This piece explores love within our resistance, and the possibilities that exist outside of capitalist ‘clock time’ and how we can escape them by rejecting notions of waged labour and rent through creating autonomous, squatted spaces.
I remember waking up next to you in the morning … this is what life is. Waged labour crushes us, crushes our existence. But here I am, waking up next to this person. Kissing them – embracing them. Freely. There’s no rush – no need to get to work for 9. Yes, we will be productive today. We will work together constructing the new guest space; we’re getting quite busy this Spring in our squatted community. Guests are now sleeping in communal
spaces, a source of tension already. But let’s take our time. Let us break with the capitalist’s insistence of punctuality. I’m sure this is one of the sweeter moments of existence. It’s fallen on us – the beauty of the universe, here in this crusty dwelling we’ve built, believe it or not. These moments too few and far between I know, but lying here with you, it makes as clearer sense as ever – why this universe exists , at least, to know that moments like this can exist. Whilst knowing all the despair and pain we cause each other on this earth, there is this. At least there is this. They can never say this hasn’t happened.
Made possible through squatting? That we met? That we can share this moment? Whilst most in this city are working this morning. What damage modern life must inflict. No chance to meet and lie with another person. No space to breathe and talk freely, besides from the
rushed, artificial 7:00pm date after work, arranged via a dating website. This is one personal tragedy that waged labour reaps on us.
In our home, this autonomous space, we are triumphant over capitalist control over time. We’ve transcended ‘clock-time’, who’s arrival came in step with the brutal imposition of labour-discipline in the industrial workplace. Here, we have time to get to know one another. Lie next to each other, look into each other’s eyes. And when we get out of bed, our activity won’t feel anything like work. It will be effortless, enjoyable, interlaced with discussion and debate on existence.
I love you because you’re searching for something other than financial gain. We know that financial incentives and the rule of money degrade any activity, eroding the richness of any given moment, leading to a feeling of indifference towards anything other than the pursuit of money. They must witness your approach. How you’ve smashed the notion that work must be monotonous and dull. You’ve decided to think more deeply about what it means to be a human being. Life beyond a CV-building exercise. A place where dedication and bravery is likely to make you less, not more employable.
To not have that spikey action hanging over my head, I feel free, liberated, ready to love again. Ready to kiss you again. Since leaving the police cell, I’ve thought about and missed you very much. Last night I confessed to comrades my love for you. I described you as someone who embodies Anarchism, without being aware of it. Which is true. Without appearing to have read much on the theory of Anarchism, you breathe the spirit of
autonomy. Such love and energy for other humans; your capacity to love humans indiscriminately is second to none. Your creative doing appears effortless, but under the surface is sustained with a fierce resolve.
Should I come out and meet you? Why am I not making this decision? I’m worried that venturing abroad, leaving behind my family, my community, I would be dishevelled, without any regularity of activity. Do you consider making a life in this community? In this city? No one from this island has your energy, expresses your liberty. At least, I have not met them. Perhaps we lost your energy, that impulse, to capitalist work discipline a long time ago. I worry society here would crush your big smile, your liberty – you – the one who grew up on a
vegetable garden. You miraculously found us in this small corner of the world – I’ll always be
grateful for those months we shared.