by Joss Sheldon
I landed with my feet together; an angel of the air, a demon of the sea.
My mind floated atop an infinite ocean.
My arms swept through the infinite air. They knocked over the board behind my stall. They overturned my table. They sent paperwork up into the bright white light.
I could see my monkey soul. I could hear the monkey calls which were emanating from my open mouth. I could hear Beethoven’s Ninth reach its first crescendo, as the brass section began its battle cry. Flutes became one with clarinets. Bassoons boomed. Trumpets and horns squealed with uncontrollable delight.
I howled like a donkey at the moment of sexual climax.
My lungs filled with pure spirit.
I tore off my shirt and faced my boss. My hairy chest bulged like a gorilla’s breastplate. My shoulders protruded from my upper back. And my temples were as erect as horns.
I encircled that man, toying with him like a cat might toy with a mouse. And I stampeded around him like a herd of untamed wildebeests; leaving the rubble of my stall, some twisted shoppers and some miscellaneous debris in my wake.
Beethoven’s Ninth called out for redemption, glory and release. It was an impassioned cry. It was a fury-filled yell.
“Yew! Yew! Yew!” my boss was yelling.
But I didn’t care.
“Fuck you!” I cheered. “Fuck you Dave!
“Fuck you! Fuck you! And fuck your fucking job!”
I floated on the winds of time. I danced above the starry earth. And I flew through the eternal ether.
My body left that shopping centre behind it.
My soul said ‘good riddance’ to that bullshit job.
TWENTY ONE
I was jobless and a few months away from being penniless. But I didn’t care.
I’d re-found myself. I’d liberated myself. I’d experienced the euphoric bliss of rebellion. And it’d ignited a burning hunger within me.
I wanted more!
I wanted more out of body experiences. More transcendence. More elation.
I wanted Beethoven’s Ninth to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.
I wanted to satisfy my animal urges.
And so I didn’t just rebel reactively. No.
Dear reader, for the first time in my life I proactively searched for opportunities to rebel. To kick-out against the system. To assert myself.
I went to an anti-capitalist rally.
It was a carnival, full of all the assorted misfits and mavericks you might expect to find in a 1960s hippy commune. Bare-chested men wore mesmeric waistcoats. Dreadlocked ladies wore Indian skirts. Grey-haired sages mingled with babes-in-arms. And middle-aged eccentrics mixed with ageless revolutionaries.
Those activists planted marijuana plants in Parliament Square. It was genius! They put a grass Mohican atop a statue of an old dictator. And they scrawled graffiti over a monument which glorified war.
My heart pounded. My veins throbbed.
Those were my people! Like-minded spirits! Soul siblings!
I finally felt at home.
I was swept up in a wave of those people’s energy, carried down the street, and delivered into the crowd which had gathered around a multinational junk-food restaurant.
Protestors were smashing that place apart. Windows were shattered and tables were overturned. Kitchen appliances lay crying on their sides. The beaten remains of that capitalist outpost were bleeding on the floor.
My little voice, that little voice inside my head which had lain dormant for years, which had reappeared when I rebelled against my boss, and which had been speaking to me ever since, told me to join in. It was a quiet voice, much like the egot’s quiet voice. It was calm. Subtle. Quirky. And it told me to join in. It told me to contribute. It told me to help that rebel army to create a better world.
And I listened. Dear reader, I listened to my little voice! Not to the egot. Not to the calls of others. But to my little voice. That manifestation of the real me.
I pushed through the crowd. I squeezed between veteran activists with brightly coloured hair. And I slunk between confused tourists who’d been caught up in the melee. In and out. In and out. Until I eventually reached the front.
By the time I arrived the activists had moved onto the money exchange next-door. Its door had been removed. Protestors were tearing that place to smithereens.
I picked up a chair, lifted it high above my head, and smashed it into the window. It hurt. The vibrations from the strengthened-glass ran up my arm. My shoulder jolted backwards.
The shattered glass wobbled and then returned to its original position. Thousands of shards were still held in place by some sort of synthetic sheet. My half-hearted swing hadn’t made a difference.
But I felt great. Not euphoric. Not ecstatic. But great. Really, really great.
I felt that I was sticking it to the man. To the man who’d groomed me at school. To the man who’d made me go to university and then abandoned me. To the man who’d led me into a strip club, like a dog on a lead, and expected me to be grateful. And to the man who’d made me speak from a stupid script, day in day out.
I felt that I was sticking it to those men. I felt that I was sticking it to all the men. I felt that I was standing up, not only for myself, but for every other worker who was stuck in a call centre, making monotonous calls, helping some rich person to get even richer. For every other worker who never knew when their next shift would be, when their next paycheque would arrive, or when they’d be able to afford to eat. And for every other worker who’d lost all hope. Who felt helpless and alone.
That selfless urge surged through me.
I took a deep breath and looked up at the money exchange. For me, in that moment, it represented everything wrong with the world. Every dead-end job, hard sale and nasty boss. I felt that I had to take it out.
So I lifted the chair once more, swung it once more, and smashed it into the storefront once more. Nothing changed. The glass remained intact. My shoulder took the full weight of the blow.
