House Party

Nostalgia is a faithful lover; does not take offense, does not make scenes. Waits, warms the sheets. And when we are wavering, when we need a refuge, a familiar threshold, it is towards it that we stumble, hoping it will reach out its hand without a word. This silent place that asks for nothing. Where we can lie down without playing, pretending, without seducing. Memory then seems to be the only space that frees us from the need to convince. Always there, omnipresent and elusive, one we pretend to ignore when necessary, for necessity or sanity. That’s why sometimes, it moves away, because we claim no longer to need it. But when once again we realize that only one can exist, ashamed, we invoke its specters. We revive its settings. We gather around shadows. Everyone has a right to their fetish, ritual or makeshift prayer. Even bastards have a mausoleum of love; solace obeys no aesthetic. It spreads where the mind seeks to fill the void, where fingers move to ward off emptiness. But, young arrogant one, let us laugh at its virtue. Indulge in the luxury of an irruption, without invitation, without staging. Replacing it. Invent a nostalgia from scratch to soil it with drunkenness and screams, to build a myth with broken glass and gazes that cross too long. Grab the first object that comes to hand and raise it towards the crowd to ward off its banality; artifacts are innocent no more. Penetrate everything—the bodies, the walls, the space between two silences. Rendezvous for revenge in a brand new field of melancholy. The leash that ties us to the past will be of no use anymore. Because we always need a stray dog at the party, an outsider who knows the way out. For it is in the eye of the outcast that the answer already burns. Doors open.