I have a keyboard. Or, should I say, the people have a keyboard, that is currently being used and being kept under the stewardship of myself and immediately relatives at this current moment in time, because private property and all that shiz is totes inefficient and whatnot.
I obtained this keyboard, that is to say, it passed into my stewardship, on the night of the First of September, a(n) historic day, as it is the day that Spring was first invented by Big Brother in 1956. It was a dark and stormy night, and I will relay to you the means in which it appeared…
Thunder rolled through the sodden clouds, a bitter wind cut through the air, the sound of vaguely Arabic folk singing sounded off in the background. Deep in the castle of Ozeano del Sur, a dialtone rang out…
“Yes?” Replied a hooded figure, cowled fingers pressing the device to his skull.
“Of course. The revolution requires such things! Obtain it!” The figure cried, shrieking in awkward enthusiasm. “With He on our side the inevitability of the global revolution is doubly, nay Tripoli, assured!” The call was ended, a bell tolled. The deathly figure began to laugh madly…
This is not exactly what happened. There are no castles in Australia.
Actually I think there is one, or maybe two. There’s a replica off in the mountains somewhere and my family was going to buy it before the sudden and shocking realisation that we have no money. Instead we rented a flat in Surrey Hills.
The actual story was, that one of revolutionary associates, the ubiquitos Pablo, obtained the keyboard at a local anarcho-syndicalist material exchange collective, also known as “The Markets”.
After brief and momentary exchanges of textual messages the keyboard was brought to my luxurious hovel by Pablo in one of his heavy duty vehicles he captured off the Malaysians during their brief border war with Indonesia. I carried it through the seething rain for hours, only to find there were no batteries.
Immediately I cursed the world and all reality for dealing me such a fickle blow. Then mum bought batteries. Once powered with the charge of eldritch electricity, my keyboard sung it’s digital heart out, pumping out eighties music fit to make the Human League cry. But they make emotional music about girls with their synthesisers, so they’re probably not real men anyway.
So now I take it everywhere, except for the toilet. I’m going to dress up as a homeless person and travel down to Sydney to play minimalist Kraftwerk style synthpop for the unwashed masses. Yes. The Revolution is assured. The Keyboard has made it so.