The Occult Persuasion and the Anarchist's Solution

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “Where is he?” I looked around, but Jason was nowhere to be seen.

  “Had an appointment in Melbourne,” Sean replied, and a large stone dropped to the bottom of my stomach, cold and hard.

  “What? Why didn’t he tell me?” I asked.

  Sean laughed. “Don’t worry, mate. I’m sure it just slipped his mind. He’s been distracted lately with all of us, not just you.”

  But I was living with him. He was my friend. I told myself I was reading too much into it and behaving like a lovelorn schoolgirl, so I shook myself.

  “Feel like coming for a run?” Sean asked.

  I barked with laughter. “Sean, I haven’t run for about the last forty-five years, give or take. I’d break something.”

  “Okay then, how about a nice power walk?”

  “Sure, but not too fast.”

  He eyed my boots. “Better change out of those, yeah. And get into your tracky dacks too.” Sean had a very thick Australian accent and he tended to mumble out of the corner of his mouth. And he spoke in a hurried rush. There were times I couldn’t understand him, but I got the gist of what he was saying.

  I nodded. “I’ll be right back.” I returned wearing my sneakers and sweatpants. I was ready.

  We started on a small path that ran along the ocean, and I inhaled large quantities of the salty fresh sea air. I was about to explain to Sean that we didn’t have oceans in Ontario, only very cold, very deep, very still lakes, but then I figured that conversing with him would be too hard, particularly as he had us going at a quick pace. I was already in a sweat and finding it hard to keep up.

  “You read Jason’s book, yeah?” Sean asked. He had no problem walking and talking.

  “Yes,” I huffed. “Well, about three quarters of it. Are you an anarchist too?”

  “We all are, mate. All the guys at the shop.”

  “How come there are no women in the shop?” This was something I had been meaning to ask Jason, but I kept forgetting.

  Sean shrugged. “No reason. We had a receptionist for a long time but then she got preggers and we never replaced her. We just answer the phone ourselves.”

  “I like the sound of anarchism,” I said, “but I don’t think it’s practical. Even if we get the individual all fired up to do his part, how will we make it work?”

  “Computers and biogenetics,” Sean said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s called transhumanism. First you upgrade and enhance the human mind, or brain, if you prefer, by computer, nanotechnology and biotechnology. The upgraded individual will realize that anarchy makes the most sense, given that all the other systems have failed us. But we will need to restart our brains.”

  “I have never heard of that,” I said diplomatically. I thought it made little sense.

  “It’s called techno-optimism. It’s a political-positive outlook that’s becoming more popular. And then there will be unconscious robots to replace human labour, and they’ll be run by unconscious computer algorithms.”

  “Why will the robots help? I get why they need to be unconscious, but why do we need them?” I was struggling with the fact that I was even having this somewhat bizarre conversation while trying to power-walk along the shores of Cape Otway on a southern tip of the Australian continent.

  “People won’t have any power,” Sean explained. “There won’t be any top-down power. We’ll vote, yeah, and the computers will make sure there’s no corruption.”

  “But what about hackers and the like?”

  Sean sighed. “Yeah. They’re a problem. Did you know that Jason is a legend in the hacking world? He can get into government websites, banks, the army, you name it.”

  I came to a complete stop, my hands on my thighs. I used this jolting bit of news to get Sean to stop for a moment, but I was genuinely astounded. “He said he was savvy, but he’s that level of good? There is only one small laptop in his apartment.”

  “Crikey, mate. A genius like him? He doesn’t need more than that.”

  I recalled Jason’s telling me something about his skills when we emailed my family, but I hadn’t realized he could hack in at government level.

  “Sean,” I said, “I need to take a breather.”

  “Sure, yeah, no problem, mate. Here’s a bench. Let’s sit for a while.” He handed me a bottle of water, and I chugged it down gratefully.

  “Does he do that a lot?” I asked. “Hack into the government?”

