Does money matter?

Yes, it does. No, it doesn´t.  The "off-the-treadmill and out-of-the-rat-race movement" is not a new idea; I think it was conceived in the late 90´s, partially as a counterbalance to the shameless greed and debauchery of the 80´s.

I would bet that a large number of working adults have had a "leave it all and live on a farm somewhere" moment. Some may have done it, not many would have succeeded. Whilst the idea is tempting, it inevitably clashes with the fact that our basic needs are still strongly linked to money. You cannot barter for complex medical care, university education or 100% of your needs in energy and fuel. Being self-sufficient, at the moment, is an individual, sometimes self-indulgent attempt to sort out our own conscience and ideals, but it is not effective. 

Why self-indulgent? Looking at myself, where I should begin, I see how smug I get carrying a cloth tote bag to the supermarket, recycling dutifully, reducing my expenditures, eating less meat, saying and striving to do" the right things", Have I solved anything for anyone but my own self-image or influenced the life of others in any way? A big, fat "no".

One option would be to chuck it all and become a voluntary school teacher wherever it is needed most, living on roots and spring water. Again, whilst I would contribute to a very important need, I could only do so because I am not bound by geography, family responsibilities or, at the moment, health issues. However, most average working people are bound by such factors. For them, money has to matter, though many wish it didn´t.

As I gave this blog a title "Wrong answers to Wrong Questions", why do I think "Does money matter" is a wrong question to begin with? 

As David Boyle has said with beautiful clarity and ingenuity, money doesn´t exist.

Less and less cash circulates around the world; most of our daily transactions involve cyber space balance of virtual pluses and minuses, the red and black font on your computer screen. There are no gold bars in the vault of your local bank, and there isn´t the exact amount which people have invested in the particular branch office sitting somewhere in a large safe. The office keeps enough cash to give change to customers paying into their accounts, and to fill the cash dispensing machine.  The rest is a series of agreements, treaties and promises you have involved yourself with by participating in the inevitable system of trading your time, and life, for a questionable goal of "having money" or "being rich" and an unquestionable goal of survival as we understand it at the moment.

It is interesting how the English language has a standard phrase: "being well-off" for people who are not poor but do not chase the money god with blood on their fangs and can cover their basic needs and modest luxuries. Well-off sounds almost like a state of health, or could be an expression suggesting well being and happiness. 

How can one strike the balance of being trully well-off: happy and productive, but not necessarily having any money to speak about. How could a whole society be "well-off"? 

A lot of smart people are trying to answer this question. And, this would be a much better question to ask, is your well-being, contentment and contribution to your community and society important? Would you be happy to cut out the all-powerful financial middle-man between your time and skills and your needs? Of course, yes.

There isn´t a simple solution to a huge issue like money, I believe there are series of changes necessary over a long period of time, from teaching children a different approach to money to re-evaluating the way we define wealth. And, by all means, let´s start with ourselves, the tote bag is a good thing after all, but changing our attitude towards money, less visible and more difficult, may just have the needed ripple effect to start changing the world for everyone, not just the "responsible midddle class consumer".

Where are you from?

The question of personal, individual identity has been bothering me, on and off, for many years, like a shawl of annoying guppies nibbling at the algae on the aquarium glass. This is the first time I have decided to put some of these thoughts in writing (mainly to get rid of the guppies) and I am still trying to put my finger on the exact source of my discomfort. All I can do at the time is ask questions.

How, in a “global village” or as a “European” do you answer the casual question inevitably asked when meeting someone new: “Where are you from” (are you friend or foe, are you like me, or  shall I grin nervously and back out, slowly?)

I live in Spain. I was born in Poland and spent my childhood there. I grew up speaking English as well as Polish. I still speak Polish fluently, mostly with my mother on the phone; I also read books and newspapers online in that language. After decades of living in Spain I dream in Spanish. I dream and count in English, too and I write poetry in English and in Polish. I find Spanish to be difficult for poetry. I sing in Spanish and get angry in English. When I am very scared I might revert to a Polish exclamation. When I hit my finger with a hammer I used to say “oh fuck”. More and more often I may say “coño”. I am not patriotic in any of those languages. I vote in Spain and for the European Parliament. I am involved in Spanish politics. I follow Polish politics, as well as British, American and global. I am not a Catholic, I stopped when I was seven  due to a Sunday School teacher announcing that little black children in Africa had no soul and it was our Christian duty to help them be baptized so they can get one. 

During many introductions at parties, in the street or in a circle of friends  I have been automatically asked to confirm the greatness of Pope Paul II, Lech Walesa and Polish vodka, in random order. I have been repeatedly pitied for being so far away from home and asked how often I “go back”. 

When do I get the badge, the symbol, or the coat of arms showing I feel at home where I am now? People I meet do not know what passport I hold, what my legal status is, neither should they care. Do I want the label of being from Spain then? Would I rather those questions became unimportant? 

Hemingway said you were from the place where you wanted to be buried. I do not particularly care, and I don´t think I will be around to put an x on the exact spot. "Home is where the heart is". Well, mine seems to float in many places. It hovers over Spanish mountains a lot and the thick forests in eastern Poland, it wakes up smelling fresh frog spawn and mud at the river I loved as a child. It pops over to France sometimes and wants to smell sardines roasting on a Portuguese beach in the summer. It longs for the clear long days which never become a night in northern Russia and the open highways of the American north. Sometimes it bobs up and down in outer space trying to find a supernova or it is sucked into a black hole where it rides the folding time and pops back up in 15^th Century Mongolia. Sometimes my heart is with a bird or a dragonfly I am watching through binoculars. Sometimes it is with a friend. Often it is with my dog.

I have taken to tapping my frontal lobe to answer the question where I was from. I felt this was simply the closest to a correct and fair answer. It hasn´t turned out  to be an effective way of making new friends.

We are so much more than a spot on the map, a religion, a language or two, a set of mindless customs we perform automatically. More than a cocktail of genes ( and I was surprised to discover how many various races make up our genetic signature, even if we seem homogenous and obvious). 

We are more than our parent´s convictions and expectations. We are more than our current self image and may change tomorrow. We cannot possible be sorted and contained by the lazy and unnecessary question of pinpointing our accident of birth (thank you, Richard Dawkins). So, let´s go forth and make wrong answers for such wrong questions. Tapping your forehead may not make you friends but it does move the conversation along.