Wherever Mo Goes

Search This Blog

The Watcher: Hope When There Is None.

on May 15, 2019

Get link
Facebook
X
Pinterest
Email
Other Apps

Sorry, it's been a while, but I'm back! I hope you enjoy!

Get link
Facebook
X
Pinterest
Email
Other Apps

Comments

Eggs

I don't like my eggs made "low and slow". I like my eggs to taste like they are made in a diner. One of those real "greasy spoon" types. The typical americana-Edward Hopper- Pulp Fiction made real. Fried quick and fried fat. The type of place that has been owned by the same family for generations. Where you or your aunt or your best friend got your first job. They've been giving people high cholesterol and clogged arteries for years, but no one ever complains. That place is a staple. The owners are real pillars of the community. And they've got a son, he's the first in the family to go to college! A real academic, everyone tells him. They all know his name. When he comes home for Thanksgiving break, he's working in the kitchen, and everyone calls out to him. They want to know how he's doing. How is college life treating him? How's that big city? Got yourself a girl yet? And he smiles because everyone here knows his name. He's happy ...

(untitled)

I keep thinking about owning a home. My own place. With acres of land stretching out in every direction around me. It's think it's because I spend all my time at a bank, with so many people coming in and out and I get to see their life splayed out in numbers on a screen. Some paying $9000 on a credit card. Someone paying $50 on a construction loan. Someone 3 months behind on their $1000 car loan. It's all just numbers, but the whole person unfolds in front of me. And when someone wants to buy a house, I start to dream. I put in the request, their name disappears into some ones and zeros in a system, to be looked at by some women who have spent years looking at houses for other people. Rates are up. Well, you probably already knew that, right? But rates are up. And houses here are basically unobtainable unless you have millions. People with millions pay millions for houses worth pennies. People are forced out of the place they have spent their entire lives. And I ...

On: The Value We Assign Thing

Do you want to know what I think is really weird? Fabergé eggs. These opulent, gem encrusted eggs run for millions of dollars and are sought after by pop stars and monarchs and warlords. All because some rich pricks like them a whole lot. Okay, yea, some of the value comes from the gems, and some comes from the handiwork it takes to actually craft the egg. But, holy shit . Shouldn’t we be asking why someone would be wanting to slap a bunch of jewels onto an egg in the first place? * There are some things I understand. Chemistry. Basic math. Rhythm and meter and how to count out music. These things make sense to me. I get it. But when I try to wrap my brain around why a bunch of people put so much stock in flimsy piece of paper, my head hurts. Our whole world literally revolves around the value of a bill, that less than 250 years ago, didn’t exist. There are some things I understand the value of. Good food. Beautiful art. Hell, even good old fashioned hard work. But if I boil it all do...

Powered by Blogger

The Watcher: Hope When There Is None.

Comments

Post a Comment