Glass Containing Glass

My mother collects washed glass. I’m staring at a vase full of it this very moment. Glass containing glass. I’m going to get up off my ass and go grab a handful. It’s been a while since I’ve touched such an object. It’s strange really. The multi-colored rocks that these pieces of glass have turned into are powdered with whatever healing powers the ocean might possess. I can’t help but think about the origin of each individual shard. I wonder how many of them were the result of someone’s anger. Turning these pieces over in my hands, I picture a person overwhelmed with a rage brought on┬áby unrequited love violently tossing the remains of his or her alcohol hopelessly into the sea. I can see these glass bottles- the brown, gray, blue, green, glass bottles- drowning beneath the current and shattering helplessly without choice. It’s strange really. Perhaps the sea recognized the innocence of these objects, and for this reason gave them the gift of rebirth. A new beginning, if you will. A fresh start, powdered with a healing sort of beauty that only the most open minded of people-like my mother-would appreciate. Glass containing glass: for the viewing pleasures of spectators, seems to be a better fate than others.  

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Fuck Windex

The way it all happens will be dismissed by most as a casual occurrence. It will appear to be routine-somewhat intolerable yet common. It will happen the way handprints on windows happen. Pressing against the glass for whatever reason, most people fail to think of it as anything other than an annoyance-something to wipe away. It’s not until we view it from a different perspective or lighting that we even know the mark of it exists at all. And still, after we’ve seen- it just becomes something to wipe away. Hardly ever does a person notice handprints on a window and think of why they are really there. Most assume, let’s say at a restaurant for instance, that the prints were put there by a child misbehaving. A child with filthy palms and too much life inside of him. Hardly ever does a person think of the window as a divider. One that is as unnatural as those that we’ve painted on the roads and in our beliefs. Hand prints are wiped away immediately. Is that sensible, really? When our hands were here first- why should we erase the evidence of acknowledging the boundaries we’ve created for ourselves?

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