Tuesday, October 29, 2013

The Rich, The Poor

The conversation swings one way or the other, economically because this world we choose to live in is one in which the proverbial ‘pile of beans’ is the prime mover. In some of the ecstatic moments one is left with the idea from our writers, my betters the lot of them, that there is something noble about being a bum or, at the very least, not ignoble. Perhaps, in some sense, I can agree with this because the, at least in the fantastical mythology, there is, at least, a motion of intent to become wealthy. This intent, because of its supposed willfulness, can associate the practitioner with blame. What a sorry fucking bag of shit to strive for. It is somewhat funny, a dash of the ha ha funny, and the funny that one uses when they watch their fourth grade teacher, one whom they, the said child, associated with Beatrice of Dante’s fame-strut onto stage at a seedy strip club as ‘Jannah’ (the gates of heaven). In all the wealth I have accumulated, very modest for most, but for one that came from immigrant/refugee fame, twice over, I have accumulated a fair amount of beans. In all of it I have found not a iota of happiness. Oh, in some sense, there is the practicality of the extra hundred dollars that allows you to wear underwear the fits nicely, afford that root canal, or, if I splurge for three months of savings, by a jacket, then there is a modicum of safety to it. Happines? No, I do not think it brings it. I have been told, though, that it brings that ability to be happy because your needs have been met but that was a bit ago. Two children and a wife ago. My beautiful Children and my wife ago. I knew, then, in a dark and miserable way, that I was going to pay for it. I knew it. One must compromise when they choose to have the joy of the householder. Oh how I loathe that compromise but I do it because, frankly, and honestly, I love my family. To love them is, in this measurement life, in comparison to what I must pay-morals, ethics, they must take a second fiddle to their eating and material happiness. I have found, through the years, that my own material happiness has come down to around 6-12 dollars a month. Strange. But, those moments, those brief moments, the other day, when I saw both my children making a fort, my elder daughter making a plan, my son tapping his chin with baby fat still on it, I understood the cost. If it cost me four or five more countless eons till I can come up and gasp for any air-then so be it-in that moment I would have paid it happily. In fact, in this beer haze now, I would still pay it. Ninkasi IPA is a great beer.
I digress
I think how the poor, to someone like me, is sometimes ennobled by those that have not been poor. I have been poor. Wretchedly so. The groups I was around had no nobility in them. They were filled with the bile of our contemporary lust for gold as much, if not more, than any other Fortune 500 prick. They were just failures at it. They were mean, cruel, and treated each other like starving pigs in a desert like sty. They feasted on each other. The gangs, the horrific gossip, all of it was something I found debilitating and something I wished to run from. Through this terrible effort that I was able to manifest, mostly born of fear, I was confronted with wealth in my endeavors. In college. I was the token poor boy. The incensed, maniacal, study fiend, that kicked their asses in GPA and who kept a full time + job. How stupid. Oh, I see the gawkers and I try to play it up to the children who have killed their gods, because, frankly, finding out the impotent, flaccid, cock behind the curtain is better than starving. But in all those yeas and the years I have spent with them, there is no nobility in having not. None. They have the same deep craving, the same errors, the same horrors, except they do not have the tokens.
The rich
They have the tokens and that which separates them from the rudeness of the poor is the shit thick wall of comfort. That is all. I cannot stand to breathe amongst them, often. The giggling SOBs watching TED talks which is like a bunch of humorless vagina’s without any lubricating abilities and the temperature of Sashimi grade Tuna thinking they have some prestigious place on this earth. They are prestigious like a malignant tumor is prestigious on the temporal lobe. I have fucked rich girls. They fuck okay. I must say. Sometimes a bit more kinky than the poor girls, but, I can’t get away from the fact that they, honestly, think they are the winners. Oh, I have met the liberal rich person, I have met the guilty one, all of them white, but once one speaks to them, fucks them, their place in this world is manifest destiny no matter how much they like it up the ass.
“What do you mean?” She said as she rolled over. Naked. Filled in orifices with something I must have wanted to get rid of.
“If you measure worth in a pile of beans, whether those beans are called dollars or rupees, you have made yourself, by your own choice, a pile of beans. Not even beans that can sprout into more beans, but a bunch of dried out beans, useless beans, like the nuts of a gay man or the ovaries of a gay woman.”
“What! You’re homophobic!”
“When you constitute one’s humanity into their sexuality, once you have bounded them into their definitions, and really believe it outside of pragmatic devices, you are anti-life. I would be a homophobe, a racist, a sexist, before I stood against the awesome responsibility of the divine existence-and fuck god, not that conceptualized, prickless, well quaffed, white god you want-the divinity of which you cannot count or speak”
dont give me numbers. Give me your duties. Don’t give me your words, but your deeds.
If you say you love me tear yourself of your skin, dance about in your bones, sell those to the glue factory, and follow then, in what is left, those that are worthy to follow.
The dollar’s tail is sprouted from the ass that shits-just like everyTHING else. I wish not for such THINGs.
Be well
G

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