There must have been a point in time, although I can’t remember it, when my spiritual quest came to an end. There was nothing else to search for, no expectation, no hope. There is no God, no Tao, no love, not really much that is good anymore. The truth belongs not to Mahatma Ghandi, but to Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal. Humans are stupid, myself included. The only personal transformation I strive for now is a rear-guard action against death: eat sensibly, take exercise, keep your mind active, wait for next pale of shit to punch you in the head. Then again, at least I’m free to make fun of this existential folly. In some parts of the planet, mocking the powerful still gets you a bullet in the brain.
Only I’m not free. Not really. My autistic son’s in social care: if I were to train my satirical sights on the agencies responsible for looking after him, there’s a good chance he might come to some harm. I know, I tried it, once. My tenancy agreement includes a gagging clause, as did a contract with a previous employer. Whether they hold any legal weight is a moot point, but they shout up that a great deal of malice might fly my way, were I to decide to go public about the shit I’ve suffered. The end point might not be hot Ruski lead, but the life expectancy of a homeless person in this country is about thirty years below the average. The gobs of flesh on the razor wire are there to scare the sheep from jumping over, just as much as the armed feds and the media with their terrorism tales.
The bottom of the well is a dark place. I want to restart my growth and re-begin my rebellion. And so I’ve come to Clagsborough College, to learn, and to write.