14 04 2010

So every now and then a completely earth-shattering notion seeps into my consciousness: Our lives revolve around rocks. One rock, in particular: gold.

Does anyone else think it’s completely mind-boggling that damn near every stress incurred in human life pertains to the perpetual need to hoard rocks? That some thousands of years ago, someone determined that a shiny yellow rock was currency? And that now, those many thousands of years later, the entire makings of the world’s ins and outs can be narrowed down to one element on the periodic table??! a ROCK?!???!!

I truly can’t wrap my brain around it. Rocks are why we get up in the morning and go to jobs we hate. Rocks are the primary stressor in the human psyche. Too often, rocks determine our happiness or lack thereof. ROCKS.

It’s just absurd. When the world as we know it teetered on the verge of collapse last year, it really hit home with me that this economy, this show that we put on, the plumage we flaunt like so many work-worn peacocks, is a complete farce. If an alien race was to look in at humanity, what would it see? Smoke and mirrors. The world turns for the people on it not as a spectacle of celestial amazement, but as another damn day to earn a few more rocks.

When did this happen?

When did life as we know it turn from a gift to a chore?

And how, exactly, did the world’s economy blossom into the Emerald City of Oz?

When the stimulus was passed and the United States borrowed 700-something billion dollars from China, where did that money come from? How can the Federal Reserve simply print more money? Don’t we need rocks to back it up? No? Sooo… I guess that means the rocks that we DO have, tucked away a few miles from my Kentucky home, are somehow worth less?

And, really, what IS the price of gold? Who decides this? And why does it have a price to begin with? It’s a DAMNED ROCK!!!

This shit makes my head spin. I’d be perfectly happy with a farm and a cow, building a cabin from logs and mud, growing my own crops and living off the land. Who’s with me?

I don’t need yer steenking rocks!!!



13 04 2010

Sometimes only Futurama quotes can truly capture the madness that circulates in my brain. It’s late (well, not really late, but that word is redefined the further one proceeds into her 30s). I’m nowhere near tired. My brain is twitching from all the anti-skin mayhem drugs it’s been fed. The kitteh sleeps beside me, content to taunt me with all her cute. I blew the dust off this thing because I realized that my creative outlets have dried up. I haven’t played my piano in well over a year, there’s nothing to sing about, and my waistline is doing a convincing job of keeping the oven mitts at bay. So yes, writing it is.

So this is Southern California. Every now and then it hits me that the vast majority of my loved one are thousands of miles away. I think the drugs are doing a pretty good job of making that notion abstract. I’ve been thinking about kicking the headpill haze for a while. Seems like the buffer provided by SSRIs are more of an oilstreak across the glasses of my emotions. Feigned ignorance may be bliss, but if one can’t even appreciate bliss, what’s the good in it? Garden State. Yes. I’ve been way too happy with white walls.

The crudely animated space lobster on the TV makes far more sense to me than Fareed Zakariah. Is that wrong? I’m in my early thirties and married and all that. Shouldn’t I be concerned with worldly goings-on? Nah. I’ll leave the politics to my non-citizen husband. There’s an alcoholic robot to appease me.

So yeah, nothing profound today. Just reminding myself what it’s like to write. I’m sure the inanities of life will inspire me soon enough. Until then, it’s your resident whackaloon, signing off.