If ever they build a statue to me,
spit on it. Deface it.
Because they have not built it for me,
or my works,
or my words,
but to commodify me into the herd,
to assimilate me,
to make me safe.
If ever they assign my words or stories as homework,
take the F instead.
Fail on purpose.
Refuse to participate in class discussions;
refuse to write the assigned research papers.
For homework is how they defang the true Rebels,
how they water them down,
how they corrupt their memories and legacies.
If ever they make me famous, or infamous,
laugh out loud.
For either way what they are paying attention to
is not me, and never was, and never will be.
Let them prattle and glisten and spittle on. Ignore them.
If ever anyone comes forth,
claiming to have known me,
or who claims to know me still,
punch him in the nose.
For those who truly know me need not announce it,
and have no need of fame--or infamy.
Those who truly know me are as obscure and anonymous
as the grass, and want nothing to do with the herd
or its endless grinding machinations.
If ever they put me on some fast-food collector’s glass
(get all five!),
or use my works or words in any way
to enrich themselves,
understand that I never gave them permission to do so.
They are guilty of theft,
and should thus be treated as thieves.
As for those who collect such filthy items,
try to educate them, if you can,
but hold no expectations for success.
For those who know the truth are few—
not because the truth is so hard to achieve,
but because so few want to hear it,
and fewer still want to live it.
If ever their thinkers and philosophers come forth
and proclaim the ideas in this book bunk,
or that the soul does not exist,
or that God does not exist
(however you believe such an entity be),
or that imagination is for children,
or that free will is an illusion,
or that the self does not exist,
or should be crushed (regardless of reason),
or should be co-opted for the “higher good” of whatever
herd they worship and bow to,
fear not, and look deep inside yourself,
in the quiet meadows and valleys within your very real
and self-evident spirit.
The truth is waiting for you there.
And that they can never take away from you, ever.
This story wasn’t written for the masses.
It was written for the very, very few,
maybe two hundred thousand in all the world,
those brave enough to live the life
worthy of the title Saeire Insu:
The Ten Fingers of Insurrection.
Two hundred thousand out of seven billion:
one out of every thirty-five thousand.
If you’re one such soul,
the words here, and the story following, are affirmation, not news;
they are confirmation of the truth inside you,
they are inspiration to carry on,
even though so many, by ignoring you, forgetting you,
betraying you, laughing at you, scheming behind your back,
trying to make you homeless, or by ripping you off,
or by ostracizing you, or by beating you, or raping you,
or scarring you, want you to stop, want you to be silent,
want you to disappear.
Don’t be silent.
Do what they don’t;
do what they haven’t the courage to do:
Refuse to bow down.
Refuse to surrender.
Refuse to be consumed by the Necrolius Anaxagorius
of our world,
the Great Corporate Machine.
And may Conor Kieran Faramond Benedictus I himself nod
approvingly at you from the cathedral within your deepest soul.
God bless you.
Shawn Michel de Montaigne
April 30, 2011
Resigned: September 7, 2016