can tell you that, Mom. That was when I started thinking that I wanted a baby too, and why couldn’t I have one? It wasn’t a rash decision. I thought about it for ages.”
I was certain it wasn’t a whim or an impulse based on a ticking biological clock. Helen, my neat little accountant daughter, would never do anything rash. I knew she would have done all the math to make sure she could afford a child.
“Helen,” I said, “I’m so proud of you. I really am!”
She looked thrilled, and I wondered if she ever thought I harboured any other kind of thoughts or feelings towards her, other than love and pride. I hoped that wasn’t the case.
“So, what are you going to do about Dad?” she asked.
“I’m not sure yet. Adam sent him a bunch of emails. Do you know if Dad replied?”
“Nothing more from Dad to Adam,” Helen said, laughing. “Adam told me he’s petrified he scared Dad off, but I said I really didn’t think it would have made any difference if he replied to him or not.”
“I agree. I don’t know what to do. But I might tell him that I will stick around for a bit while he thinks about his life and see what he says to that.”
I realized, as I said that, that I wasn’t ready to leave Australia yet. I had unfinished business, and not just with Lyndon but with Tim, the ghost of the Virgin Mary, with my new friend Graham, and even with myself.
“Are you okay if I stay here for a bit?” I asked.
Helen nodded. “Of course, that’s fine. I figured you’d be gone for at least six months. And while she’s growing inside me, there’s not a lot any of us can do, but once she’s born, I will need you. Mom, don’t tell Dad. He doesn’t have the right to know. And I don’t want him to emerge from wherever he is out of some misplaced sense of patriarchal guilt. If you ask me, his mid-life crisis began when his hair started falling out. He needs to come to terms with his balding old-guyness by himself, and then we’ll take it from there.”
“I agree. Do you remember all the shampoos and potions he bought?” We both laughed. “I told him it didn’t matter to me if he lost his hair, but he said it mattered to him. And I told him it happens to all of us, but he snapped at me and said, ‘What, you’re going bald too?’ And I said no, but I am aging. But you know your Dad. He’s like Adam in that way. Their drama is more worthy than anyone else’s.”
“Yes. He told me he went to get blood tests done to see if there was anything he could do to stop the hair loss. He had found some doctor, a scam obviously, who said he could tell by Dad’s blood if there was anything he could do to stop or slow down the hair loss.”
“I had no idea he did that!”
“I know. Anyway, so he told me he was sitting in the waiting room of the blood lab, and he looked up and saw a friend of mine sitting across from him. Ava. You remember her? She was on her phone. So, he thought he’d check Facebook to see if she was who he thought she was before he made a fool out of himself by saying hi to her. And then he read her status, and it said something like, ‘Sitting here in a lab full of sick old people doesn’t exactly increase my will to live.’ and it made him so depressed. And you know how cool Ava always thought Dad was, and then she didn’t even recognize him. In her mind, he was just one of the sick old people. He left and went back later when he was sure she wasn’t there. But it really depressed him. And then he wasted a bunch of money on that doctor who said the blood work revealed that there was nothing he could do, but the consultation cost Dad five hundred dollars.”
The price of my Coach purse. Consumerism wasn’t acceptable, not even for a thirtieth wedding anniversary, but
vanity justified spending. I told myself I was being ungracious. No one wants to lose their looks.
I looked at my watch. “It’s nearly four a.m., honey. You need to go to sleep. Have you thought of any names yet for the baby?”
“Not yet, but I’m having fun doing research. Oh, and Mom, don’t tell Adam about the baby either. Not yet. And don’t worry about Dad or Adam, okay?”
“I won’t. I can’t. I’m too happy about your news! Keep me updated. And you know you can talk to me about Alex anytime if you want to, but I don’t want to invade your privacy.”
“Thanks, Mom. I will let you know what he does. It affects all of us now, not just him and me. Sleep tight.”
I switched off the computer and lay down on the bed. A granny! A beautiful surprise just when I needed it most.
18. LYNDON
“THIS IS FAKE SKIN,” Sean told me. “You’ll practice on this first a few times.”
I nodded and followed his instructions for putting the transfer of my Tree of Life on the stuff that, weirdly, did feel like real skin.
The first time I held the tattoo machine, I was giddy with joy, the likes of which I hadn’t experienced since my first beer or the first time I cupped a girl’s heavy breast in the palm of my hand. “I need a moment,” I said to Sean, and he grinned.
“Cool, I know,” he said.
The buzzing left my eyeballs and I could concentrate again. “Good to go,” I told him. Tattooing wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. My hand was steady, and my lines were clean. Seemed like I hadn’t lost my artistic talents, even though they had lain dormant all these years.
“Good one,” Sean said when I was done. “I say you can do the boss tomorrow.”
The Occult Persuasion and the Anarchist's Solution Page 11
