The Occult Persuasion and the Anarchist's Solution

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “I’m worried I will be a coward,” I said, and Jason grinned at me.

  “Demon slayer,” he reminded me, and I nodded, unconvinced.

  And it did hurt. A lot. And it took a lot longer than I thought it would. And, true to my word, I did not look. And when he was finished, he straightened up and looked at me.

  “There you go then,” he said. I raised my leg up and brought my foot up onto the chair.

  True Love. Written in a beautifully expansive, swirly script. I sobbed. “I love it and I love you,” I cried. I was a mess. I threw myself into Jason’s arms. The shop was full and people looked at me briefly, then shrugged and went back to their own lives.

  Jason’s demeanour had shifted from Shar-Pei to Cheshire Cat. “Glad you like it. Now, let’s go back and enjoy more of our luxury accommodation while we can. “Let’s spend the night together…. Now I need you more than ever…,” he sang loudly and tunelessly, and it was utterly marvellous.

  38. LYNDON

  NO ONE COULD SAY we didn’t prep the event to death. Every single detail was taken care of. We knew how many drivers would be coming from the north and south ends of the bridge. A guy who owned a porta-potty business said he’d provide twenty units to be placed at intervals on the bridge. We arranged for his truck to be the first to enter, followed by a van with bottled water and the banner guys. We had an ambulance on loan from a high-end retirement village, offered by a physician who wanted to contribute. Another van was stacked with energy bars and snacks. The protestors were instructed to take their garbage with them and not drop empty wrappers and bottles on the bridge. Jason was adamant. Not one piece of rubbish was to be left on the bridge—zero littering.

  We went to Costco and filled four U-Hauls with toilet paper. No one asked why we needed that much, so we didn’t offer an explanation. We spent hours ripping them out of their plastic wrappings and restacking them.

  Jason had sent out detailed instructions of how the T-shirts should look. He was insistent that we needed to look united. We were an army, not a ragged bunch of losers. That was how he put it.

  And he kept sending reminders about the silence. There had to be silence. Apart from the siren calls, there would be no noise from us. He warned people that the helicopters would be deafening and that, most likely, there would be police. The police and traffic officers would be screaming at us to disband and all of that needed to be taken in stride. There would be barking dogs and, if crowds gathered, which he hoped they would, they’d be making a lot of noise too. And he kept reiterating that no matter what happened, there was to be no running and no screaming. He said, bluntly, that if people thought they might be runners and screamers, that they should please stay at home rather than ruin the whole thing. He said it was vitally important that people walk calmly. They could walk quickly, but there was to be no running. He wanted us to look calm, in control, assured.

  “Silence is more powerful than chatter,” he wrote. “The world is littered with chatter, on social media, in the workplace, on television. Let us go about our protest with the strongest message of pure silence. No matter what happens. If they tear-gas us, we will stand in silence. If they fire rubber bullets upon us, let us be silent. If they arrest us, let us be silent. From the moment you get up in the morning, shut it, zip it, and don’t open it until you are back home and the day is done. We will move through the day with precision and purpose.”

  His approach was clear: he wanted us to be zen warriors.

  “We are not panic-ridden nutcases,” he wrote in his newsletter. “If we want to change the future and be a part of the future, we need people to see that we are trustworthy, not chaotic. Do NOT break anything, do not steal anything, and for God’s sake, do NOT mark or tag the bridge. The bridge remains untouched. NO CANS OF SPRAY PAINT ARE ALLOWED. This is vital. We do not harm, mark, or tag the bridge. Respect the code.”

  He was worried that the pack mentality would spark off anarchy in the most expected form of the word, and he tried his best, in the two weeks preceding the event, to re-educate his followers and keep their focus on the message.

  “There is beauty in symmetry,” he wrote. “Think about murmurations, about how groups of starlings swoop and swirl at exactly the same time. If they were all whirling about in different directions, would that send the same message? No, it would not. Think about the corps de ballet, how they are often more breathtakingly powerful than the soloists because they are so precisely united. We must move together as one.

