Monday, 4 May 2009
Property is the hard rock and staple, the social test.
Property is the prior root, the seed dropped in and sprouted and blossomed and grown to the simulated Doric columns of a virtual Greek edifice, the Nation Storage Bin.
There all the heavy kernels are hoarded, the cobalt dimes, the platinum nickels, the flowers of green and white paper, the neatly clipped and bundled high denomination certificate bouquets bourse'd and traded and held, transferred, recorded, monitored, vaulted, kept.
And where are you? Who stole you away to the underworld?
Who took you down, who held your hand like Pluto?
Who said Now there's a good girl Persephone It will all come out right in the end just trust it? Who instructed you to ride the boat? Who got on with you?
A tall person was waiting with a pole, aboard the boat there was a large bin of human property, it was a place of storage, I asked the oracle the meaning of this, the oracle said:
It was a bank, it held the things of life but they were not alive, there were dead things in it and someone owned them, now you are gone and they are still there, it is just as well for you because aboard the boat the weight is too great, the boat would have sunk and you would have gone down with it, but you have probably gone down anyway.
Banking crisis protest, Reykjavik: photo by Jon Eckman