The Social
I broke the glass. Why? To get your attention. I called home just to let them know I wasn’t coming for a while. The first divorce you have to get through is the one from the family. See ya, miss ya. No-one prepares you for that particular hole. But then again, what about the potentiality of possibilities. That essential knowledge that the most influential voice, is the last voice in your life. Your own. And that life begins far later than it should. We are attempting to rebuild our family. That’s the borderline of our new world. It’s not as brave as you think. This fatal yet vivacious loneliness is accompanied with the knowledge that even in our desire to act out of resistance some form of capital, crushes us all. What do I want, what is it to want? What is it to not know what you want? Can we drink a drink called desire and find out where the first frontier of fantasy is? Or else we might as well go home and celebrate by standing by the mirror rather than looking into it. This is not much of treatise on how to overcome sadness, but more an acceptance that we are all being assessed by unknown determinisms, otherwise known as other people’s values. Experiential living requires a total analysis of our pleasure zones. But then again, maybe the fear of owning things is just a memory that it can be, and was taken away. Can be, and was taken away. It only takes one night to instigate the upheaval of a peoples being. Is it designated through history that a desire for things comes not from now, but from when once it was, as in to say the moments of becoming other. The glass must never be broken again. In claiming back our drinking tools, we can claim back our mechanisms for language, and conversation. In claiming the glass as residue, we reupholster and undo every night. In this solitude of the practice of saying that history survives within us, silently, and in maintaining a protection mechanism that glimmers with a darkness, the unbroken glass is ours to own. The only thing we own is appropriated from sitting and drinking with friends. Social life is the life. Routine is a prescription. I break things. I’m working on my memories; I’m trying to start remembering what I tried to forget. I’m trying to find my voice. I’m trying to invent a voice. Lectures over drinks are not lectures, they are hallucinations. Actions are words. Words are values. Values are sayings. Sayings are symbolic. And the symbol is latest in a long line of vessels for our dignity. All the memories are broken, all the glasses are damaged. All my hope was, was a symptom of my progress. Shall we have another? What will that do?