  “Our protest is artwork and each of us is a piece of that art. It won’t be easy. We don’t have the time or opportunity to practice. There can be no rehearsal—only the real thing.”

  I told him, as I was working on my second tattoo that day, that perhaps he was overestimating the intelligence of his audience. He sat up quickly, nearly causing my machine to slip and ruin the butterfly I was working on. Jason said butterflies were one of the most popular tattoos requested, so he wanted me to have them down pat. By the time he died, his body would be a butterfly arboretum. I had already done more than a dozen on him: on the top of his hand, on his neck, a few on his arms and legs, torso and back.

  Jason had explained that there was a big difference between tattooing older skin as opposed to younger skin and what he said was fascinating as well as depressing. “As we age, we lose fat, our skin gets thinner and we heal less easily. The ink doesn’t work as well because the skin has lost elasticity.” Jason had also told me to accept and learn about these limitations, to find my way around them, instead of avoiding them or pretending they didn’t exist.

  “There’s a huge market in old people wanting tats,” he’d said. “Get it right and you’ll be set for life.”

  “Until they all die,” I had joked, which was pretty rude of me considering his condition.

  “I think you can rely on there being an endless supply of aging people,” he replied. “We spend much more time being old than we do being young.”

  I hadn’t given much thought to the actual people I’d be tattooing. I had only focused on the art. And when he started telling me about aged skin, I was turned off, revolted. I had silently vowed that I would only tattoo beautiful young flesh. Jason had understood this and was trying to change my perceptions. I, in turn, tried to learn, so I paid attention to his skin texture and the interaction between it, the needle, the ink, and my art.

  “You can tat me too, try some different skin,” Sean had kindly offered. “But not a butterfly, okay? Do a rose. People love roses.”

  Becoming a tattooist had made me face the fact that there was no going back from aging. As stupid as it sounded, I’d kept waiting for my lines and wrinkles, as well as the other various symptoms of aging, to reverse or at the very least, politely stop. I had felt like my body had betrayed me by getting old and I was angry. I had felt a sense of alienation from my younger self, who’d abandoned me, like a fickle friend. Working with Jason and his dying body was bringing me, I hoped, some kind of self-acceptance. Although, honestly, I was still waiting for that self-acceptance to take effect.

  When I said that, about him overestimating the intelligence of his followers, he shot up in the chair. I dabbed the butterfly and assessed the damage, which was minimal.

  “I need my laptop now,” he said. Sean handed it to him and he started pounding away. I had to stop working since he was jiggling all over the place.

  “Do not underestimate your own intelligence,” he read aloud to us when he finished typing. “The politicians and the corporations want you to feel stupid. When you feel stupid, you look to them for guidance and don’t question them. You are not stupid! You never were stupid. But you have been made to feel that way. You have been made to fear your own thoughts, your own instincts, and your desires. You need to get in touch with the power of your own decision-making. Perhaps some of you have never been in touch with your own decision-making, as it has come to you from your
schools, from your parents, your religions, your leaders, and the culture of your country. I want you to say two things to yourself every day. The first is this: I am an intelligent human who can and will think for himself. The second is this: I am making this decision. No one but me. And do that at least once a day. Even with the smallest thing. Why am I eating this sandwich on this bread? Think about the bread, the ham, the butter. Think about the chain of events that brought the sandwich to you. And then, if there are things about it that you do not agree with, think about how you can change them. Boycott companies whose ethics you do not agree with. Spread awareness. Think for yourself.”

  “People will be upset you wrote, ‘himself,’” I pointed out. “It should be himself or herself or themself.”

  Jason looked at me and nodded. “You’re right, good point.”

