The Blue Disc

by William B. Waits

“Advertisers would hate that,” said Rick, smiling.

  “Yes, but don’t let them guide you,” said John firmly. “They’re awful. They encourage people to buy things they don’t need.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Rick, sheepishly.

  “Even worse, they encourage people to believe that their status will increase because they purchase stuff for themselves rather than because they contribute to their society’s wealth. According to advertisers, the person who ends up with the most stuff wins, particularly the stuff they’re hawking. It doesn’t make sense, at least it doesn’t to us.”

  “So the problem is not so much having as it is wanting more?”

  “We think so. If there’s a wild boar nearby, your survival knife would be your most important possession, I assure you. However much you need your knife in that situation, you don’t need ten hunting knives. You don’t need ten even if the wild boar decides to charge you. You need ten knives stored in a drawer in your home even less. There comes a point when you’re drowning in stuff. You end up with shelves, hutches, trunks, garages, attics and, in some cases, warehouses filled with it.”

  “So where does that leave you at the end of your life?” asked Rick, somewhat uneasily. “In outside society, most people work to accumulate stuff. The reasons they do so vary; nevertheless, the quantity and quality of their stuff is a lifetime achievement. If the Euromamo don’t accumulate a lot of stuff, what do they leave as a legacy?”

  “Let me suggest this question as a start,” said John kindly: “Do we work to accumulate stuff for ourselves to have forever, even after death?”

  “How could you do that?” Rick asked rhetorically. “It all ends with death, right? You can’t take it with you.”

  “Right, but you could direct that your wealth be used to build your burial monument, your own pyramid, as it were. After that was paid for, your remaining stuff could be buried with you. Then you’d have it all, albeit not to enjoy consciously.”

  “That would be silly,” said Rick, with a harrumph.

  “Yeah, that would be very self-centered and would confer no benefit on anyone, including yourself, as you would not be alive to enjoy it.”

  “What if individuals worked to accumulate stuff to enjoy during their lifetimes without any concern about passing it on?” asked Rick.

  “And the legacy would be?” asked John.

  “The legacy would be a life spent enjoying stuff, a life well lived,” Rick replied.

  “So the person would enjoy their stuff by spending time with it? They’d personally savor the items? Is that what you have in mind?”

  “Sure. Not just hoarding and never seeing it. That would be silly,” responded Rick.

  “What if you worked conscientiously and were really successful. You’d acquire a lot of stuff to be enjoyed personally. Maybe you’d even build storage buildings to house it. For example, William Randolph Hurst had warehouses of art objects that he’d acquired but had no room to display, even in his huge San Simeon.”

  “You seem to have reservations about that,” observed Rick.

  “If you had warehouses full of stuff, could you really spend any significant amount of time with each object? I don’t see how you could. The volume of your things would prevent you from savoring each piece. You’d have accumulated too much to enjoy: too many art objects, too many pieces of furniture, too many pots and bowls.”

  “As an alternative, one could work to leave stuff to descendants,” suggested Rick. “Is there a problem with that?” asked Rick.

  “I’ll explain our thinking and you can decide. Although we may prize the stuff we’ve accumulated, our descendants probably won’t like much of it. Makers today produce a greater variety of items than they did in years past, so we can purchase to satisfy highly individualized preferences. However, that individualization makes it unlikely that our stuff will strike a chord with our descendants who will have their own preferences. In short, stuff that’s accumulated may be treasured by the person who bought it, but probably will not be treasured by their descendants.”

  As John got up to pour some tea, Rick recalled a conversation he had with Jason Creeble, a fellow graduate student.

  “How are you, Jason?”

  “Well enough, but my girlfriend and I’ve just finished cleaning out my Great Aunt Jane’s house. She died last month. We spent two full days filling plastic trash bags with stuff that dear auntie had accumulated. Not all of it went into bags, mind you. A piece of it, here and there, struck a chord with one or the other of us and was saved. However, the overwhelming majority of everything she had, we bagged and piled on the front porch to discard. At the end, the pile was so large that we had to rent a dumpster to take it away. I’ll tell you, Rick, your will should provide not only for funeral expenses, but also for renting a dumpster to collect the stuff your descendants don’t want.”

