Money is one of the most obscure concepts in the world. Essentially the paper and metal used to make money are without significant value. Money itself is only valuable by proxy - a one-hundred dollar bill is useless, but all the potential things that can be exchanged for that slip of paper are theoretically valuable. In fact I can look at a five-figure monetary number and realize that it represents my student loans or my housing contract, both of which for me are valuable. Yet the idea that I have to exchange hundreds of little pieces of paper or electonic 0's and 1's that represent hundreds of little pieces of paper for my house and my intellect is completely absurd.

Despite the inherent absurdity of it all, I can still feel the pain of seeing those big numbers and realize that those belong to someone else and I have to buy those numbers back. Even worse I gave those numbers away and received nothing tangible in return when it comes to my education. Someone should write a contemporary existentialist work on the pain of owing something as ridiculous as hundreds of little slips of paper to someone else or the exchange of imaginary slips of paper. It's ridiculous yet it's real. The nausea I feel is actually there. Whether money 'exists' or not, the fact that I don't have any and the fact that if I get any I have to give it away is painful. I don't like it. I don't want to participate in it, but the bastards got to me before I knew it. Now I'm trapped and there is no escape.

The real tragedy of the modern age is that the intangibility of money reflects the intangibility of our souls. There's no substance to either one. My soul and my money are worthless place-holders. Solidity and the ability to grasp hold of my soul might return if only I could build a desk and trade that desk for some books or some food. But I can't build a desk and even if I could I don't think I could trade it for anything in this time and place. Modern crusaders should set out to find everyone's tangible soul, even it it's in the form of a desk or some produce. Just so long as we get away from the imaginary lives we are currently leading. A plank of wood would be far more substantial.

I tend to think of my life in terms of the book(s) I'm reading at any given time. During grad school I read tons of academic texts and a bunch of fun books like the Harry Potter novels, sci-fi stuff, and historical fiction. The fun books helped keep me sane while slogging through writers like Levinas and Lyotard. The combination of academic and fun books defined that period in my life.

Now, though, I'm not really reading anything. I finished _Steppenwolf_ by Hesse recently and since then I haven't been able to get into any thing. Nothing. I've started new books, old books, and favorites to no avail. It's weighing on me this inability to sink my teeth into a novel. I love reading. It's who I am. So what does it mean that I can't read right now?

Kinda freaky.

Recently I managed to place my entire foot directly in my mouth. Amazing that the darn thing would fit all the way in there. Sometimes my life resembles a bad American sit-com or an hysterically satirical British one. Here's the lowdown: I wrote a few humorous sentences on an otherwise serious evaluation page for work, those sentences made their way into the hands of the big boss lady, the big boss lady assumed I was talking about her (which I wasn't) and took offense, I got into serious trouble while tumbling multiple steps in a downward direction on the non-profit ladder of success. There are many lessons to be learned here, and most of them are cliched.

The unspoken lesson, and perhaps the most interesting, is that when you manage to tumble downward on the non-profit ladder of success and the downward tumble wasn't caused by excessive drinking or drug use you just might be trying to get up the wrong ladder in the first place. Who knew working for ethical equality and being-for-the-Other could be so treacherous? Well, obviously the non-profit world is a generally treacherous place, but you shouldn't feel treachery from your own team. That kind of thing only happens in the business world, right?

As usual, this is about 50% my own fault. What, you thought it'd be all on me? Ha. Double Ha. But seriously, I gotta win the lottery or write a bestseller sometime soon or I'm gonna have a heart attack before I'm 40.

On a brighter note - I made it up a 60 foot rock-climbing wall at a local recreation center on the 5.6 level. It was exhilirating. The sense of accomplishment at making it up was great. The burning sensation in my arms, hands, and legs was the burn of success. And the terror of looking down from the top and letting go of the wall was an unparalleled adrenaline rush. It made all the petty bullshit from above disappear. . . . for about 60 seconds.

Looking for a new place to live is an awfully existential activity. It forces you to think about your future, critically appraise the present, and take soulful looks at your past. It also forces you to think about all the shit you currently have and how much of that shit you actually need. In most cases this is a simple process of saving this and trashing that. But books are a whole different story.

I have hundreds and hundreds of books. About half are from being a student with a BA in English and an MA in religion and philosophy. The other half are personal reading. Between the two sets, there are certain books that are keepers without question. These are the types of books that formed you and shaped you, maybe even influenced your thoughts on "the big issues." I have my keepers - don't we all? - that I won't be selling to the second-hand store anytime soon. But what about the others? About 75% of my books fall into the "other" category. I've read them, probably liked them, and pefer to keep them in my library. But in an extreme case they're also the books I would be willing to part with if I absolutely had to. Now I'm sure there are book lovers out there cringing their near-sighted little faces right now. But let's face it folks, we have libraries for a reason - they hold numerous copies of all those books that are pretty good, but not worth buying for my own shelf. That, or they hold the books that I can't afford because books can be pricey little bastards and I'm not rich.

At some point, this all becomes an academic question. I'm going to try and keep as many of books as possible. And after I move I expect to have about 98% of what I started with. I may give away one or two, sell double copies back to bookstores or give them to friends, and trash a few more. But otherwise I plan to keep all the "little bastards" I can. Therein lies the dilemma: moving sucks, moving books sucks worse. You can never remember which books you put in which box. After you move you can never find the book you want so you end up with books everywhere which creates a huge mess further exacerbating any future book search. So, to avoid this dastardly problem, I am devising a shifty solution in which I order all my books into library-like genres exactly upon unpacking which will thereby make searching easier. Aha, you say, that sounds brilliant! I too am delighted by this plan and the ultimate meaning it will impart to my life by being in order.

But damnit if the prospect of ordering all my books isn't mind-boggling. I'll probably get caught up in what I have and start reading and never stop. And, really, who wants to spend hours putting books in order when you can spend hours reading them? I think I've stumbled upon some ontological existential categories here: people who would rather put books in order vs. people who would rather read them. Think about it. Everyone you know fits into one of these two categories. Whoa...!