It's weird, sitting here in my study at home. I personally own almost nothing here. This Macbook? Not mine. This desk, the chair, the credenza on which sits that printer/copier/fax? None of it is mine. The paperclips, rubber bands, pencils, printer/copier paper, pens, post-it notes, floor lamp belong to another, well, it's a kind of person.
That's what the Robed Supremes tell me anyway.
You see, dear reader, all of that belongs to my company. Now, of course, the company belongs to me. I alone own it. So, all of this is mine to do with as I please, but only because I own the company that bought it all. That's just bizarre. Philosophically speaking, I'm the mind moving the body made up of lamp, credenza, chair, paperclips, desk, pens, pencils, post-its, etcetera and so forth. I give form to the substance that would otherwise remain inchoate.
That's vertiginous my friends, and a little creepy. Could be the mimosas - they were enormous, 24 ounce mugs of delight. So, perhaps it's best to say that all this is mine but it isn't mine. I can take it and throw it out the window if so moved. But it's not mine in the same way that flat screen television in the living room is mine.
Then again, that's not entirely mine at all. It belongs to my wife and me.
Only the books scattered about the house really belong to me free and clear. The books and my truck. If I could store all my books in the truck [ha!], there you'd have the stuff that belongs to me simpliciter. Then again, even the books stuffed in the truck are all-in gifts from another, and don't really belong to me, or any of us for that matter.
Madness.
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