The story of a successful revolution — inspiration for movements and our future as total.
Let me tell you the story of a successful revolution
There had been a graffiti bombing campaign that set a fire to the nation. The people were resolved. The pollutions and denials of liberty by the industrial cooperations would be coming to an end. Millions, if not billions, marched through the streets; shouting down more conservative opposing voices; but alas, no change had come. The industries continued to operate with impunity. The demonstrations themselves were broken in short time. No inspiration had been given to the system to guide the change. No inspiration had been given to the people to inspire the system. The initial movement had failed.
It was the beginning of a revolution, and the tribe was disheartened. They were not tribe yet; as they had no ideal to strengthen themselves around. Instead they were collective, individuals unified in purpose but separated by goals. Some had answers they wanted to pursue, but didn’t want to dedicate their time to unifying before chasing those goals. Others wanted to create a unified movement; which they expected would produce the answer; refusing any direction that wasn’t geared toward achieving that goal. The only solace the tribe had was that the movement had created it’s own visibility; that those who were acting could see their actions mirrored by others like them. For those whom that was not enough, group coherence was geared toward censorship.
It was DJ Professor K, reclusive pirate radio DJ and inspiration for the revolution, who extended to them the answer.
“You talk. You talk. You talk. You ain’t listened! See yourself. See yourself for yourself. What are you failing at?”
Professor K’s broadcast was an open letter to the people. Digital copy of the broadcast was shared and replayed millions of times by smaller, local sources before reaching mainstream airwaves. Many conservative business people had been hesitant about commenting on or featuring the audio; so the broadcast took three quarters of a year for mainstream media outlets to acknowledge it. One business person could not resist, however, the profitability of being the first to feature the popular broadcast. Professor K couldn’t be kept silenced forever.
Once the recording had mainstream acknowledgment, the news outlets railed against it; themselves following the course of their institutionalized method, which dictated they attack anything divergent that could be leveraged to promote their own image. They painted DJ Professor K as an extremist, the corn kids who had tagged the walls of the Tokyo metro area as thugs, and everyone who agreed with Professor K’s message as fools or potential terrorists. A majority of people per million dismissed the broadcast. “We aren’t failing at anything” they said, often angry with Professor K for the suggestion. Those were dark days for the movement. Those were dark days for the world.
It was one per million listeners who heard it who knew the virtue of thoughtfulness. Before dismissing Professor K, they dismissed the content of his message. They then asked themselves “But how will I communicate to him that he has failed to communicate to me?” On further consideration, those thoughtful minority realized that they too had been failing to communicate the value of their own virtues. They acknowledged Professor K had been right all along. They were still lost, but there was a glimmer of light.
“Shame. Shame. Shame. What’chu ashamed for? I know I don’t know somethin! Whats the shame in bein ignorant?”
It was the DJs who inspired the movement to come. Those DJs who could often speak without restriction, since they were pirating the airwaves; exercising the liberty to speak the taboo. Those DJs who had long experienced digesting foreign and often inflammatory messages; making sense of them and explaining with brevity to their listening audience. Those DJs who brought possibility from music history to the listening public. They were the first leaders of the revolution; and when they weren’t seeking to be more than the DJs they started as, they created everything the movement needed to fuel itself to it’s glorious conclusion.
The early supporters of the movement could find nothing but shame to depend on. Those who had been openly supportive of Professor K were cut off by kin and loved ones; and in minority they had been targeted by small groups of conservative people coming together to rally around abusing an enemy. Those who were not open about their desires often needed to participate in casual conversations denouncing their their own support; unless they were brave enough to offer subtle disagreement in support of neutrality. It was only in the pirate radio broadcasts the tribe could find solace in their isolation. They found like minds; like their own finding that those persons around them did not value them. They were unpopular. There was no value in unpopularity.
“I hate to tell you what I love to tell you. Leave! Leave! Get up and go! Find a person who loves you. Loves you without shame! Go!”
