make the money talk back

alan watson was a natural with money…he’d gather a little pile of it up off the floorboards, blow life over its dusty gold surface till it sang a song and expand many times its original size. he had absolutely zero to prove to anyone. in alan’s eyes, money was nothing more than an earthly element… he believed anyone could access the raw muck.. no different than wind rain or fire… what alan really wanted though, was for money to talk back to him in a deep round voice and enrich him with higher knowledge.

getting a bank balance to roll up over the million was easy … he figured all you needed to do was plug into small growth industries like bespoke laundry or food delivery.. designate all the dull work out to willing people….overlord the process, and keep believing till the crystal grew it’s own clusters.

during these periods of ascent, alan found himself fantasising about letting it all fall asunder. he’d get a hard on just thinking about going into a tail spin.. the rarified joy of falling from a great height without caring..he fetishised the whole idea..the muffled sound of a bank manager panicking in his ear while he lay in the gutter soiling a jet black prada suit, soaking up bass heavy music, bleeding out from unlicensed electrified buildings.

with roughly four million pounds in the bank, alan rented a dank room on the far east edges of london town…he left his nice car outside, relishing the notion of finding it gone by morning..once in the bare empty room he just stood there sobbing and crying like a lost child… this was deeply satisfying for him, and through one way or another he found likeminded complex souls to join him…rich besuited men attracted to poor men in filthy boots with shaven heads, and vice versa…both sides would use each other up in exchanges of power, till it served no further use for any of them anymore, but being at the bottom of a well enlightened alan..he felt every part of him stir while down there.

once more in a state of homeless penury, alan would rise like a phoenix from smouldering ash. he’d clean up his act and fetishise order and luxury.. quality bedlinen.. a clean bathroom.. steamed vegetables… sushi.. california sunshine… the currency of money like a strong river would once again send him back up, then roll him back down repeatedly, until his health was finally shot.

the high point of alan’s life was in the dying…a profound sense of fulfilment washed gently through him…he died knowing he’d sailed over and around the complete spectrum of sensation…the bruising process had tenderised his now luminous nerves and imbued him with great empathy for the few friends left around him  .. in those last critical moments, it was all about them and not at all about about him. he died spiritually complete and rounded.. a generous man.

in a top banana private hospital, the deep dark voice of money beckoned alan out of his broken body, and he was gone.