  “No way! He runs a website called The Occult Persuasion. He’s got millions of followers worldwide.”

  “Millions? Seriously?”

  “Yeah. At last count, he had eight million subscribers.”

  “Wow.” I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “And he loves Sid Vicious,” Sean added. “He’s got a tattoo of him on his leg. He says he even saw Sid live one time. He was a real punk rocker, Jason was. Have you seen all the scars on his chest? Thought he was Sid, burning himself with cigarettes and cutting himself. Sid would have been sixty this year, can you believe it?”

  “Yes, I do know. I loved Sid too. We’re the same age.” I felt nostalgic for dead Sid. I had been twenty-one and heartbroken when he died. Like many of Sid Vicious’s fans, I had cursed Nancy Spungen and the horse she rode in on.

  “You got any tattoos?” Sean asked.

  I shook my head. “I never thought about them.”

  “And now you’re going to be a tattooist?”

  “I hope so,” I said fervently. “We can carry on walking, but maybe a bit slower?”

  Sean nodded and we got up. Sean, I had already noticed, was covered in tattoos.

  “Which was your first one?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Can’t remember. This is my most recent. Emma G.” He shows me a monocled, stern woman on his calf muscle.

  “Nice,” I said. It was very well done.

  “Ta mate. Jason did it. I love Emma. I mean I’m into transhumanism and all that, but you have to go back to the basics too. I can lend you a copy of her essays if you like.”

  “I would like that, thank you.”

  We carried on walking, and for a while neither of us said anything for which I was grateful. I managed to keep up, and Sean, kindly, kept it slow.

  “It’s all about nature, for me,” Sean burst out.

  I turned to look at him. “What is?”

  “Anarchy,” he said. “I love the earth.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” I said, waving my hand around. “Look at this. So unspoilt, so beautiful. Meanwhile, we are killing the planet with garbage and pollution.” I was about to go on my garbage rant, but Sean interrupted me. He took my arm and we stood face-to-face. I felt a bit uneasy all of a sudden.

  “No mate. You’re not getting my point. I really love her,” he said, and he dropped to his knees and started caressing the beach sand. “I make love to her. She’s my sexual partner. I don’t need or want anybody except for the earth. And it’s not some mother issue, before you start analyzing me. It’s a nature thing.”

  “I see,” I said. But I didn’t, and I was concerned he was going to take off his trousers and demonstrate exactly what he meant. But to my relief, he stood up.

  “Even decaying earth is sensual,” he said. “Flowers, the bees, all of it. It’s eco-eroticism. There are lots of us, right? People think it’s weird, but what’s weird about making love to a flower? It’s the most natural thing in the world.”

  I nodded, trying to imagine it and trying not to imagine it. “And that’s why you’re an anarchist?” I asked, confused.

  He shook his head. “I was into anarchy first and then I realized earth was my sexual partner for life. Anarchy frees my spirit, so I can engage with my true love. Anarchists are freethinkers, not judgmental like the rest of the world. We’re into freedom of self-express
ion at every level. We don’t discriminate. You read The Dispossessed?”

  “Yes. An enlightening book. Wasn’t there a piece in it about loving the earth?”

  “‘There are souls … whose umbilicus has never been cut. They never got weaned from the universe. They do not understand death as an enemy; they look forward to rotting and turning into humus.’ That passage, yeah? Well, it got me thinking. I’ve always loved nature so much, so I started meditating on my feelings for the earth and flowers and grass and mud and everything. And then, one thing led to another, and now she’s all I need. She’s my eternal sexual partner, and will be, even after I die.”

  “I think I have gone as far as I can today,” I said faintly. I didn’t mean the walk, but Sean took it that way and patted me kindly.

  “You did very well, mate,” he said.

