We move on. From dead MPs, forgotten meteors, piss-covered beds in luxury hotel rooms. The rolling charivari of the news cycle takes its next cue. Reporters gawp afresh at the enormities du jour. And so we act. We mobilise, in numbers never seen.
But what happens as the weeks draw on, and the enormities keep coming? What do we do when they start cracking down on mass mobilisation? How do we get into the heads of those so divorced from reality they think Hillary Clinton is bankrolling protestors?
‘…you might spend the night painting a train in a high-security yard, but it’s likely the graffiti will be cleaned off before it ever leaves the depot, meaning no one else will ever see it in the flesh. Mind you, it’s exactly this that makes it so precious. Graffiti as a transient artwork…’
We haunt them like the ghosts of brutal ruins, like lyrics always only half-remembered, like strange symbols on street furniture outside the houses with flags. We remind them to think of the future. We bring back the ghosts of their past.
We make them wake up at 3am covered in their own sweat, voices whispering words in their ear that no amount of tweeting can drown out, making them see the things we want them to fixate on when we let them close their eyes.
Haunting as a tactic, haunting as a strategy, haunting as a weapon. These are the uses of enchauntment. They are not things I can teach you. But I can let you watch. And learn.