  “Just how valuable do you think your stuff is?” asked John, returning with his tea.

  Before Rick could answer, a young woman knocked at John’s entranceway to tell him that he was needed for a few minutes at the entertainment center.

  “Let’s continue our discussion there,” suggested John.

  “That sounds good. I’ll get some biscuits from the dining room while you’re occupied.”

  As he sat enjoying his biscuits on a bench outside the dining room, Rick thought about how to answer John’s question about the value of his stuff.

  Sure, as a graduate student, I don’t have a lot, but I’ve got a few things that are worth something…well, like my Albatross here. Yeah, a few of my things have value…but there was that time when my car was broken into in downtown New Haven. My heart sank when I saw the broken window! My most precious possessions were in it: research for papers, class notes, several stacks of books, and clothes. What had the thief stolen? I searched frantically through the disordered pile, trying to identify missing items. Thank goodness, there was my precious research and my class notes…and my books, looked like all of them. So were my grad school clothes. Not taken. The relief was overwhelming. That evening, I thought about the fact that the thief hadn’t taken anything. Not a single item. The unavoidable conclusion was that the thief didn’t care enough about my possessions to carry them off. They were valueless! Imagine!

  “So where were we?” John asked upon his return.

  “We were discussing the value of stuff,” offered Rick, “Or more accurately its lack of value.”

  “So we were.”

  “If it’s worth so little, why couldn’t our descendants sell it in bulk, convert it to money, and use that?”

  “That’s an option. Unfortunately, bulk stuff is almost always sold at a great discount or, in your society, given away to non-profits for a tax deduction. The discount represents a substantial loss of the value built up during a lifetime.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” said Rick.

  There was a pause in the conversation.

  “Rather than accumulating stuff during one’s lifetime, one could accumulate money and pass that along,” Rick suggested.

  “Yes. A person could hoard his money his whole life and enjoy having a big pile of scato and watching it grow. However, the problem of hoarding scato is that it provides little direct pleasure, only the anticipatory pleasure of converting it to stuff.”

  “One could pass along accumulated money to one’s descendants. Surely they would enjoy it.”

  “Yes. I understand the appeal of that. Scato would surely be more welcome than a French provincial bedroom set to a descendant who likes mission style. Ultimately, however, the problem is the same as it was for the grantor. For descendants to enjoy fully the scato they have inherited, they must convert it into stuff.”

  “That brings us back to the same problem, it appears,” said Rick.

  “Correct. Once money is converted into stuff, the next generation after that will likely not get an inheritance they desire. Tastes change from generation to generation.”

&nbs
p; “Descendants who received money could pass it along to their own descendants,” mused Rick, “but that’s not an escape either, is it, John?”

  “Correct.”

  “Despite these considerations, you still have individual wealth accumulation, don’t you?”

  “Yes. We believe that individuals who work harder should receive more scato.”

  “…but they should not accumulate a lot of stuff?” asked Rick.

  “Their accumulation should have limits.”

  “Following the guidance in the skivvies sermon…,” added Rick.

  “Exactly. Without a doubt, individuals should work for the things they need, that is, for their necessities. We also believe in individuals working for beyond their needs that they want for pleasure, provided that their pursuit has limits. In short, we should allow individual choice within limits. ”

  “I see where the quantity of stuff accumulated by individuals may raise problems, but the quality of stuff is also important, isn’t it?” asked Rick. “Better-made items are preferred and sought after?”

  “Yes, craftsmanship is valued. We don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, but we’ve always wrestled with the question of how highly craftsmanship should be valued. What should be paid for fine items and how much effort should be exerted by our craftsmen to make such items? Like all issues having to do with individual acquisitiveness, decisions should be thought through with limits set.”

  John got called away for another meeting. This time he would be gone longer so they agreed to resume their discussion the next day. Back in his room, Rick reflected on what they had discussed.