I repeated the process a third and final time. But it didn’t make a difference. And it seemed to me that it wouldn’t make a difference if I continued on.
People were staring. They were making me feel self-conscious, paranoid and insecure. An icy-shiver ran through me. My heart seemed to drop.
My little voice told me that I’d done enough.
And so I disappeared back into the crowd.
Looking back on that day now, I can’t help but feel that it was a positive experience. I’d connected with thousands of like-minded souls for the first time in my life. I’d become a part of a bigger whole. And I’d tried to contribute - to do my part. At times, that had made me feel great. It had made me feel real.
But it hadn’t made me feel euphoric. I didn’t transcend the material realm. Beethoven’s Ninth didn’t ring in my ears.
And, because of that, a part of me still felt unfulfilled…
TWENTY TWO
I still went to a number of protests in the weeks which followed. I protested for peace, the environment and social justice. I protested against nuclear weapons, tuition fees and the arms trade. And I enjoyed those protests. I really did. But I never got high off them. I never felt like I did when I rampaged around Ms Brown’s classroom.
I still took part in those protests because I felt that I was making a difference. I felt that I was contributing to society. Well, I felt that I was contributing more than I ever had done by working.
And I still went on those protests because I’d made friends with a group of activists. I liked spending time with them. And I needed them. My old friends all had careers and long-term partners. Some of them had kids. But I’d ostracised myself from the world they lived in. I was different. An outcast. A misfit. And that had put a strain on our relationships. I did manage to stay friends with Gavin Gillis and a few mates from university, but that was it. I never saw any of my work mates again.
Relations with my family also became strained. They
just didn’t understand what I was doing with my life. They couldn’t accept me.
But I still needed companionship. I still needed friendship. And I think that’s why I grew closer to my new activist friends.
There was Swampy who, as you might have guessed from his name, was a stereotypical hippie; all tie-dyed shirts, clumpy hair and tatty sandals. There was Brian, who wasn’t at all the sort of person you’d associate with activism; he owned a chip shop and had a young family in a quaint historical village. And then there was Becky. Strong, fiery Becky. She was a feminist. And not the airy-fairy type either.
I loved Becky. I mean, I genuinely loved her.
Lao Tzu says that love is ‘The strongest of all passions, for it simultaneously attacks the head, the heart and the senses’.
Well, that’s exactly how I felt when I was with Becky. I felt that I was being ‘attacked’ by love. Beaten down by it. Kicked in the balls by it.
Becky made me feel great. Really great.
My apathy had washed away. Walking out on my job had enabled me to re-engage with the full emotional spectrum. It had enabled me to feel great again. And it had enabled me to feel morose again too.
So I was able to fall in love. I was able to give myself to that beautiful young lady.
Like with Georgie, I got butterflies in my stomach whenever I saw Becky. Sometimes she’d say things which would really resonate. Things which gave me goose-pimples. She made me feel gooey inside. She made my innards feel like melted marshmallows.
Yeah, I really liked Becky. I really liked all those activists. They all had hearts of gold.
So I still went on those protests. I went on those protests in order to spend time with those great people.
I went on those protests until one gnarly autumn day, when the trees were all full of rusty leaves and the sky was filled with a hazy rainbow. Ominous shades of blue, indigo and violet, provided a grisly backdrop for our angst-filled chants. And lines of orange, yellow and green, brought forth little flickers of hope; hope that we’d actually be able to make a difference, and improve our broken society.
I ignored that rainbow. I was indifferent to it. For me, it was just a prosaic part of the background.
I was totally focussed on our protest.
Our group of activists walked down the high street and then tried to enter a job centre, to stage a sit-in. But a line of burly policemen, who all had chiselled jaws and sculpted chests, blocked the front door. They stopped us from exercising our legal right to stage a peaceful protest.
Political rap boomed out of a ghetto blaster:
‘Forget what they told you in school. Get educated!’
“It’s Akala,” Swampy told me. “It’s good, eh?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “Conscious lyrics man!”
Swampy tapped his sandal-clad foot in time with the music:
“That guy is a Pied Piper for revolutionary rats.”
I smiled.
“His songs are rebel anthems for the disenfranchised youth.”
I winked.
Baffled locals pretended not to stare.
And a protestor threw a handful of confetti over the policemen. It was hilarious. That protestor effeminised those gargantuan hulks; showering them with delicate paper petals as if they were blushing brides at a country wedding.
The policemen stood stony-faced. They were clearly uncomfortable. Their embarrassment seemed to be veering towards resentment.
But they didn’t move an inch.
So some other activists joined in. They all rained confetti down on those policemen.
I joined them. I threw a handful of confetti up into the air. Then I threw a second.
The policemen’s frustration began to build. You could see it in their eyes, which were full of bloodshot anger. And you could see it in their auras, which were red with vicious spite. The rainbow’s glow created a bloody haze around them. Red leaves danced between their shiny boots.
But they didn’t move an inch.
So I threw a third handful of confetti. Then a fourth.
A policeman snapped. Just like that! It happened in the blink of an eye.
