A clash of symbols, a flash of light…
Humans are creatures to whom symbols – which can be things of no intrinsic value – are important enough to die for. Flags for a example… but we are a creature of symbolism, of things carrying a load of meanings outside of just what they are. It’s going to be confusing as hell for any alien.
Some writers (Tim Powers, Gene Wolfe, Roger Zelazny, CS Lewis) made symbolism such a part of their writing, that it is like 2-3 books in one — and it doesn’t matter if you don’t get it — it’s still a good read. If you do, a great read you keep coming back to. These are people I try (and fail) to imitate, because I love books that keep giving. Eric got quite irritated with me because I insisted on starting a series in pre-dawn… and finishing it at nightfall. He said no-one noticed or cared. Well, maybe no-one notices. It’s like many of the plays on words: I notice. I know. The substory gives me pleasure, even if no-one ever gets it. Sometimes this becomes too much of a job, and less of a joy, and that colors your writing.
As something symbolic in my life: this is the family rock: our new doorstep. It was rescued from the demolition site of Barbara’s family’s farmhouse — a house that had stood for more than a hundred years, part of which was made of blocks of cave standstone, quarried by hand, and transported by ox-sled by her great grandfather. It was a house that kept the family together – saw that cousins knew cousins. My introduction to the clan was meeting 52 of them up there – who all knew each other. A baptism of fire that I became very fond of. We loved that place with a fierce love. When it was expropriated (to make a huge national park bigger) it broke my heart – and shattered the family. So: I’ve transported 200 pounds of rock that means nothing to anyone but us, halfway across the world, waiting until we had a home to make it part of.
It’s a rock. No value. It means nothing but to Barbs and I. But to us it is precious, lifetimes of memories, of work, of laughter, of children growing up. Of mountains and an orchard I will never see again. Of strong people who carved a rock and built a home where there was nothing. Of wars fought to preserve and build that.
They are not forgotten, nor is it all lost. We go on. The rock is just a rock, but it is a symbol of endurance too.
Building Inspector on Wednesday. It will be more hassles, I expect, but like the rock, we endure. Hold thumbs for us.
Mad Genius Club 
3 responses to “Symbols”
Neither side of my family has many physical reminders left. Many moves for employment (or moving livestock, ours or formerly-the-neighbors), theft, fires, Hurricane Katrina, mean that precious little still exists that has resonance for Sib and I. I envy, a little, the memories that traveled with that stone, and admire your tenacity in moving it to a different land.
Claws crossed for a favorable result from the inspector’s visit. Remember to leave something for him/her/it to find, so he/she/it won’t go digging too deep. [Yes, I’ve heard stories from the military, and have had FAA inspections. Why do you ask?]
My husband and I have an internal test for recognizing (existing or potential) acquisitions as candidates for ownership: when you see it, it oughta make you smile. That’s all that matters — not the rarity, not the cost, not the respectability — those are incidental. Those objects are/become part of your lives, like family.
I was searching for an exemplum, and the first thing that came to mind was the old outhouse still standing at our 1812 farm, some distance uphill from the basement. On the one hand, it’s clearly a white-painted unused old wooden outhouse, next to the parked cars, old-fashioned and in disuse. On the other hand, it has a quarter-moon cutout over the door, and I can never forget that when we first found the place, it was housing the latest (of quite a few) generation of screech owls, whose tiny forms would survey us with attitude from the cutout when we caught their attention. He (and his successors for several years) are gone (alas), but his memory indelibly remains, and I smile whenever I see it. That outhouse will stay in place as long as we do.
Fiat currency is a symbol. A proxy for the value of goods or labor, which has very little value outside of that context.
———————————
Governments can only print money; they can’t make it worth anything. They can make it worth nothing.