Culturally, most in society had been aversion trained to react to numerous different intuitively natural behaviors being shameful. Ignorance, being the lack of having been privileged enough to gain understanding already, was considered a shameful personal condition; and any who suggested that any might be ignorant was said to be the one causing them shame. How, however, could one tell any that there was beauty just outside of what they had learned? That was the curious poison of an old culture. The poison was itself a shame; that should the weight of societies imposition be too heavy to bare, any who attempted to move it was an instigator. The resistance had been hardened through a long history of culture. The culture was hardened through a shame of not loving history. The revolution was long overdue.
As those persons pursued the shame detox they were seeking, they found that the pursuit of any principle that diverged from the common principles was enough to make them the instigator. Under many diverse conditions, those persons tried to communicate to the loved ones they thought would be most supportive what had raised their concerns. Under the kindest conditions those persons were told that they had imagined the aggressions of the society around them, as though the gas lights in an old house would never flicker. Under the cruelest conditions, those persons were accused of having chosen the role of enemy; the accusers never caring that sympathizing with their enemy was the only path to victory. Such sympathies were to be saved for the plan making of more important people. It was due to widespread bigotry that the sympathizers to the DJ’s cause had to leave their social groups. Saddened as they were, they could make no headway toward grounding themselves among people who would never let them change. This was also a dark period for the movement, as murder as crimes of passion by conservatives and irreverent opportunists had become common. There was much suffering before the tribe came together.
“I shouldn’t have to tell you stop. You left to stop. I should tell you go. But you have to stop! What is this?!”
Many people had left their social in-groups with terrible group facilitation habits. They often mimed the same liberty destroying social habits they had sought to escape. Had it not been for the sheer number of DJs supporting the message, the movement might not have self corrected so quickly; falling apart again well before getting started. It was due to luck alone that so many of the most popular DJs were pirate radio local; having close ties to persons seeking to escape the ridged social structures binding them because they too felt much the same. Them being vocal in their support for the movement, if not open about their Pirate Radio DJ status, made them natural allies; regularly sought after for their sympathetic ear. As both proponents of speaking the taboo and performers looking to set themselves apart from the crowd, they delivered the complaints on air to their listening audience, and the recordings of their shows were traded liberally on freely given, but often stolen, promotional small capacity slip disk memory drives.
The months that followed the initial coming together of the tribe were uncomfortable. The breaking of the old group control habits came as neither quick nor easy. The persons from the majority groups applied the limitations built to break their own habits to everyone they met; being genuinely unaware that cultural divergences which create entire different cultural outlooks exist. The persons from the minority, themselves quite used to the abuses of the majority culture, were hesitant to trust the majority culture refugees; and so shared very little of their own intimate cultural potential with them.
The story of what changed those circumstances is seldom told, but I will tell it to you. She was one of the bolder types, a girl from the Shinjuku skate gang. When confronted by a mainstream, as the majority refugee was often slandered, she told her roughly “You don’t speak for my world, and you’re going to rudely wake up in it.” That event, and the beating that followed, was talked about in collective gatherings for weeks after. Other gangs soon began to express themselves as they did before becoming cultural refuge, much to the chagrin of the more pampered privileged refugee. After a brief period of objections and exodus, those who remained came to identify with the defensive and oft times violent expression of the thug. The common feeling expressed by the poison punk was that they poisoned people with their paints because (, in the ridged world the movement was seeking to escape,) there was no self expression but lashing out. When they did excuse themselves, they do so because, irreverently, why shouldn’t they? The immortal horror hadn’t much different a story. Collectively, they commonly expressed a frustration at their inability to express themselves in ways vilified as brutish by the greater acceptable culture. Sure, they were hedonists, but they would choose to be so if that was their choice to be free. As for those girls from Shinjuku, well, one does not trifle with the Shinjuku skate club. It was never wise to call any one of them “little girl.”
In time, the tribe fashioned themselves as unAshamed; a naturalist anarchist movement.
They spent their time together in freely traveled common locations. In those places were thug and activist alike; but after some time of treating the thugs with humanity, while at the same time returning beatings in kind, the assaults soon ceased in majority. During their time together, they shouted into the collective what their personal interests were. Those who took an interest physically moved to join the shouter. This is how unAshamed found consensus.
