There were some light folk tunes playing in Stevie’s head as he drew from his cigarette, blowing the smoke over the screen on his laptop. He was sitting down resting his back against a tree in a suburban sportsground. The pitch was clear; it was mid-morning on a school day and enough Autumn chill to keep away all but a few occasional stay-at-home mums pushing their prams and pulling their dog leads.
The sky was clear and the Sun was full but a light due still coated the tips of the grass. Stevie felt it slowly absorb into his pants but he thought tolerating the cold – along with the uneven surface of the tree – would be just enough to keep him in the present.
It had been a while since Stevie had written anything in good faith – Police reports had the tendency to stifle any creative affiliation with the written word. This was basically another duty, documenting the moment, the movement that might just change the world. The only problem here was that his ability to engage the audience was more important than any court reports he had generated.
I write to you today hoping for your attention and your best judgement. I should not feel obliged to appeal to you, to ask this as some kind of favour, instead you should be conscious of your duty as a citizen of this society to ensure that it is maintained. We were born into it only on the back of other people’s hard work and to take it for granted with your ignorance, your entitlements and your assumptions is what has brought us to this current brink. It is not my wont to frown at your misinformation and what you are given for granted but we have reached a stage where you can no longer honour indifference; where you can no longer give score on face value and when true worth can no longer be afforded your ignorance.
The time has come to choose a side because we are here to break down the fence.
It felt cryptic. Stevie had to be careful not to go back and read it. He was always cautious when taking advice from Phil but that had been his one golden rule: “Don’t edit until you’re finished.” He had said with a tone of self serving sagism. But it had rung true in Stevie’s mind. It would help the flow; help the build up.
In recent months and in particular, weeks, the legacy of Walter Wallace has become the focus the entire world. This one man has become synonymous with our every want and desire, and each day he lets another of us down and we seek to hold him responsible. I am just as guilty as any of you: the day I took Walter into custody under suspicion for intention to buy illicit products I had no idea I would be lead to quit my post, fake my death, be beaten half to death no less than three times, and band together with a rag tag bunch of misguided but highly motivated hippies. My best friend took his life under the banner of William Unston – there wasn’t a day in our friendship that I didn’t lie to his face. I lost 25% lung capacity from the beating I took protecting Hippy Flip, who was (and still is) entangled in the Walter Wallace fiasco, and now as I draw this cigarette I can’t help but attribute the bittersweet burn to Walter Wallace and everything he has created.
Stevie was fast rambling, but it felt amazing. There was some kind of humility about writing down his anguish. To talk about it would be so fleeting and selfish, but here it could be absorbed. The people would be with him on this journey, relating to his struggle.
But I ask myself: When did Walter Wallace ever ask me for anything? When did he demand his name be drawn from this magician’s hat? And more importantly, why did I expect anything from him?
The paragraph had more in it but Stevie decided to leave it there. Follow the ramble with the point. It felt right. Now he needed to add some value to keep them keen.
Have you asked yourself the same questions? Have you gone through a rollercoaster of emotion, ultimately feeling empty because of it? It’s like you just threw up your lunch. I know that is some uninviting imagery but let me take it to a more tangible level. The theme park and this amazing ride that will fill you with joy. You go to the showground and are forced to buy the overpriced food. You wait in line for the ride along with countless other folk. You secretly despise them and feel more entitled to the ride than they are. Finally the ride sets off and you wind up sick. You are hungry again and where can you get some food?
Stevie enjoyed the analogy. It could use some work but it was pretty spot on.
Well imagine Walter is the ride. This is the issue we are facing. He is merely a puppet being forced to dance and keep us entertained while the real manipulation goes on.
Stevie left it short again. The build ‘em up; knock ‘em down approach had unconsciously become the theme. Now he wasn’t sure if he should continue it. He looked out over the field, it was still vacant. In the carpark on the adjacent street the van was parked with Phil and Forest still sleeping inside. For hippies and embracers of love and life they sure did manage to leave a fair chunk of it untarninshed each morning.
Well it time to wake up, people. I apologise if I sound condescending but the alarms bells have gone unnoticed for too long.
This is what we are going to do:
On Friday the 17th, July we will be making our protest out the front of Citadel Towers. We will gather at Park Central and march upon the building. The gathering will begin at 9am and we will be marching at 10:30am.
If you wish to organise similar protests in your own country please do so of your own volition.
Spread the word.
Stevie felt a rush to have completed his piece. He re read it with the only one adjustment made to the title of the blog. He changed it to simply read:
Phil would be proud.
Stevie smiled and closed his eyes, letting the feeling wash over him. He heard a sound and felt the Sun shadowed from his person. His eyes shot open.
A tall figure stood, silhouetted by the glaring backdrop.
“Good morning, Stevie.” The agent smiled.