  “I think people will be alarmed by having to think for themselves,” I added. “Most of them have never done it because it is too much work. It’s far easier being told what to do and the general population wants what is easier. Added to which, the capitalistic regime instills in them the fear that any thoughts they have of their own, will be wrong, and they’ll be forced to face the worst consequence, that of alienation and poverty. They will be social pariahs. Fear fuels the success of capitalism, and fear is one of the hardest things to eradicate.”

  “My God, you’re depressing me today,” Jason said. “Try seeing the happy side, why don’t you?”

  “I am being realistic,” I replied. “People view thinking in the same way they view exercising or eating correctly. It’s much more fun to binge-watch TV, eat crap, go out and spend money, and not think about what you’re buying or why. Accumulating stuff makes people feel good. Stuff is who and what we are. It’s like the core matter, the fibre of our being. Our sense of self is tied up in our stuff. I have stuff, therefore I am. I think you expect too much of humankind.”

  “You’re making me glad I’m dying,” Jason told me, and he sent the message to his followers and slammed his laptop shut.

  “There have always been those kinds of people,” Sean piped up. “The ones who don’t want to do anything. But not everyone’s like that. And we aren’t trying to change the whole world in one day with one action. We’re trying to encourage intelligent thinking, and that is possible. We’re trying to nudge the beast, tell him, or her or it or whatever, that we’re still here. We’re trying to tell each other that a wink can lead a nudge to a shag and then, things can be different. We don’t need to focus on the bigger picture. We’ve got no way of knowing what the end result of our actions will be and, actually, the outcome is irrelevant. ‘Society was conceived as a permanent revolution, and revolution begins in the thinking mind.’”

  “Very philosophical,” I said, with no small measure of sarcasm.

  “And not very practical,” Sean said with a grin. “And we all know you want practical. But before practice comes theory, so stop depressing Jason with your horrible need for locked-down solutions and systems and finish his butterfly. And I’ve decided I want a nasturtium on my ankle, just a little orange one, thank you very much, mate.”

  I bent down and tried to focus on Jason’s butterfly. Did theory come before practice when it came to human action? And if the answer was yes, then how could we change politics, businesses, schools, and parenting? It was all too big and, if you asked me, it was a losing battle. But did that mean we shouldn’t fight at all? I was exhausted.

  And I was getting nowhere with my speech that would change the world. Jason had been right. I was tempted to riff off Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “Now is the time …” and all that. It was excruciatingly tough, trying to be original. Plus, speech writing had never been one of my strengths. I didn’t want to tell Jason, but Margaux wrote all my speeches, even back in my debating days. And she prepped and primed me.

  “Jason,” I said, reluctantly broaching the unavoidable topic, “you know my speech, the slogan, our mantra, the manifesto….”

  “Ah right. I forgot to mention that I had a thought for it,” he interrupted me.

  I was taken aback. “Yeah?”

  “‘Be Your Revolution!’ What do you think?”

  The weight of the world flew off my shoulders. “I love it,” I said. “Brilliant. You see, I knew you’d know better than anyone what the message should be. And have you thought about the rest of the speech or do you want me to still write that?” Please dear God, say you don’t want me to do it.

  “I have thought about it, yes,” Jason said. “Don’t worry, it’s done. But you’ll have to wait and hear it on the day. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  “I have every faith, mate,” Sean chimed in, “that it will be astute and pithy, as only you can be.”

  “Pithy?” Jason teased him, while I was delirious with relief that I didn’t have to write the speech. Flooded by a sense of well-being, the darkness of the future faded from my mind, and for a moment, life was a beautiful thing.

  39. MARGAUX

  THE BIG DAY APPROACHED. I needed to do two things. The first was get my cards read by Janet, and the second was to loop Adam and Rick in about the protest. I had to remember that they didn’t know anything about Jason or that Tim had found Lyndon. I refused to ask Jason about Lyndon, but Tim had brought me up to speed on my estranged husband. From the sounds of it, he was getting along very well without me. He had a whole new look, a shaved head, designer facial stubble, Johnny Cash clothing, and a new career lined up as a tattoo artist.

