Our anarchist

The anarchist’s arms dangled spastically in the air with a stick pointing out and to the right, like a supply and demand curve, as he preached the good word. The word coming out in jumps, flutters, piles, outside a looming white castle-church—Ignacio, the church. The stick in his hand darted back and forth in between commodity words, while his body shook under his gesticulations. His energy formed raw and pure and unabashedly directed itself toward the passersby walking through the empty night, on their way home from 200,000 dollar educations and 100,000 dollar jobs. A jump, a hop, a giggle.

Jump and hop back two days, and I swear I’ll make you giggle, because jumping makes you fall off balance, and you start moving slowly, but then you accelerate like aggregate supply after the equilibrium point. Two days previous the anarchist and I stood in a library while he struggled to whisper, something he never quite got down. Through struggling words he spoke to me of a day when the buildings would still stand and the money would fly into fires. “SHHHHHh!” We were in a library. We left the library. And then he told me why. “Why will the people give up money?” “Love.” “Ha!” I was another schmuck laughing in the face of this poor withered loving soul. Counter points flew out like daggers, or swords thrown by giants, and his eyes moved like lizards, the animal his shaman said he embodied. So am I surprised that after the insults flew he packed his bags and his manifesto to spread the good word? No, but I never thought he’d proclaim himself leader of legion, legion of suburban Newton, on a night when I had to pick up a package and couldn’t help.

But when they later spoke of his arms in the air, and his beautiful life changing words, and his eyes taking in every corner of the world, I had to praise him, kneel on one knee, kiss his imaginary cheek (because I was insane by then, of course). Then the cops came and he shouted at the “slaves of capitalism,” and the dissenter was arrested and shipped to a mental hospital, where they put the geniuses, the artists, and the beautiful. But that sermon on the rock will go down in history, if for nothing else than the fear it evoked and the dehumanization his friends and past followers invoked upon his imprisonment. Another was.

Was does something special. It makes that beautiful boy into a beautiful myth. He is no longer a person, he is more. He invokes sad awe in sad eyes as they struggle to figure out what it means to be on a different plane of sanity, which I suppose most call insanity. The fallen men are myths, that becomes their identity., They are our cherished mirage memories, and we sadly tell their stories. You can recognize a story-wielder if you look in the glazed eyeballs we point towards Orion’s belt, and the flaccid postures we mosey from place to place when thinking on the mythologized. In the end, the anarchist, the leader of nonexistent legions, is dead to these people, to me. I may shake his hand, or hug him during a visit, but he is real only in a memory of a dream of the night in a library when he told me why the world would change. His existence is diluted and transmuted in my mind. But that’s because he’s different. That is because he is different. He is human no more, and a blur forever. 

This is a movement. Just check the MVMT splitting the skull in two.