WHIPPED CREAM CHARIOT PAPER TRAIL: Every once and a while I realize that I have too many pieces of paper in my wallet and I need to yank them out before my wallet becomes rounded and tears at its seams. The pieces of paper are bus transfers and phone numbers and receipts from bars and grocery stores and the post office, and as I look at the names and dates on each receipt I find myself reliving the past two months of my life. I think this is a secret American ritual that has taken the place of looking at old photographs or greeting cards. We look at the money trail and remember the experiences the money bought us. Who was there when the money was spent? Was the money spent staring at glowing screens? Was it spent on getting so wasted you couldnt recognize if you were standing in a park or lying in a bathtub? Only once in my life have I gotten so drunk that my own name no longer made sense to me, but it can happen. The paper trail that is a money trail tells me many stories. It tells me of places where I felt my head would explode with anxiety/desire/irritation/boredom/exhaustion/contemplation/a-bemused-persitence-to-remain-entertaining-in-the-moment-even-if-I-couldnt-believe-I-was-hovering-in-a-window-sack-or-pouch-of-coherent-reality-at-all/the-need-to-urinate/fever/dejection/shooting-lightning-bolts-at-strangers/doubt/mania/bliss/contagion/drain. And yes, THIS, all of this, was delivered to me by sorting through the pieces of paper in my wallet. It is a paper trail, a money trail, a trail of circles and hey, it speaks of a modicum of pluck. This paper trail is a narrative nothing short of the Twenty-First Century Fantasy. In five hundred years, small, green-fingered children wearing chain-mail of woven Justin Bieber CDs will fantasize, under a tangerine sunset, about the days when people could be driven around in these talking chariots and worry about love and careers while stuffing whipped cream in their mouths.
Posted on: Sat, 29 Nov 2014 13:12:59 +0000
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