Monday 6 April 2015

The tragic fate of an object

Someone hand-crafted a special toy for a child once. The child was very pleased with this gift. Someone saw this toy and thought every kid should have one. Someone heard the idea. An ear got cornered and could not escape. Someone believed every kid could have one, after all. The craftsman was party to a meeting. A discussion was had. The craftsman felt proud and honored, and could use some pennies. He was almost penniless with big ideas and a small family needed supporting.

Everyone stood to benefit. A plan was drafted. The craftsman got to work. The orders came in. The kids were delighted. The objects were full of love and good energy. The businessman worked hard to spread the word. Inventory became important. Accounting became important. The books grew. The craftsman was getting tired. The numbers grew. The kids were delighted. They wanted more. The craftsman hired within his family and moved to a larger space. The landlord shook hands. The craftsman's wife slept alone. She made roasts and pies. She encouraged her husband to sleep and eat, and come home.

The family operation grew. The objects were gems. The kids around the world were delighted. The craftsmanship was quality. The businessman had larger ventures in mind. He saw the craftsman's craft as his bread and butter, his cash cow. He pressed for larger operations, and signed a few larger orders behind the craftsman's back. The craftsman shrugged his shoulders. There were bags under his eyes. He knew not what to do with the money. Investment advisors came to roost. They rang the doorbell and bothered his wife. They tried to intercept him at work and home, and out upon the town. They succeeded.

The tax man came a knocking. The kids were delighted. The bed was untouched. The wife felt like someone had died. The craftsman was proud and exhausted. Contracts running through his mind. He kept to his craft. He taught others. He was the master. His apprentices lorded over new charges. Outside the family. New digs. New operations. The businessman was wearing fine leathers and silks. His office overlooked central park. His bank account kept growing. He found politicians friendly toward his big idea ventures. He funded their campaigns and they took office. Architects and Tax attorneys and local celebrities paid him visits. New ventures were seeded.

One day the craftsman was too tired and getting sick. He retired and left his craft for his best apprentices to carry out. The spirit carried over for some time. But corners were cut. Some people worked to make money, and with the money hoped to start their own ideas going. The objects of art and master craft, became victim to mass production. Every one seemed the same. Some of the moving parts were made immobile, for the sake of saving time and money. The orders were relentless overseas. No one seemed to notice the sacrifice. Which encouraged more cost cutting. The brand was plastered over half the world. Everyone stood behind it. Everyone. The discrepancy in craftsmanship was overlooked. No one knew the mastercraftsman had no part in the craft anymore, other than the mastercraftsman, his wife and his family. All that mattered was the seal of the brand. The insignia.

The kids were no longer delighted. The objects were no longer sacred. The cost of the item was less. The value of the item was also less. You could buy it any store. Kids showed off their new objects to careless eyes. Everyone knew about that. Some had the same. Some had bought it in the same store. The objects were put next to the bottlecaps and pet rocks and one shelf beneath the treasured dolls and sea glass and family heirlooms passed down. Still, the objects kept coming, and the adults who were not yet in touch with the kids, kept buying and giving the dull things off as gifts.

The kids accepted objects with weak smiles fronting disappointed eyes and care less feelings. They soon decided to make new use of the objects. Turns out Cherry Bombs could really blow these fuckers up good!!

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