Having asserted that rambling will still be given careful consideration, and that likewise the somewhat nonsensical logic will not be completely tossed out the window without a second glance, since only I can delete these posts (maybe. hmm. interesting privacy fine print security rights of site owner vs. user question comes into play, but moving on…), I now feel free to address the topic I was thinking about all along.
Money’s a fascinating phenomena. Flipping through a few hundred checks this morning, my wandering mind landed upon how the author of a recent discovery, Moneyless World – Free World – Priceless World, might see the way I currently use the window between six and two thirty each Monday through Friday.
The thought of even trying to mimic his bold choice really had briefly crossed my mind, that is until reports of eating road kill intensified the smell of dumpster diving. That idea was quickly smashed in the back of that truck that we pay to pay this house a weekly visit.
A less intense site encourages that other ways of breaking our addiction to numbers is possible. As I type policy number, check amount, type, etc. etc., I rediscover this world’s strange addiction to numbers and how we love to move them and to see them transformed. Some of us even type numbers for 40 hours a week so that, at the end of it, our own highly personal top secret numbers may grow.
As is often the case, I stop typing to look for a quote (in this case, a friend’s non applicable version of a disclaimer to explain how much I love my new job and that any implied negativity is for fun and should be taken with a grain of salt) and get sidetracked. Every one knows that I tend to take the scenic route, although I usually prefer not to. It’s inevitable. The map is out. A new path has been forged. Backtracking and trying to follow the original directions that I went to so much effort printing out simply is not practical, or even realistic at this point. I read an entire page of my friend’s new posts and scan over my own, silently laughing without even cracking a smile about how I now think in the present form of the future preterit (thinking about how in the future I will explain a past event in the present tense- or something like that). I then follow that internal tangent to a warning of the dangers of internal processing (I once gasped at the sight of our driver heading straight towards a buggy, but didn’t have time to both think out and then scream a distress alert as is customary- for me. Luckily the driver looked up and swerved), and now, as I consider how much time I’ve spent typing, I regret buying a little net book that cramps my fingers and will, all too soon, find itself into the unfortunates’ backyard, polluting their water, and forcing their children to dig through it’s forgotten raw wires barefoot, pretending the search for something salvageable is a slightly less cruel version of a game.
So yeah. Anyways, money. It’s a bit overrated, donchathink.