Money is narcotic. In a capitalist culture, few can resist its addiction. Those with none dream of jackpots. Those with plenty pine for more. Rare the eremite whose avowed distaste erases temptation. Would even Thoreau, we wonder, who inveighed against money’s corrosive effects, have spurned a windfall?
Just now I woke from a dream of fortunes. I know better, I rebuke myself. I’ve observed up close how money distracts, deadens, distorts. (The word narcotic derives from narcosis in old Greek, meaning benumb.) Dreams of dollars and cents blur more productive dreams of dolors and sense. I yank my brain from the dream, as I would Henry from a fetid rabbit.
Chemists can explain cocaine’s addictive power. Most men who’ve been boys get the allure of sex. I’ve long been hooked on the sirenic seduction of words. What makes money irresistible? Does it mess with our dopamine or assuage our lust? Can one envision, in its thrall, one might mend the world?
Money relieves starvation for respect. The most tormenting human question is why. Why are we here? What should I do? What’s my contribution? Why bother? Our too busy brains eye the facts and moan: We were born to die, we vanish, what’s the good of that? Dog-pal Henry sleeps soundly plagued by no such queries.
Money buys respect, which we mistake for evidence, confusing net worth with worth. The more money you have the more folks doff their caps. Maîtres d’ ooze with unctuous delight. Money and personal beauty are the two currencies everyone comprehends that are accepted worldwide. Congressmen and poets may swell with self- importance, but who’s ever heard of either? Everybody knows Elon Musk!
The less we respect ourselves, the more supplemental nutrition our egos require. In the decades I lusted for money – and lust, alas, was the verb – I hated all I wasn’t. Why hadn’t I been an investment banker instead of an impecunious word-worker! I was writhing when I should have been writing, for writing, I knew, was what I loved. But which of my suburban neighbors cared a whit about writing? “Oh, a writer, really,” they’d force a smile and move on.
The more money one has, the likelier to treat money as meritorious and its owners as wise. This insanity helps explain America’s current agony. Plutocrats are seldom (small d) democrats. They pine for plutocracy. If they only had more money – and more – and more – they’d reorganize the world and everybody would be happy. The poor, by which they mean the majority, don’t know what to do with money, so they should have less, enough not to starve maybe, but enough is enough. The richer you are the less taxes you should pay, for the public good. For nearly two generations now, the rich have reorganized America to make themselves richer, while suppressing the poor. They’ve bought politicians, judges, universities, and media to promote their gospel of wealth. They bought a President and his regime. They used their money to bewilder the segment of the population most credulous and crabby. MAGA was always a pawn – a fact to which they’re presently waking, to their annoyance.
What might cure America of its money addiction is the calamity it’s caused. Now is America’s “Oh shit” moment – “What have we done!” The golden boys have killed the golden goose! The Iranians – Iranians! – are beating us in a war – everybody hates us – we’re fierce, furious, and frightened – all but the megarich, who’ve organized the unraveling of our democratic dream.
The war is not Republicans versus Democrats, Conservatives versus Progressives, it’s plutocrat versus democrat. Game on.