In the beginning, the collectives had been very violent; and as they refined they retained a measure of that violence. The tribe had adopted a cultural habit of interrupted or censored individuals slapping their interrupter. Early in it’s adoption, that was usually followed by a group on group fight. However thanks to the poison punk skate club and a few metal baseball bats, the custom was refined to the slap being the only necessary communication needed. Custom then became to beat, as a group, any who did not respect the custom. Brutal as they were, those were beautiful days for the movement. Anyone could have a voice, as free as they wanted it. Sometimes it was even more beautiful to watch the bigoted being beaten for refusing the same freedoms to another that they themselves had enjoyed only moments prior. Beautiful days indeed.
Sometimes there were bad ideas. There always are. They were often filtered out (, not a single orgy was successfully held,) but not every one of them was. The poison punks actually successfully poisoned the Tokyo water reservoir with their paint one time. While the water treatment plant actually filtered most of the toxins through it’s process, the population still experienced hallucinations for several weeks. That wasn’t the only terrorist action to transpire, and unAshamed always had to take the blame. However instead of complaining about the bad ideas of extreme dolts, I will instead tell you about some of the many successes of unAshamed and their anarchist consensus. Those are seldom whispered about in these most privileged of days.
It was only seldom that there were group dependent fights within the group. The consensus model had removed most need for conflict, and the only real antagonist was doom ride 9; who had worked themselves and their local collective into a fury over establishing a centralized directive. They were often beaten with sticks. They shrank, but never disappeared. They were a terrorist cell for some time to come.
When the police forces moved to remove the gatherings of unAshamed, the DJs again became the voices of the movement. They announced “parties”, where unAshamed would begin to congregate again as they had before; eventually driving the police forces to such economic despair that they could no longer continue to hagger the group. That wasn’t even the intent, really.
A rap consensus group produced a hardcore gangster rap album that deviated from the normal; in that every song contained both thug life actions and an attack on the conditions the rappers were responding to. The album was a pirate radio hit, and the artists were immediately signed to a major label. They continued using the same formula for the entirety of their careers.
Other artists followed their example, with varying degrees of success. Unlike populations of bias, however, the unAshamed movement learned from each other every day. The next big hit was a poison punk metal band being the next big success with their single “Fuck he who fucks me.” Samples of the track were later used for a remix competition, held by DJ Professor K to bolster spirits decrying that capital was destroying the movement they so valued.
The Shinjuku skate club began to produce comedians. It seemed they had stumbled upon the concept of funny, and had refused to share it. Instead, girls from the Shinjuku skate club became a regular feature on television broadcasts, being bold and unrestrained as they satired acceptable society. It wasn’t long before the rest of the tribe got the secret, although from whom it leaked it is not even now known, that funny is only the recognition of what you know if an environment you don’t recognize; but as intuitive as that appears, it had come as a surprise how well funny worked as propaganda.
While the pacifist had trouble and struggled with comedy, anyone who targeted known persons for their frigidness and inability to adapt were sure to make a crowd laugh. Truthfully, it was the persons practicing funny at the tribe’s gatherings that finally broke the cultural ties that many of the majority refugees had still held; their own hesitations about taboos. Eventually those persons were the funniest of all; creating satire that portrayed the absurdities of many in their leadership promoting absurdly strict virtues by lying about them in their personal lives. It took them a long time to get there though.
The silver thread screens of filmmakers were often the catalysts for the most outrage. Those filmmakers often told stories of the most underpowered and overwhelmed heroes, striving under the burden of society to free themselves as to improve themselves. One such film, titled “I’m a sexual individual, not a sexual construct”, was cited as cause by mainstream news sources for a rash of sexually predatory killings. Later, it was admitted by one of the killers that he had not actually seen the movie, and was only motivated by the mainstream news media’s outcries against it. The news media paid that admission little fair.
