The Zima Confession

Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.

Harriet Tubman

A dark orange paper lantern, hanging from an elaborately decorative centre rose of the high Victorian ceiling, provided barely enough light to illuminate the languidly twisting coils of silver smoke that filled the room. The air was thick with the smell of cannabis.

Young men and women, a mixture of long-haired hippies and short-haired punks, were sprawled over the floor smoking joints and drinking from cans. In one corner of the large room, looking either like a witch or a puritan, an earnest young woman in a high-necked maxi-dress was kneeling to roll a joint on a low, half-broken side table. She did it carefully and ritualistically. Several people nearby watched with interest, as though her performance formed part of an important ceremony.

A guy with a guitar was slumped in a beanbag trying to play Leonard Cohen’s famous blue dirge Famous Blue Raincoat, though no one was interested in his depressive mumbling. Eventually, someone decided he’d heard enough. A kid with spiky hair and an imitation leather jacket pierced with hundreds of safety pins and button badges skipped through the bodies strewn on the floor and pushed poor ‘Leonard’ off the beanbag.

“That’s shite by raway pal.” The punk sneered in a rough Glasgow voice. Then he shouted back over his shoulder: “Moira, put ra Pistols oan. Let’s get some life intae ris party.”

◆◆◆

Meanwhile, Stuart and Richard were quietly discussing something in the corner opposite the young woman rolling the joint.

“You’re all just wasting your time you know. All this marching and selling newspapers will never get you anywhere,” Richard stated.

“History, man. History’s on our side.”

“History bollocks. You guys are just kids. You’re just playing at this.”

“Eddie’s totally serious. Mibby worryingly serious.”Stuart spoke with a slight Glasgow accent which, though mild, sometimes influenced Richard to imitate it to some extent. After pausing to think for a moment he added, “I guess ye could say I’m more interested in an academic way myself.”

“I know that, man. See that PhD you’re doing, all that theory shit, ‘German philosophy from Hegel to Marx’, I don’t really get it. I wish I’d done some proper subjects myself; engineering say, instead of this politics and sociology crap.” Richard thought morosely for a few moments before perking up a bit. “Imagine if, years from now, your education finally pays off and you find yourself in a half-decent job. Let’s say no one even knows you’re a commie. What would happen if you could reconnect with all your comrades from the Party and put yourself at their disposal?”