  19. MARGAUX

  IT WAS TIME TO WRITE to my husband:

  Lyndon, to just leave me like that, even while I can understand that things were derailing for you, wasn’t fair. Fairness. You love to tell me that fairness is a childish concept, that only the very foolish and very naïve subscribe to the notion that they are entitled to fairness, but am I not, as your wife of thirty-five years, entitled to at least a modicum of fairness? We have been through so much together, and the key word there is together.

  Perhaps you didn’t want to have your mid-life crisis in front of me. Perhaps you preferred, even at an unconscious level, to do it in the privacy of your own new world, and I can understand that.

  And perhaps you simply don’t love me anymore and would like to start a whole new life without me. If that is the case, then even if you consider fairness to be a foolish concept, it would be only fair to tell me.

  Less than a year ago, you lost your job, you turned sixty, Adam came out, we had our thirty-fifth anniversary, and then we threw our lives up in the air and decided to explore the world. It was a lot to take in. And what you don’t seem to understand or pay credence to, is that all of this has affected me too. You lost your job and it affected me. How could it not? You are/were your job. It defined you, the you I am married to. I wasn’t exactly sure how to cope with a moping sullen you, the you who sat in your study eating smart popcorn and scattering the crumbs everywhere while I sold the house and did all the preparation for the trip. You couldn’t deal with the unfairness of the hand that had been dealt to you, but you wouldn’t acknowledge it either.

  I am not really sure what you want me to say. You probably don’t want me to say anything. You probably just want me to leave you alone.

  Fair enough. There it is again, that word, fair. Don’t you think it’s time we all tried to bring some fairness back into this world where such a beautiful concept is considered improbable? We need to widen our spheres of availability so there is more of the probable within our grasp and that includes the concept of fairness.

  I can’t hang around Sydney indefinitely, waiting for you to tell me what’s going on. I will give you another two weeks and then I am leaving. I may continue the tour by myself, I will see. There are the parts of the world I have always wanted to visit. Angkor Wat, for one. I am not going to miss out on that because of you.

  I am not going to recite a list of the sacrifices I made for you because really, there weren’t any. I loved you. I love you still. I love our family. In such instances, acts of love are not sacrifices. I do feel like I spent most of my life waiting. I was waiting for you to retire, so we could do more together and see the world, and I was waiting for you to do it with me. And now, if you don’t want to do it with me, then I will do it alone.

  You know, I don’t even miss you right now. Maybe it’s because I know you are fine, just acting selfishly. You haven’t been easy to be with lately, either. But I don’t want to get into a mud-slinging match although I’d like to say that you should contact Adam. Actually, don’t. Let him deal with this. He also needs to realize that not every one of his needs can be met, not that that will be news to him, but he needs to learn to deal with it. You and he are more similar than either of you would care to admit.

  I am going to go now. Please let me know what is going on.

  I sent the message and didn’t expect a reply. I was getting ready to go and meet Graham for breakfast. She lived in Balmain, and she said she had something to show me, something that was relevant to my encounter with the Virgin. I’d come to think of the eyeless statue in the images as my ghost, an apparition from another world, and I was eager to hear what Graham had to say. She also said that the Balmain Market was open and she thought I’d enjoy walking around there.

  I was about to close my laptop when I saw a reply email from dadisokay@aussiemail.au.

  Why did you say, “We need to widen our spheres of availability so there is more of the probable within our grasp and that includes the concept of fairness?”

  I typed back, “This isn’t Lyndon, is it?” and pressed send.

  There was a brief pause and then, “No. It’s the man he’s staying with. Why did you say that? Do you believe in magic?”

  “I don’t,” I replied. “But apparently there’s a lost soul who needs my help. A white witch said that to me and I liked it. I thought it was relevant to Lyndon and me. You sent the email, didn’t you? Not Lyndon. The first email, I mean.”

  And he responded, “Yes. I did. Lyndon didn’t mean to hurt you. He can’t help himself right now.”

  I replied, “I’m not going to comment on that. And you obviously read my very private email to him. Isn’t that horribly voyeuristic of you? Frankly, I feel violated.”

