The Goldfish. — There was an eagle in the commercial, an eagle soaring in a bright blue sky. “Financial security,” intoned the narrator, in a deep manly voice. “This is what it looks like. Now imagine what it feels like.” Could swear its THAT guy—you know, the guy that does all the movie trailers—the one that just died, like Nietzsches God. Or Hollywoods. Gotta admit theres something godlike about a disembodied Father Figure who can convey divine omnipresence whilst remaining nameless and faceless. Seriously, if Netflix was a country —a religious country— with a Cold War agenda, wed put “In the Deep Manly Voice We Trust” on our money, in a heartbeat. But thats not what bothered me about the commercial. It was that stupid eagle. Thats what failed to ring true. Because when I think about financial security, I imagine myself sitting by a warm fireplace in the dead of winter. Im on a comfy old chair. Curled up with a blanket and a book. Enjoying my creature comforts. I glance periodically at the blizzard —a blizzard from hell thats raging out there, on the other side of the window, in the real world. And when I try to imagine what my spirit animal might look like, my financial spirit animal, its not an eagle or a lion or a bear. Nothing predatory. Nothing noble. Nope. All I see is a goldfish. A sickly, unloved goldfish —who finds himself, at present, in a freshly flushed toilet. Its not that shes a bad pet owner. It was an accident. She thought the goldfish was dead—really, she did. It was floating in its bowl, after all. Thing only started swimming when it hit the freezing-cold toilet water. But, at that point—well, you know how these things go —it was too late, far too late to turn back. So she decided to stay the course, stick to Plan A, and bury him in that watery grave, dead or alive. But the goldfish didnt go down. So she gave it another shot, and then another. She flushed him again and again and again, watching him swirl and whirl, around and around and around. And yet against all odds, again stall of the various Laws of Physics which ought to hold sway, the pathetic little goldfish just wouldnt go down. Its a metaphysical problem —really, it is— because were okay with the idea of the universe being terrifying or unknowable or meaningless or absurd. Were even okay with the idea that the Jehovahs Witnesses or the Mormons might be right about everything. But weve never really entertained the possibility that the universe might be boring —and I mean REALLY boring— you know, like, neoliberally boring. But what if the goldfish is a sinner in the eyes of some angry neoliberal deity, a God of Accountants and Actuaries, Audits and Austerity Measures? What if HE punishes the profligate in the porcelain purgatory of the John? What if the goldfish deserves to suffer? I doubt it. But its hard to be sure. Theological truths of this stamp are slippery fish: hard to grasp, and harder to hold. But this much I do know (and I know its enough): If Im a goldfish, youre probably one too! Were a generation of goldfish, my friends, a generation of redemptioners; a generation that was tricked into taking on mortgage-sized student loans; a generation that was promised passage from Proletaria to Professionalia. We paid top-dollar for the voyage to middle-class North America. Yet few of us made it. Few of us arrived. Most, it seems, remain lost. Lost at sea. —JFH
Posted on: Wed, 12 Nov 2014 04:48:34 +0000
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