⩩ 40
Imagine a society that decided to create a special new form of currency. They designed a series of coins of different sizes, they manufactured them and put them into circulation. And they included some special information in the design of the coins. On each coin there was a picture of some kind. It was written where and when the coin was minted and its intended value. On its face each coin showed its birthplace and original worth.
At least, that information was there at first, but now imagine many years have passed, years in which the coins have been in continuous circulation. They have tumbled around, from pocket to floor to counter to purse, passing through an almost endless chain of hands. The hard edges of the words and images engraved on the surface have become covered up and worn down. The coins are weathered. Worn. Smooth.
Of course, the weathering didn’t happen all at once. It was gradual but steady. First there was just a spot, a smudge on a coin here or there, while most remained wholly clean. Then there was a spot here or there on all coins, though most remained mostly clean. Finally all or most all were almost entirely smudged, and the original surface was visible almost nowhere. Over a great length of time, the grim slowly piled up until layers of grim were caked onto every surface, so that the original writing and images are to be found only as a spot, a remnant.
And consider what happens to the people they circulate among, because they change as the coins change. Their habits evolve. In the beginning, when the engravings on the surface of the coins were visible, they were rewarded for looking at them, for inspecting the surface, but as the coins are used and corrupted the incentive disappears. Increasingly there is nothing to see. Finally the engravings are obscured completely, and the people lose memory that there is anything there at all. The words and pictures are forgotten.
How, then, do they use them? If the original valuations are covered up, how do they know what value they have?
By convention. Whatever value they have had recently, that’s the value they are assumed to have. The people exchange them according to their recent value and don’t study them. They simply use them.
And yet it happens now and again that a person notices, by accident, that there is more to a coin. Some part of a word or corner of an image sticks out or a patch of grim is brushed away, and the person is surprised, and suddenly curious. What are these ridges? What is to be seen on this surface?
They stand at the counter, reaching into their pocket and taking out a fistful of coins, cascading them across the palm of their hand. They are gazing down, quickly minutely nudging one or two with their finger, so as to lay them flat, to be able to see them and count them, when one catches their eye. They snatch it up, and the hand closes over the rest of the coins as they are returned to the darkness of the pocket. They hold the remaining one between their fingers. They stare at it. Squint. Bring it close. They rub at it with their shirt. They breathe on it and rub it again. They lift it up to be bathed in light.
You are reading Footnotes, by Garrett Allen, a series of philosophical-ish short essays. You just read ⩩ 40, the first installment in a new chapter. Here are some highlights from what came before.
Fruits for life
⩩ 26 Interest
⩩ 24 Fruits for life
Retreat
⩩ 21 Review
⩩ 19 Storytelling
⩩ 17 Retreat
Firsthand
⩩ 16 Revelation
⩩ 14 Yourself
⩩ 12 Learning
⩩10 Habit
⩩ 9 Firsthand
Stagestranger
⩩ 7 Mistake
⩩ 6 Whim
⩩ 3 Speechless
⩩ 1 Headsup
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