20 On Debt

And a systems analyst said, Speak to us of fiscally irresponsible government borne of an electorate that cannot control it’s plastic.

The prophet was about to answer, but the young fellow who had regained his will to live now commanded the floor. In a bout of life-affirming enthusiasm he took it upon himself to answer the question.

When I fly with our national airline I receive frequent flyer points.
And when I pay with my credit card, I am collecting towards the purchase of a new car.
And I carry these plastic cards like talismen in my wallet, with me at all times.

Here he held up his wallet and took out his Airmiles card for all to see. A murmur of deep understanding arose from the people of Orphalese. Emboldened, the young man continued:
And the other day, I was about to pay for my groceries, and the glamorous girl behind the counter said to me, “Do you have a points card?”
And I handed it to her. And she held up a jar of peanut butter, and said, “Are you gonna redeem your points for this?”

And not being able to read the magnetic strip on the card, I asked her how many points I had.
“Six hundred thousand,” she replied. That sounded like a lot to me, and so I decided to hang on to them. And she smiled, and said:
“Duh, like you better not redeem them.”

And here the young man paused and surveyed his attentive audience in awe, for it was clear that he had won their hearts. But after a while they grew restless once again and weary of the silence. And someone finally spoke:
And?
And the young man said:
And, like what’s up with that?

Whereupon the crowd fell into disorder in an instant and utter pandemonium was upon them. People began shouting out their questions at random, not waiting for answers, and a full-blown riot was not far off. The keeper of the Orphalese compost heap said:
Speak to us of the overeducated and under employed.
And someone else said:
Speak to us of diminishing native languages and the death of all pure sounds.
The loss of bio-diversity.
Speak to us of hurried recreation.
Parlez a nous de notre pays bilangue.
Speak to us of information politics, and information overload.
Silence!, shouted a chaos theorist.
And the chaos theorist said, Speak to us of law and order.

And the prophet responded in saying:
Surely order cannot be overrated, even as I fear for my own life, perilously perched on this rusty old drum.

For emphasis he stomped his feet which made a gruesome booming noise that carried far out over the waves. And the sound of this loosened the crowd a little, as it had been beginning to fuse, pulling ever tighter and tighter around the oil drum with the prophet on top.

It was now dark, save for the pale moonlight that had begun to filter through the parting clouds, for the rain had finally abated. The prophet resumed in a quieter tone:
Order is good.
I would hate to see this crowd get out of control.

And yet I would also hate for you to confuse order with beauty.
For sometimes there is true beauty in chaos, even though chaos itself can never be called beauty.
And of law I can only hope that it may preserve the public order and restrain you from pushing and shoving so close to my oil drum. For the ocean behind me is vast and I’m not much of a swimmer.