|The Dorian Gray Economy's Anatomy.|
As the world languidly treads water in its Complacent Sea, the dire signals that were poking out of the fabric of our lives, which we steadfastly refused to cotton up to, at the end of 2014 were muffled by the yearly charade of "Peace on Earth while Goodwill's gone Hunting", the New Year quickly became worse than the Old Year as our resolution has become more focused on the intractable nature of our Monetary Madness by the rise of the Syriza party in Greece and the subsequent announcement of its finance minister, Yanis Varoufakis, that, "I'm the finance minister of a bankrupt country."
As many of us remember in 2008 watching agog as the, "Housing in the US never goes down" meme quickly morphed into the equally preposterous, "Sovereign Nations never default on their debt" meme, even as the banks that held that debt were all exposed as being completely insolvent, it is rapidly becoming apparent that the emperor's clothes are once again shredding in front of our eyes as we once again stare aghast at a sort of Dorian Gray economy that cannot be exposed to even a single ray of light without the cry, "Dead! Dead!" rising to the lips of all who dare contemplate its terrible visage, so horror-stricken are they by the charnel-house aspect of the heap of pus and blood it has become.
Although Greece is the problem du jour, the suppurating pustules of an unsupportable debt bubble burst forth as if from a witch's cauldron, splattering and spattering, tattering the caustic lie they embody as they corrode the entire Global Economic System, as one pock, inevitably the case in any interconnected system, touches the next. As the truth is reflected back from the looking glass in the attic, the withered and sunken aspect of unpayable debt leers out at us with a grimace that has taken on the Dorian Grayish color of sulfurous mud and its intolerable stench pervades every fiber woven into our oh-so-hard to counterfeit counterfeit currencies.
And over his shapeless pulp, this stinking mass of moldy bread in which the features of the sovereigns wink in conspiratorial malice, the features have ceased to be discernible as they have undergone the putrefaction from their grave in dusty vaults where they lie purposely shielded from both the sunlight and the public's view. As one eye winks the other has completely foundered in the bubbling purulence, half-opened, it looks like a dark decaying hole. A large reddish crust resembling dried blood has started on one of the cheeks and will soon invade the mouth, twisting it into a terrible, bankers' grin. And around this gross and horrible mask of death, the hair, the beautiful golden hair represented by this most startling achievement of mankind, the internet, the repository of mankind's dreams into which its thrown its last hopes, sacrificed its entire legacy of cultural and spiritual treasure, like chests of gold hurried on board a vessel embarking onto treacherous seas, surrounds the visage of ferment that has poisoned the people, with a sparkling stream of blazing sunlight, dazzling them and obscuring the rot that lays at its center.
Because even as Aphrodite is decomposing, her dissembling no longer dissembled about, it is as if the poison she has picked up from too many nights spent scavenging in the gutters of finance as she feeds on the carcasses left there by the roadside of her people's ruined dreams, that ferment with which a whole world has been poisoned, has finally risen to her face and rotted it. The vault is empty, it's debt leaving a black abyss, at the bottom of which not even hope can be discerned. Only a fetid breath of despair escapes into the surrounding miasma of deceit and connivance. Horror-stricken, they all shudder and take flight:
To Berlin! To Berlin! To Berlin!