I found the entrance to Hell on Saturday. It's near Waterloo station.
Meanwhile, just a few yards away, I had to enter another kind of hell, the Anarchist Book Fair.
Yes, I had to enter because I was helping someone do a mimeograph workshop. My job being to type some stencils to be rolled through the mimeograph machine.
Apart from the Clod magazine stall and a couple of others I noted as I sped through the tunnels (yes, the event was in some tunnels - how...underground! - what's more, tunnels famous for being decorated by graffiti artists, as if the political messaging from the stalls wasn't traumatic enough my eyes were treated to a visual blitz of spray can...stuff) the politics all ran down the same tram lines (oh, plus, at least a few old-school sellers offering theoretical history books which, in this context, seemed quaintly old-fashioned since some of it was peddled by bearded men to whom Kropotkin actually meant something).
I used to think anarchy was about rebellion and free-thinking but here was a majority all saying the same thing instead of offering alternatives to the regimented official Alternative - blah, blah.
I'm too old to care?
To me the spirit of anarchy resides in Dada, in actual diversity of thought, in unique creative vision etc.
What do I know?
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| For All I Care, RTomens, 2025 |
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