I dropped in on Alex recently. I bore small gifts ... a few stubbies of dark ale and printouts from the internet on the pricing of some classic books of dialogues with the Buddha and subscriptions to philosophical journals. Alex mustered enough concentration to cursorily read the printouts and made a quick decision to settle for The Journal of Philosophy and let the others go. After our customary discussion of his poor health, he fell back into his pain, which seemed greater than usual.
I made a few lame attempts at conversation in an attempt to distract him. Knowing nothing small would work, I tried the future of world capitalism. Alex's interest flickered briefly but quickly waned after he made some vague comments about the necessity for Government control.
That was interesting, in light of the way things went. Alex drank his single beer quicker than usual, then apologised that he would have to lie down. But he didn't want me to leave, so I followed him and brought my chair with me. Scattered across the bedroom floor was a pile of leaflets and magazines. Alex suggested I have a look at them, and began to doze fitfully.
There in black and white, colour, gloss, recycled newspaper and three or four languages was a dazzling selection of current anarchist literature from around the world, from Melbourne to Warsaw. Alex must have been looking for something or knocked down the pile by accident, because it was out of place with the rest of the his library, which his daughter cleaned up a few years ago. The printed word still covered every wall and corner of the flat (except for the bathroom), but it was contained. Here and there a few piles could be observed slowly creeping higher ... particularly the Buddhist stuff, which comes in crateloads from Hong Kong ... but no longer did the visitor fear that Alex might eventually meet his end by having a wall of encyclopedias or religous tomes fall on top of him.
I soon found myself renewing my long-standing acquaintance with anarchist propoganda. As a young man I had been an uncommitted admirer of the philosophy. There was a group in Brisbane called the self-management group, started by the mildly charismatic Brian Laver, who always wore white shirts and a beard. My only encounter with Brian had been shortly after Joh Bjelke Peterson declared a state of emergency in response to a few peaceful anti-Springbk demonstrations in 1971, when I was a fresher a Queensland Uni. I rashly declared to Brian that somebody should shoot the man .. to which he calmly responded that Joh was in fact a human, and no humans deserved to be shot. I was immediately both humbled and impressed.
I had a good friend who was also in the group. I enjoyed his lazy sense of humour and consistent stance on issues, and relished reading self management group pamphlets, which always seemed to make good sense and resonate with my feelings about how the world should be: relaxed, friendly, co-operative and most importantly not run by bossy bullies of the kind who had dominated my five years at high school.
As I drifted further and further away from either conventional or so-called radical politics, the vision of anarchy remained in my mind, although it became increasingly apparent that, as a handbook for life, anarchism allowed folk such as I to pretty well absolve themselves of any need to take action of a political kind. I have to admit this suited me, and in many ways still does, and that it has also evolved into an equally convenient cynicism about proper anarchists, who write pamphlets, live in squats and do the other things that anarchists really should do.
This cynicism was immediately summoned up by the first article I read from the pile, from a London periodical which lambasted Ken Livingstone and Gordon Brown for allowing Yuppies to "gentrify" urban areas at the expense of the "working class." Although I don't like yuppies either, I quickly became annoyed by the fawning tone of the writer as he glorified the "working class" and lampooned the "middle class." The usual us and them stuff, I complained to Prus, who roused briefly.
But despite myself, I began enjoying the diatribes. There were lots of articles about the suffering of prisoners, who according to anarchists seemed to be all in jail either for being unable to pay fines or expressing their frustration with mindless globalised oppression. One newspaper appeared to have been created by prisoners. In another, there was a pictorial spread purporting to show a minister of the British crown having sex from behind with an overweight prostitute, and (unrelated) a full page article celebrating the virtues of unfettered body odour. You've got to admit - the author has a point. Have you ever tried to find a deodarant that actually lets you sweat?
Gradually the cheerful defiance I remember of so many anarchists I have known began to percolate up through my long-standing disillusionment with politics and humanist philosophies. There was something admirable and inspiring here, something you could never get in New Internationalist or The Guardian Weekly or Time. An incisive critique of multiculturalism sank the boot into the idea that cultures are sacred cows which must be protected at any cost to free speech and international human rights. I found myself cheering. Particularly seductive was a new periodical entitled Green Anarchy , which included a long and thoughtful article about the value of silence, stuffed full of lovely quotes from people like Thoreau and Emerson, and shafting that famous French post-modernist (obviously not famous enough for me to remember his name) who apparently regarded silence as the enemy of civilisation. Whatever that is, I found myself thinking.
Prus roused again, and asked me to make sure I put the magazines in a pile. Was he reminding me of the subtle difference between anarchism and what Yeats referred to as mere anarchy? Probably not, but I am now reminding myself that the untidy pile in random order that lay on the floor attracted my attention in a way that a stack of neatly catalogued magazines would not done had they remained on whatever shelf where they once were. Like pieces of the I Ching they seemed to have landed in a way that revealed the meaning of a particular moment in time ... if only to me.
A textbook anarchist might scorn such a thought as an example of magical thinking - but I would say to him, or her, what is an anarchist doing in a textbook anyway? The beauty of anarchism is not in any recipe it might have for a better world, but in its continual examination and questioning of authority. This is a process that is not exclusive to anarchism, but can be found, for example, in some strands of Buddhism. Ultimately all the layers of authority are peeled back until only the real authority remains. Whatever that is.
