S t R e A m # 4 1

He lies there – on the bed or on the sofa – with one hand to his forehead as if in deep contemplation of some serious matter, or as if suffering a painful migraine. Or both. He’ll lie in this way even when he’s asleep. Thing is, he’s not a deep thinker. He doesn’t suffer from migraines, either. Rarely does he complain of having a headache. He is troubled, however. He’s troubled by things beyond his control. For some reason he felt that he had control over such things years ago – although I don’t see how. Very few (if any) law-abiding investors have control over the ups and downs of the stock market. And, likewise, with one’s own health, one can do little to guard against a stroke. You can exercise and diet and dope, but, ultimately, it’s out of your hands. So why dwell on it? Why waste the time and energy? All you can ever really do is enjoy those things you are able to enjoy. (And, believe me, the simpler those pleasures, the better.) But he doesn’t know what he enjoys. He hasn’t (and he won’t) consider what he likes. He’s caged by habits that have gone stale. He knows what he doesn’t like, but he doesn’t seem to know what he does like. He likes mums. Yellow mums. Rather, he likes yellow mums planted in the front yard. But, day to day, he’ll spend less than a minute gazing upon them. He reads the paper because he’s always read the paper – but he doesn’t remember what he’s read. So, unless the mere act of reading it brings you joy (which is fine), why read it at all? Why not go golfing? He doesn’t golf – not any more – but you see my point, don’t you? He doesn’t know how to enjoy life. He’s worked so hard simply to survive – which makes perfect sense – which is entirely understandable. He lived through the Great Depression, after all. But now that he’s made his small fortune he doesn’t know what to do with himself, other than continue to nurture that small fortune. And now he’s depressed because the market is crashing. I have a different point of view. I don’t view the money I’ve got in the market as being real. One day – one minute – I could be several hundred dollars richer than the day before, and then the next day – or in the next minute – I could be several hundred dollars poorer. What I’ve got in the bank – that cash – that’s what I’m worth. That’s as “real” as it gets – that is, so long as the bank doesn’t collapse, and so long as the FDIC doesn’t run out of cash. Sure, the “bear” market has “hurt” me – rather, it’s hurt my “portfolio.” I’ve lost tens of thousands. It was all potential wealth, however. It was never actually mine to begin with. It could only be mine if I sold. And, yes, there’s one stock I should’ve sold. But I thought it was a good company. I thought sensible people ran it. For many years, it WAS a good company. Two years ago, that investment was worth twenty-six thousand dollars. Presently, it’s worth two hundred bucks. I didn’t sell when I should’ve sold. I thought the drop in price was a consequence of broader problems in that particular sector. I assumed the company in question would weather the storm. It was sturdy enough. Or so I thought. I didn’t realize how greedy lenders were – nobody did. (Recall poor old Polonius's sage advice, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.”) Sure the writing was on the wall – but, these days, who reads? And with most of the walls plastered with ads, who even bothers to look at them (the walls)? Oh, and now that one of the local banks may be close to folding, I may lose all, or half, the interest on one of my largest CDs. Now THAT would piss me off. We’re only talking about five grand – but it was a return I expected to be set in stone. That’s kind of fucked up, huh? Twenty-six grand over there goes “poof!” and I’m like, “Eh.” But five grand over here goes “bye-bye,” and I’m like, “Son of a bitch!” It all depends on what you’re counting on. And what can you really, REALLY count on? Things Getting Worse. That’s what. Now, the trick, as I believe I’ve mentioned before, is to enjoy the ride. Pop, over there, strewn on his sofa, he likes to say that life is like a Ferris Wheel; but I think it’s much more like a roller coaster. And I do like roller coasters. I like Ferris Wheels, too, but roller coasters are far more of a thrill. Bottom (and, yes, then some) reached. 

14 July 2008