  And he said, “Understandable, but not my intention at all. I apologize. I was only trying to help facilitate communication. I knew Lyndon wouldn’t be in touch, and I felt you had the right to know that he’s okay.”

  Furious, I lashed out. “You’re God, are you? How nice that must be, dispensing wisdom and justice at your discretion.”

  And he said, “Actually, I’m a sixty-five-year-old ex-punk rocker from England. Not any kind of god I know.”

  Oh. I didn’t have any idea how to respond to that, so I typed, “I have to go.”

  “You’re going to find your lost soul?”

  “Not today. Today, I’m just going to a weekend market in Balmain with a woman I met. It would be nice to spend some time with someone normal.”

  “No such thing, darling,” the man replied, and I knew I should object to a perfect stranger calling me “darling,” but actually it made me smile like a teenager passing notes in the classroom.

  “Have fun,” he said. “Roger, over and out.”

  And that was that.

  Interesting. Lyndon had found himself a punk rocker to shack up with. I smiled. Both Lyndon and I had been into punk when we met—tartan trousers in the university beer hall, anarchy signs scribbled on our wrists, and all that. Both of us had been into street art and self-expression. How times had changed.

  I locked my door and rushed to catch the bus to Circular Quay where I took a ferry to meet Graham at Balmain. I joined crowds of people going places, and I suddenly felt a bit glamorous,which was silly. But it was delightful to have a purpose. I had missed that, having a purpose, even one as small as a walk around a weekend market.

  The ferry dropped me at Balmain, and I walked up the hill where I had arranged to meet Graham. I felt nervous, as if I were on a date or something. I was about to reach for a Xanax when I stopped myself. I wanted to see if I could do this without the aid of my calming little peach-coloured friends. I blamed Lyndon for my attachment to Xanax—it had been because of our dinner parties, with him being so clever and everybody being so afraid they’d be the next one he’d line up in the sights of his rapier wit. He had thought he was hilarious, and he was. He had been careful to never take it too far, but he certainly scraped up against the edge and dragged us all with him.

  People had loved and hated our parti
es for that very reason; it had been like a gladiator sport. Who was Lyndon going to rip into that night? If you were the poor sap who got called upon, then it was hell for you, but hugely entertaining for the others. The others but not me. I’d had to resort to tranquillizers.

  “Do you have to be quite so cutting?” I had asked him dozens of times afterwards while I cleaned up, and he’d laughed and come up behind me and I could feel his erection.

  “My debate-winning techniques used to work for you,” he said. “Used to be quite the aphrodisiac.”

  It was true. That was how we had met. Lyndon had been the captain of the debating club at university, and I’d thought he was brilliant. The best sex we ever had was when he’d verbally dissected and destroyed his opponents. He had needed to triumph over his teammates. And I got off on it too, watching him go in for the kill. I had applauded, my panties wet with the knowledge of fantastic sex to come.

  But then, somehow, along the years, it had turned nasty, and I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “You’ve got soft and old on me,” he’d said one night as he lay on the bed and watched me undress.

  I had turned to him, still in my bra and panties, still as lean as I’d been when we met, unlike him. “You think so?” I asked.

  “Intellectually,” he jousted in a way I hadn’t found funny.

  “Perhaps you’ve become a sadist in your old age,” I had countered. “Which isn’t very attractive.”

  “No? This isn’t attractive?” He had stroked his engorged dick, and I couldn’t help myself. I had laid down and taken him in my mouth.

  So there had been advantages to his cruel wit, but soon after that, I started taking a Xanax here and there, just to help see me through, which extended to times of being alone with him, or when we were out in company.

  But I was not going to take one now.

  Graham was leaning against a wall, waiting for me. She was smoking and she looked so together that I didn’t think I could do this, with or without chemical help. I have never been “together,” not like that, not even when things were at their best.