At least I did it – once – in this lifetime.
Now I can really truly deeply appreciate how we’re strung out in suburbia, stretched and desperate for the next paycheque, bonus, dividend … gazing down an endless mortgage … hooked on capital.
It’s a place where telling the truth of my global gypsy lifestyle is social suicide. I wish I had figured that out earlier; but open-hearted and naïve I went in, expecting similar self inquiry from addicts. Silly me.
Previous to this decension I’d only dipped my toe in the mainstream … then returned to my solar powered hippy mansion in the hills. I thought it was safe to view the behaviour of suburban beasts from behind my event manager’s façade. I’d seen them before in my yoga class – mostly the sincere ones, some who thought yoga was stretching and what I taught was weird, others convinced they got a spiritual name online from 3HO.
I never could put a finger on that disconnection in their eyes, that stiffness when I replied – I don’t do anything for a living, just for love – until I did it myself. Self absorption into the mainstream. Osmotic occupation with making money.
Maybe if I hadn’t just spent 20 years wild and free I’d have got it sooner – before I was in individuality so deep I couldn’t backpaddle. The local community, the nice family of my children’s father, they got raw me. Oops.
Like most wheat-fed beasts when fed raw, they got symptoms of detoxification : my presence made them sweat, my ideals caused belching, my insouciance gave them diahorrea – verbal, of course. They couldn’t stop defaming me with gobsmacked gossiping.
All because of money. Well … somehow you have to justify why you’ve centred your life around making money and (obviously) I ought to be making some too!
Get a job! I had a life instead, one I was not interested in exchanging for a counterfeit currency … but curiosity … curiosity got the better of me. I guess I had to try it to say that I did it – I participated in economy.
So now I know what it feels like to be a money junkie : to live craving it, gaining it, spending it as fast as you’re earning it. Every day. Over and over and over and it’s never enough. Dollars may as well be P.
Once upon a time I went a week (and more) without shopping. Now I spend $ every single day. It’s addictive. I don’t need to walk to the shops I can do it online. In and out. Out and in. It’s so sensual it’s become essential and I’m so over it.
I miss my lonely sunny deck far away from the money junkies. I miss waking up happy with the little I have … a bowl of oats, a skirt to sew, a floor to sweep, mist rising dawn, a song to sing as I go to the river to swim, salad and lemons, birds to watch, stars to ponder, dreams.
No more dreams. I fall asleep exhausted by the machinations of my mind wondering will I make enough money each day to feed this modern lifestyle.