Monstrous Mutability, Money and (a little bit) God.

Things change. That’s a simple little thesis. At times they grow, other times they shrink. The pattern becomes quite distinct in certain cases; linear relationships becoming evident as the pattern progresses. From Nation to person, everything has a peak. There is no returning. It’s sad.

Loss is defined as the removal of something from a larger hole. And so when the peak is reached and the subject goes tumbling down, there is an anticipation of removal, an anticipation of loss. Imagination triumphs and we experience grief for things yet to pass. Joseph Schumpeter coined a loving term: Creative Destruction. As one thing is built to replace the old, the old becomes torn down, kicking and screaming to make way for the new.

I wish to gain something, what must I lose?

The more interesting wiggle: Who decides the exchange rate?

Capital is the typical currency, but what’s behind it?

And now we talk about Marx. He wrote several very, very, very, very… long books. Read the first couple of chapters from the first one. I refuse to speak for the rest. He got some things right, and others wrong, as Vonnegut wrote, “and so it goes.”

Good God (I hope he/it/she is, or else that their mother is still around- spankings for the naughty and such. Oh my, how dirty this quickly becomes.) this is getting complicated.

Simplify!

We pay one another for our efforts, not on remotely the same terms, but at least we use an agreed upon method. As everything is valued by somebody then everything can be monetized by someone else. Even a word. That mess of things begins with scrabble, moves onto jeapordy and I refuse (at the moment) to rub my dirty paws on that set of dishes. Is joy brought by the new worth more than the loss of the old?

It likely quite depends, however I maintain that life in its true essense rests in the transaction, the transition, the hike up and slide down. Fuck destinations, lets focus on the travels- look at literature and popular movies, that’s what matters anyways. How do I know?

It’s what sells.

(Don’t pinch your pennies. It’s rude, and no one likes a pinchy asshole.)

Blunderous Blunderbuss, Blog, Blog Away.

Lightly starting it all. A mug of good darkness in hand while the eyes rest on the softly lit screen. Welcome to this place of written words and digital ink. Soon our very paper will be the stuff of technological magic, lead will leave the classrooms and the stylus will prove king. Or perhaps we will, in our grand inventiveness, reach back to a further time. A time of finger paints and buffaloes on roller skates. Our writing will become touching, generating a far more sensual link into the winding sentences we condemn ourselves to publishing upon this vast sea. This sea of the world.

Fire the broadsides. There is a wind whipping in through the window. Armitage, in his translation of Gawain and his Green knight, notes an interesting point. We once used alliteration as the poetic form, we forgetters of the old tongue. He goes further to inform us that Sir Gawain’s little tale is actually written in a time far past that era of poetry, and that the author was likely paying a tribute to that time when the learned wrote in their own speech, and not the in the knowledge of the Mediterranean. We had poetry then. We have always had poetry.

We had poetry before we had swords, before we had pens. And here I do not mean the structured rhyming more common today since the Norman/Roman Conquests, or for that matter, the earlier popular styles that Mr. Simon Armitage was kind enough to inform me about. No. We had poetry when the sun rose. We had poetry when we dreamed our first dreams. Poetry is the communication of images, so is prose, words are the abstractions of images.

Images not just in the eyeballs and video camcorder sense, but images in the sense of completing puzzles, of perceptions, the sonar the wicked Orca uses to play nasty games with all the other sea folk. Images in the sense of ideas. I would use the word smells but ours is not much of a sniffing species, though I think at times it might do us some good if we were.

A challenge to you: Smell everything for a day, don’t ignore your nose. Incorporate the nostril into that apparatus of your noggin that you use experience the diem. Smell it, don’t seize it.

My nostrils inform me of a fading. The alluring aroma of my coffee has just about gone. This has a consequence. Now I too must fade…

Till next time Gadget, till next time.