That policeman couldn’t hold himself back. His animal instinct burst through his self-restraint. His body shot towards me.
I shot back through the protestors, who formed a protective wall between the policemen and myself. I paused. I was ready to stand my ground and protest my innocence.
“Run!!!” Swampy shouted.
“Run!!!” my little voice whispered.
“Run! Run! Run!”
I ran.
I ran down the high street. I hurdled the swinging leg of an elderly have-a-go-hero. And I swung right into a soulless shopping centre.
White light burned my retinas and a stitch tore through my ribs.
But I kept running.
I kept running despite the pain. I kept running despite the futility of it all. I kept running until a security guard stepped out of a privately owned shop. He blocked my way. He towered over me like a giraffe above an ant. And he ground his teeth like a tormented bull.
There was no way I was getting past.
So I put my hands on my knees and inhaled. The air tasted salty.
A policeman caught me up, handcuffed me and led me away. He paraded me past an audience of nosy shoppers and preening kids. They all seemed to be mocking me. They all seemed to be staring.
I felt sick. Physically sick! My stomach was full of adrenaline. It was a vessel of bitter acid. A balloon of acrid spew. A beaker of filth.
I was taken to a police station and locked inside a cell.
Then, after ten hours had passed, I was released. The duty officer told me that I was going to face charges of ‘Assaulting an Officer of the Law’. And that was that!
Fifteen activists picked me up in a rented minibus. They were like wise old kings; bearing gifts of beer, which was ice-cold, some incense and some liquor. They told me not to worry. That everything would be okay. And they made rude gestures at the cops who’d arrested me.
That cheered me up no end. It felt great to know that I wasn’t alone. That there were other people out there just like me.
I loved those people’s team spirit. For me, they were like a slug of whiskey on a stormy day. A warm blanket on a chilly night. A hug in a moment of dire loneliness.
They made me feel good. They made me feel great. But that feeling was just a fleeting sensation. It wasn’t liberation or enlightenment. It wasn’t euphoria. And it wasn’t a feeling that’d last…
TWENTY THREE
I had to go to court three times after that.
My first appearance was for a plea-hearing. I pleaded ‘Not Guilty’.
My second appearance was meant to be for the trial itself. But it was postponed because the police hadn’t given my lawyers the CCTV footage.
My third appearance was also meant to be for the trial. But the police witnesses didn’t even turn up! They’d realised that they didn’t have a case. And so all the charges were dropped.
The whole process was a real ball-ache. A real twisted sort of psychological warfare. I stressed something chronic.
However, one positive did come out of it.
In order to get a defence lawyer, I had to claim ‘Legal Aid’. In order to claim Legal Aid, I had to prove that I was on a low income. And in order to prove that I was on a low income, I had to sign on for ‘Job Seekers’ Allowance’. I claimed ‘Housing Benefit’ whilst I was at it.
I’d never claimed benefits before. I’d always thought that welfare was for scroungers and bums. I’d thought that people should earn their money rather than rely on the state.
Yet, in those circumstances, I didn’t have a choice. And, in the end, I did rather well out of it. Receiving that money meant I didn’t need to work. It meant that I could focus on my real needs.
But I did stop my activism. Political protest hadn’t helped me to reach the euphoric state I’d craved. So I asked myself if it was worth a
ll the effort. And, in the end, I concluded that it wasn’t. My little voice told me that those protests weren’t making the world a better place. And I knew that they weren’t making me happy.
I loved my activist friends, and I wanted to stay in contact with them. That was easier said than done. I did manage to stay in contact with Swampy, but Becky dumped me. We’d lost the one thing which had held us together.
That got me down. But it didn’t sway me. I was sure that activism wasn’t the answer to my problems. I was convinced that I had to put my days of protest behind me.
I’d had a taste of something better, something purer, and I was determined to experience that again. I was one hundred percent focussed on that goal.
But, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t reach the highs I’d once experienced. And that ate me up inside. It made me feel like a failure. It made me feel helpless and meek.
I was miserable. I was depressed.
But let me ask you this; ‘What sort of person isn’t depressed these days?’
I think Jiddu Krishnamurti got it right when he said; ‘It’s no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society’.
Well, I wasn’t ‘well adjusted’ to my society. I wasn’t ‘well adjusted’ at all. But my society was ‘profoundly sick’. It’d lost touch with nature, with humanity, and with itself. It was making me sick.
I was ill. I was unhappy. I was depressed.
I felt that no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t find happiness. I’d tried to fit in, but it hadn’t gotten me anywhere. It hadn’t made my parents, my teachers or my bosses happy. And it certainly hadn’t made me happy. I hadn’t got the promotions I’d desired. I hadn’t been able to buy myself a flat. And I hadn’t felt fulfilled. I mean, I’d been denying my true self. How could I have possibly felt fulfilled? How could I have possibly been happy?
So I’d rejected my society, but I’d still not found myself. I’d found some happiness, but not true happiness. Not complete happiness. And, in the meantime, I’d become an outcast. A pariah. Rejected by my community. Estranged from my family. And alienated from my friends.