Wall Street Journal (h2so4 6)

Is there is a more seductive, more mysterious publication than the Wall Street Journal? Its very name sends chills down my spine, butterflies to my stomach and anticipation to my breast. The stiff, tall font of the masthead, more elongated than that of the New York Times, makes my hands itch with the need to grasp out and possess it for my very own. My eyes constantly scan the horizon for a rare glimpse of the dark red vending machines in which it slumbers waiting for release. I offer three tiny silver tokens, and the three delicate sections are mine to unfold and mine to explore. Mine to secret under my arm and mine to toss away when I have absorbed all that they have to offer.

It speaks to me of far off places and foreign lands. Of peaks and valleys and plateaus. Of crashing, surging, tumbling, falling, rushing. Of turbulent flows and forward motions. Of great risks and technical barriers. Of yields and exposure. Teetering on the edge of impermanence and infinity it speaks of options and of futures. It speaks with the potent voice of wild beasts. Of bears and bulls and hawks a pantheon of creatures and commodities whose tangibility I can sense unseen. It screams in the pits and whispers behind closed doors. Its facts are rumors guised in the graceful curves of a swelling linearity; its past a rocky mountain landscape straining toward new and unimaginable heights. Its interactions are constant, never ceasing, never stopping and rarely slowing. It reaches everywhere, touches everything and its power is overwhelming.

It does not require understanding and proffers little explanation. It assumes much and takes more for granted but asks only to be consumed. Its consumption renders me dazed and dirty, smeared with a residue of inexplicable meaning and overwhelmed by a preternatural satisfaction, a shameful guilt, a questioning and a longing. 

Chick Maxx