I hate when people announce a series. Usually when I announce a series, it just doesn’t happen. Like talking about something you’re writing, it makes it hard to finish, because talking about it makes it exist a little and that means you can move on. I prefer to move on. But I see no way around it: this is the first in a series of Concurrent Events. Hold on to yr butts.
At the crash of a Bank, vague, mediocre, gray.
Currency, that terrible precision instrument, clean to the conscience, loses any meaning.
By the light of phantasmagorical sunsets when clouds alone are sinking, with whatever man surrenders to them of dreams, a liquefaction of treasures runs, gleams on the horizon: I thereby gain a notion of what sums can be, by the hundreds and beyond, equal to those whose enumeration, in the closing arguments during a trial involving high finance, leaves one, as far as their existence goes, cold. The inability of figures, however grandiloquent, to translate, here arises out of a case; on searches, with this hint that, if a number increases and backs up toward the improbable, it inscribes more and more zeros: signifying that its total is spiritually equal to nothing, almost.
Mere smoke and mirrors, those billions, outside the moment to grab some: or the lack of resplendence, even of interest, shows that electing a god is not for the purpose of sheltering him in the shadows of iron safes and pockets.
— Mallarmé, “Gold,” from Divigations, Tr. Barbara Johnson
We get currency from the Latin currens, “running,” as in a stream. Never actually there.
Last month Mt. Gox (short for Magic: The Gathering Online Exchange), one of the internet’s largest bitcoin exchanges, crashed. Instead of trying to fix the problem, the CEO spent most of his time working on The Bitcoin Cafe, a renovated section of what appears to be a “smoking area” in his Tokyo office building. It was the second bitcoin exchange to crash in as many months. All hell broke loose.
Wired did a portrait of an inept geek, gutted by sleeker geeks, his head in his hands smiling back at him.
Some say the stories of victims are depressing, to the max.
According to Zeno, if time is composed of moments, there is no motion, because a thing cannot exist in more than one place at a time, and so cannot move from one space to another, and so must always be at rest. Otherwise it would have to be moving and not moving at the very same. To solve this problem Aristotle said there is no now. Money is Zeno’s arrow. But Zeno did not know that space and time are part of one thing, always in flux. A dazzling engine. A raw jet. One of many crackling in the wake of absolutely nothing. A series of strings in perpetual waver, until they are not. And yet, here we are. Now. Space, and the time it inhabits, like a sprocket and chain link — powerless at rest, fluid in motion — occasionally needs oil.
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury