Sometimes W. says we don't know how to live. We know nothing about joy. But then, at others, he tells me that our joy is what I always forget when I write about us. It's what's always left out, he says, our joy.
Were ever two people so joyous? We laugh until we cry, laugh until beer runs from our nostrils. We become giddy and light with laughter; we stagger like drunkards.
It's worse when actually are drunk, W. says. Worse when we attain that mystical plane of drunken inanity, when Sal tells us she's sick of us, and goes to bed.
Are we joyful, then? Our joy is not real joy, W. says. Real joy, after the revolution, will have nothing of inanity, nothing of giddiness. Our joy is not yet joy, our laughter not real laughter, and the beer that runs from our nostrils is not the golden brew that will flow after the dissolution of capitalism …
Lars Iyer's Blog 