Even Though the Revolution Was Televised

Kate Maxwell

-With apologies to Gil Scott-Heron

It was the morning of the press conference when the body — offended once again by three triple scotches, a glut of carbohydrates, and salt consumed the night before — decided to revolt. The body was spent. All night, the gurgling of stomach acids, itch of night sweats, mutterings of schemes had robbed it of rest. So, after another round of before-midday-scotches, the body’s outrage was complete. Ageing, and weary (as we all were) with the continual puff and posture you could hardly blame the body for insurrection. After all, it was the vessel spluttering trash on a soul-sapping loop of flickering, twittering spin. It must have been exhausted with the owner’s addiction to buzz and bluster. Credit should at least be given for the body’s stamina. It had endured years of degradation, neglect, the humiliation of the comb-over years, and now: this. Debate still rages about the exact source and trigger for dissolution. Obviously, decades of abuse had sullied the body. An endocrine system, already compromised, must have reached its threshold. Spill was inevitable. After more than an hour, standing in polished shoes without arch supports, bright lights blazing, saliva drying in the mouth, the sweat glands began the mutiny. Expunging body odours and fluids was simply not enough. A statement was needed. A visible signal to the world that the body had ceded and was releasing itself from the owner. A sovereign entity, so to speak. As the usual spin and lies spurted forth, rebellion began its slow seep from the skin. Dark brown rivulets streamed down sallow cheeks. Hair dye, or maybe just mascara globs, began to melt from the sideburns like a liquid shart. The body that refused to stop talking shit was leaking, what looked like, actual shit. Hairdressers have since defensively claimed that hair dye doesn’t drip once the solution oxidises, and colour has adhered to the hair. Damn fool must’ve applied too much mascara to his old white sideburns. However it began, and of course, hairdressers cannot stand accused, the body obviously acted on its own. With no accomplice but its own internal furies, bubbling and hissing at such mistreatment, the body took protest. Yet, while the world watched and mocked, shame and contrition were emotions unfamiliar to the owner. A life led under flashing lights and self-promotion adapts to the sweat and grime of carnival ways. So, even though the revolution was televised, deniers claim a simple sleight of hand, a digital distortion of the truth, warning us we shouldn’t trust our eyes and ears, that facts can surely be alternative even when the screen reveals.