taxing

I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. The fact that you don’t want to show me yours makes me suspicious. You see, we live in a world where suspicion and fear fuel how we feel, fix our perceptions. You must understand that people have abused people. The abuse continues into the present tense of our perceptions. We all cannot afford the fees necessary to follow all the rules. Like playing golf, not everyone can afford the greens fees, so we watch from outside the fence and wonder about the game. We can watch it on a screen but we’re filled with the sort of wonder that’s not the sentimental kind. It’s not the kind that fills us with awe. It’s more like wonder that leads to longing, but not the variety of longing that leads to happy encrusted desire. This longing over time ferments into jealousy. And that’s really not good. Because we don’t truly know it, we long for things that are unreal. I cannot fathom those numbers. I suppose if someone analyzes them and relates them to my life, or presents them in a way I can take the time, if I wish, to relate them to what I understand, maybe I’d understand more. I’ve played a great deal of golf and I can relate to a slice. I’ve hit quite a few. When I see a nice shot, the word nice means something. America is fascinated with vetting and the process that goes along with the word. Juries judge art. A friend recently had her paintings in a show, selected by a jury of one, she said. The American election process consists of a mass jury; a diverse unintelligible crowd of shouting and silent jurors. It reminds me of the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Raining down upon the crowd is a steady flurry of paper. Can we gather enough papers, take the time to read them between the shouts and the soundtracks? I’m not registered. I won’t vote. I’ll gather stray papers and read what I care to read. Plentiful paper. In America, most eligible jury members choose not to be part of the jury. For me, the crowd is the thing, the chaos, the noise. We never really hear or see the ones selected, anyway. All the papers swirling above our heads, the shouting to reveal numbers, that to me is the essence of life. Longing for more paper raining down upon us. More words. More numbers. More ballots that may end up being counted in our highest jury room due to confusion and our incompetent counting methods. Are you afraid?