inquiry into the naming of the world, part 1

Mine, Mine, she says, clutching a box of tissues. She grabs the remote control. Mine! Her voice: part entreaty, part demand.

I pause, in the grip of this newscycle. Who does the TV remote does belong to. My husband, who uses it most? Phoebe, who holds it at the moment? Our neighbors, who gave us this TV (along with the remote) when they upgraded to a flat-screen? Listening to the news these days, one wonders at concepts that appears so elementary getting day by day fuzzier and fuzzier.

That is—we “own” our apartment. This means we pay a mortgage to a bank. Thus, the bank owns it. But shareholders own the bank—right (and who are shareholders but the royal “we”)? Or maybe the government now owns it?

She points to Naomi Klein’s giant book of Disaster Capitalism (right now lying beside my bed being used as a coaster; no reading time). She points to a dictionary. An umbrella stand. Mine.

I'm reminded of the story of the wise people of Chelm who capture the moon in a water-filled barrel. They gather around night after night to admire it. One night, when it is cloudy, they stand looking at the barrel and wonder how the moon had escaped.

Yours, I tell her. For today. Enjoy it.