It was during the election period immediately following the establishing of unAshamed that the tribe made it’s biggest impact on their world. One of the major political parties had volunteers come to the tribe’s collective gathering to promote their request for volunteership. As the tribe’s cultural institution had refined in the one year and a half since it’s condensation into a formal movement, they were permitted to do so. Following them, another major party did the same. This continued to go on, until smaller independent candidates also began to do so. Those seeking volunteers were often able to find willing participants; but the gangs were themselves indignant until a proposal to terrorize the political process by legitimizing all of the independent candidates who had requested help was suggested. There were seven candidates to each election that year, and parliament evolved from the election to look nothing like it had in years before.
No one was more upset than that first candidate, who lost his election bid due to not understanding that unAshamed was, in fact, no longer ashamed. A gay pornography was filmed in his office overnight by the volunteers from the movement, protesting the ridged formal institutions they were expected to adopt. The candidate was forced to withdraw from the election shortly after. No word was shared on whether he had noticed if the smell of his desk had changed.
The tribe has grown stronger in recent years, although we have suffered considerable losses. The respect for our slapping one another deteriorated shorter after becoming involved in the political campaigns of the nation. However we have overcome a major setback from before also. Once upon a time, we were impelled to blindly love one another. That “take me camping” ideology never worked. Now we openly love what we love, and we imitate who we choose. We ask people, brashly and loudly, “Why do you expect your principles are better?” People have been causing each other headache with those same principles now for hundreds of years. Were they right, we would likely be living in heavenly utopia now.
We still gather together at times, although not so often. Sometimes we gather casually as friends, drinking together and laughing late into the night. When we’re lucky, one of the old DJs will hold a private party; a slip of paper falling into our hands being the only indication of it’s location. There are even times when we gather formally; often to share our experiences with the current shame. Although emotional gatherings aren’t comfortable for everyone, sometimes the gatherings are perfect for us. I, myself, like the more masculine gatherings, which focus on the experiences that make us feel the need to fight. It reminds me of the older times. It reminds me of our liberty. Overall we still agree that, while it’s natural that we be checking each other for acceptability, that we must blindly treat one’s behavior as acceptable or reject them entirely is intolerable. I do miss our consensus. We have lost some dear values; which we may never get back.
We do still have enemies. The socially acceptable anarchists were our enemies from the beginning; fighting with us that they could institute anarchy from the systems they had learned from history. The progressive politicians became our enemies during the campaign period, when they desired that we claim our progress to have been inspired by their works. The conservative persons were unprepared for us, having been the opposition our movement grew in response to. Many conservatives became ardent supporters of the new movement toward personal anarchy and social liberty, as many of us came to invoke the most beautiful aspects of the strong, but a few of the more extreme conservatives became terrorists in later years. Doom ride 9 also maintained their cohesion as a terrorist cell; although of late they seem more content with slapping random pedestrians who step out of their way. My friends and I haven’t agreed if this is good for remembering our traditions or not.
As for me? Well… I have written a fiction. Fan-fiction no less. Perhaps I should feel ashamed myself, not having sought to bring you an influx of vampires and mythos, but I sought through imagining this story to transmit to you an understanding. A written account of some of the trials which must be undergone for a revolution to become a success. #Icantbreath wasn’t my revolution. #Occupy was. I’m not one of your group of mainstream thinkers, nor to many of the culturally “acceptable” find me agreeable. I do choose to assert myself, and have to fight with people regularly to do so. But I have had some time to think things over for myself. I live an isolated life.
Time can be a wonderful thing. I’ve worked out a strategy for change, and I hid it in this story. Good luck to you with what I’ve given you. I know I can believe in my work, but I can’t expect to believe in you. To each according to their own effort is communist in history, but anarchist in nature. I don’t expect upon a single one of you. I don’t expect I can trust a single one of you. Independence is a key factor here. I’m not John Lennon. I’ll love what I love openly. I hope you like my anarchy, because I don’t much love your feelins. You’re worthless if you ain’t useful to me. That’s what I’m telling you; you spineless squish. Are you useful enough to expect more? Who are you to expect me to settle?
…and now we’re in a fight. It’s cultural though. It’s cool. I’m casual about it.
Originally published at criticl.me.