Is it craft, the art of making, which spins the world? Or is it the pharaohs of commerce that abstract what’s real into something ephemeral that never seems to manifest the physical? Betting on percentage points of speculation, gambling in the cosmos of newspaper markets and the machinations of nations, the greenback in the long run, compost for growing food, medicine, fiber.
Where does it all go, even the abstraction, fodder for the food chain, sustenance for the billions, a colloquy of shifting maintenance and management. What of the comprehensive purview, the whole of systems, the feedback loop, the longing for the mistake? Is it foolproof, caged like a barking dog that will also become fodder, food for the next barking dog in the vaporous night?
Down the chute of commerce the legs of fast money explode upon the track that ends, gorged on by the hungry mouth of infinity. Swallow, digest, create the system of systems, patterns frothing and bubbling and laughing uncontrollably and the witness witnessing like a still point at the center of a whirling mass, a stopped clock in the cube at the center of a Grand Central Station of the spinning mind.