That fucking purchase!
Sometimes your money goes from sweet to sour.
The spoken agreements that at the time, in the whirlwind of excitement, seem mutually; well, agreed upon.
But…
With hanging damage from a poor financial ecology, the agreements are dissolved with a retreating look and the
‘I don’t want to talk about it at the moment.’
Where do you land at such times?
I crash down on a page like this…
Not before, spiralling past my finance app on the phone.
Staring at invoices for potential cash money on its way in to justify that over-indulgence.
But what if the solution is in the purchase?
The item, which now glares at you daily.
Phones. Bikes. Computers. Clothes. Cars.
Once shiny, now desolate, desecrating the space. Desecration upon desecration…
A constant reminder about how the magic of getting carried away can conjure a nasty spell.
And we might ask…
Does this now poison the well of magic for future spontaneity?
Fuck you purchase, fuck you.
When at University in Newcastle, my flatmate bought a pair of jeans, The jeans. They cost $300. Sure they were cool. But at the time, that was about 100 vodka sodas or 10 pingers worth.
A large investment for a material item.
Every time he would leave the house on a night out in The Jeans, our crew would let him know that this was bringing down the investment.
We’d cheer him on!
For he at least had to wear The Jeans every time we went out to make it worthwhile.
And then, factor in if he picked up:
The girl of his dreams — did that immediate qualify the purchase?
The girl of his nightmares — as above does the purchase become smeared with damage.
The Jeans, The Jeans, Away with you jeans.
How many cursed items live among your hangers or lurk at the local Vinnies?
Reminds me of my buddy Greg at high school’s dress sense, a cut above the rest. In particular the hats, jackets and this rad electro green shirt that had an Irish 4 leaf clover on it.
His older brother worked in the old persons home near our school.
On mufti-day, school excursions or the odd party, Greg would have the sickest clothes.
Turns out when old people die, their families don’t tent to want their clothes. I can’t remember what we did with my Nan’s pink and purple power suits…
I imagine, that Greg’s bro, who I sort of knew as a lovely bloke, was keeping them happy and upbeat till the end.
These clothes may have been unwanted, but maybe their last breathe was a felt sense of calm, which now lived on in their clothes.
This article wasn’t intended to find it’s place amidst clothing and death.
But it’s helped me think about these material energy exchanges in a different way.
I feel better.
I walk to the kitchen and ask if it’s ok to read the above aloud.
I read this to my partner.
And what ensues is one of the best conversations of our 2+ year relationship.
That fucking purchase.
The power of words — these spells.