  I was careful to keep my fury at bay when I thought about him—the last thing I needed was another Nancy to come trotting though the open portal of my rage. But in truth, I wasn’t angry with Lyndon anymore. I was sad.

  Why couldn’t we have done all of this together? But realistically, how open would I have been to him shaving his head and growing a designer goatee? While I could imagine it would suit him, in all likelihood, I would have strenuously objected. And wearing all black? I would have mocked him, told him he was having a post mid-life crisis, since mid-life was long gone, and could he please do it less visibly? And a tattoo artist? I wouldn’t have given that any credence whatsoever.

  I realized that I had been unconsciously restrictive when it came to Lyndon. I had rules of who I needed him to be and what I wanted him to look like. As Trish would say, I needed to widen my sphere of availability when it came to thinking about my husband and who he really was and who he wanted to be. Not that I was sure he was still my husband, at all.

  But I couldn’t tell Adam any of this. I would just say that I had received word from the leader of the anarchists and that Adam would have to trust me. And I knew he wouldn’t be happy about that. Adam, much like me, liked full disclosure. He needed all the facts before he could start processing how he felt or what he thought. So, this would be a good lesson for him.

  Practicing new learning experiences while he was still young would help him when he got to Lyndon’s and my age. And hopefully his life wouldn’t derail as spectacularly as ours had.

  I had told Trish and Graham about the protest and they were delighted. They swore they would both be in on the action and that they’d recruit as many people as possible.

  I needed to stake out a good viewing point, and my plan was to enlist Rick and Adam into filming the whole thing. I figured if we took up our positions at the railing at the Opera House promenade, right on the edge of the harbour, we’d have a good view. I needed to have Jason in my sight at all times.

  He and I emailed and texted and talked daily. My heart broke every time we hung up. I wasn’t not sure how I would cope when we had to say our final goodbyes.

  This was why I needed Janet to read my cards and he generously obliged. He and Tim knew about the protest and were coming to support it in full drag, along with me and Rick and Adam. At least I hoped Rick and Adam would come.

  I decided to tell Adam and Rick what was g
oing on, while I waited for Janet to arrive.

  “Mom!” Adam said, meeting me in the kitchen lounge and instantly zoning in on my foot, “you got a tat, wow. True Love? Okay. Maybe I should add a tat to my bucket list too.”

  I was tempted to tell him that his father would be able to do it for him, but I resisted. One thing at a time.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said. “I’ve got something to tell both of you, but I don’t have all the information. You’re going to want to know things that I don’t have the answers to. In a nutshell, the day after tomorrow, at dawn, your father is going to be part of a massive anarchist protest against capitalism. He’s helping set up the protest, the aim of which is to cover the Sydney Harbour Bridge with toilet paper, along with the message ‘Stop Shitting On Our World.’ The theme of the protest is ‘Be Your Revolution!’ and it’s going to be huge, from what we currently know.”

  Adam and Rick were speechless. I nodded. “I know, it’s a lot to take in.”

  “It’s going to be brilliant!” Tim said, walking into the kitchen. I thanked God for his arrival.

  “Tim,” I pleaded. “Can you explain the whole thing more clearly?”

  And he did.

  “But…” Adam opened his line of questioning as I settled back on the sofa. The interrogation had begun. An hour later, I was exhausted. I’d had enough.

  “Adam, you now know everything I do, okay? It’s up to you. Join us or don’t. We’re going to get there really early to take up position. I was hoping you that two would film the whole thing.”

  “Of course we will,” Rick drawled. He grabbed Adam’s hand. “You can count on us, Margaux. I bought a new camera for the trip, and I’d better figure out how to use it.” He got up and pulled Adam to his feet. “Come on, A-man,” he said. “Let’s go and grapple with technology.”

  “You’ve known about this for weeks,” Adam said to me accusingly. “That’s why we all had to stick around Sydney after the Nancy thing. I wondered why we couldn’t leave.”