I walk through the leafy suburb to work. 20s Bungalows line the streets. I can see them at their windows willing me in. “Come in, Pavel. Join us. It’s safe and easy.” My pace increases.
The people I refer to, of course, live the Australian Dream ‘Strong’. They have the 1/4 acre, Hills Hoist and 2.5 kids. And then some. Professional careers. Housekeepers. Private schooling for their children. Visits to the hardware store on weekends – with the obligatory sausage sizzle. Renovations. Overseas holidays. BBQs to show off their new retaining wall to their friends. My pace becomes a slow, anxious jog.
I tell them what I really think. How I invisage the good life. They are shocked. By my salary, the way I dress, where I live and the wine I drink they conclude that I am one of them. Or aspire to be. Their curiousity heightens. Their mission now is to convert me to their church. Capitalism is their God. I sprint.
In their heart of hearts they realise their obey a tyrant. “Why must we suffer?” they question as they struggle to balance their debts and slave into the night at their inner city offices. A good God would allow them to spend time with their children rather than spend on their children. But they remain faithful, in the knowledge that someday it will get better. Retirement is only 30 years away.
They are passionately against other deities. “Thou shalt have no other gods before me”. Socialism is theft. It is what multiculturalism is to nationalism. It is out to take away the freedoms they enjoy. To distriute the spoils of their hard work to those that haven’t earned it. Not exactly food from their childrens mouth, but the a ski holiday from their winter. It’s a war on ideas; a war on Gods. Nobody shall take thou God away.
They continue to prothelatise. My idea of the good life is unsustainable, fanciful, unrealistic; the thing of fairy tales. I should obey they God, get into heaven and be done with it. Better is to come on death. I should be patient and wait. I can’t have it all now. That’s so Gen Y of me. Verilance isn’t for enjoying. It is a means to an end. And end that should be filled with Prados and Jaycos and trips to the North, where it’s hot, where we can amble about under our decaying vessels.
I disagree. They tell me to get out. To return to the street. I am radical. A hippy. A bludger. I run for the hills and never see them again.