Monday, December 12, 2005
Hand to Mouth
When one's bank account dwindles, it becomes a spectacle very like a marathon. It is all about speed, and endurance. The speed with which each unit of 5 bucks is drawn and quartered, rationed, held on to as long as possible and then finally, with some desperate sort of relief, spent.
As events approach an imagined finish line, i.e $0.00, there are stages. There is a bitter, bitter type of anger which manifests itself in general resentment towards the government, one's parents, friends who are richer, the deplorable condition of the local art scene, the goddamn motherfucking cocksucking college who won't give me my cheque, and so on. I would proscribe this as a sickness of mind that eats away at your self-confidence until you don't know who you are, only that you can only think of one thing: money.
And then one encounters a period of extreme fatigue. This a paralysis that kills all desire. There is no longer a sense of urgency. No hunger. At this point, life is percieved as a strange and abstract marathon race. But having no currency, one does not qualify, dropping instead gently to the bottom like sediment, while the race floats hazy and indistinct above. My experiences of this condition are mere flirtations. Malaysia is a class society. There are a great many types of races existing like parallel worlds, never touching each other.
But we always hope. Just like a runner, one always overcomes the fatigue. In a snap, you are back, with the wind ringing in your ears. You're running. Not for the race, but because nothing can hold you back. Running because running is awesome, and movement was just what you were made for. And you can break free, running in straight lines perpendicular to all the horizontal racing tracks of society.
And then you don't even care about the cheque. And that's when it comes.
As events approach an imagined finish line, i.e $0.00, there are stages. There is a bitter, bitter type of anger which manifests itself in general resentment towards the government, one's parents, friends who are richer, the deplorable condition of the local art scene, the goddamn motherfucking cocksucking college who won't give me my cheque, and so on. I would proscribe this as a sickness of mind that eats away at your self-confidence until you don't know who you are, only that you can only think of one thing: money.
And then one encounters a period of extreme fatigue. This a paralysis that kills all desire. There is no longer a sense of urgency. No hunger. At this point, life is percieved as a strange and abstract marathon race. But having no currency, one does not qualify, dropping instead gently to the bottom like sediment, while the race floats hazy and indistinct above. My experiences of this condition are mere flirtations. Malaysia is a class society. There are a great many types of races existing like parallel worlds, never touching each other.
But we always hope. Just like a runner, one always overcomes the fatigue. In a snap, you are back, with the wind ringing in your ears. You're running. Not for the race, but because nothing can hold you back. Running because running is awesome, and movement was just what you were made for. And you can break free, running in straight lines perpendicular to all the horizontal racing tracks of society.
And then you don't even care about the cheque. And that's when it comes.
Labels: money
¶ 10:42 PM