  It hurts to face directly the fact that my stuff isn’t worth much, and that it’s just waiting to be thrown in a dumpster after my death. That includes my books, which are of high academic quality. Reading them has transformed my life yet they weren’t worth stealing out of my car in New Haven. What about the books I’ll write during my academic career? I’m here in the rain forest to do good research, and to write a good dissertation that will become my first book. Producing that work is so important to me that I risked my life to do it. I hope that my book will be well-received by anthropologists and land me a university job. Perhaps the book will even make me some money. But I remember Lasington’s comments. We were in the anthropology building chatting about my fieldwork plans, when I mentioned that I hoped to make some money when I revised and published my dissertation as a book. A wise, fatherly smile crept across Professor Lasington’s face, as he put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Let me tell you about sales of academic books,” he began. He then named some highly respected academic books and gave approximate sales numbers for each and how much the authors made in royalties. I was astounded at the paltry amounts that they had earned, and these were distinguished books by renowned professors. They had even received a higher percentage of the sale price than the average in the profession.

  “The general rule is that scholarly writing is not a money-making enterprise.” Lasington added, matter-of-factly.

  “Aren’t there some exceptions?” I asked anxiously.

  “A few lucky chaps have made a few bucks from their academic writings—Mead and Benedict come to mind—but they’re the exceptions. Don’t count on it.”

  At that point, I had to face the fact that society does not pay a lot for academic thought, even first-rate academic thought. For the future, it means even if I produce good books, they won’t become bestsellers and I won’t make much money from them. They will not transport me to a life of financial ease. A bummer, but it’s realistic. What I’m going to produce will be worthless, and my most treasured possession—my library—will be worthless. How have I gotten on this odd path with my life? Why the hell did I choose to become an anthropologist? Even damned novelists get paid more and they just make it up. Why didn’t I go to law school? Then I could buy a fancy watch that a thief would steal in a heartbeat.

  At least, graduate school prepared me for this. Students are taught that the life of the mind is superior to the materialistic values of consumption. Sure, you can indulge yourself and buy a nice espresso pot or nice kitchen knife here and there, but money is only filthy lucre. Grad school tells you that the best way to live is like graduate students and their professors live: poor and well-read.

  As he zipped himself in for the night, Rick tried steer his mind away from stuff.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Nihilamamo

  Three weeks later, John came by Rick’s room at the entertainment center. Fortunately, Rick had just removed the blue disc on his doorframe as he no longer needed privacy.

  “Welcome, John. It’s always good to see you,” said Rick. “What’s on your mind?”

  “We’re going to a neighboring group for our annual meeting with them. The Leader has invited you to attend if you would like.”

  “Thank you for including me. I would like very much to attend,” volunteered Rick. “What’s the name of the group?”

  “The Nihilamamo. They live to our west, not far away, fortunately. We’ll walk to the valley wall and take a path up. We’ll take the first day to get close to their village then camp for the night. Our meeting will begin the next morning. We’ll make better time coming back because it’s downhill most of the way.”

  “When do we leave?” asked Rick.

  “In three days, counting today, early in the morning. Until then, you’ll notice the villagers preparing for the trip.”

  The rest of that day and the next, the village bustled with a quiet intensity. On the third day, about thirty-five Euromamo gathered in front of the entertainment center. Many of them had cloth backpacks which, John mentioned, were made from thick fiber cloth and contained the supplies for the trip as well as tools and utensils developed by the Euromamo. They walked along a well-tended path across the valley floor and then began hiking upward. With some huffing and puffing, they reached the plateau above and sat for an hour before proceeding toward their camping spot near the Nihilamamo village. The next morning, after breakfast, the Euromamo sent a messenger into the village to announce that they were ready to meet.

  “Isn’t it late to be sending a messenger?” Rick asked John. “It’s midmorning already.”

  “The Nihilamamo sleep late,” he responded. “Besides, the messenger is largely a formality. The Nihilamamo almost certainly knew we were here last night. Even a society without purpose pays attention to some things.”

  A short distance away, the Leader watched the messenger though a fine old brass telescope that Rick suspected was from the Cork. The messenger went to several huts, looked inside, and moved on. There were only eight Nihilamamo huts in the entire village, but they were quite large. Some had odd-shaped, add-on rooms to the sides giving them a haphazard appearance. On his fourth try, the messenger entered a hut near the center of the village and did not emerge for several minutes. When he came out, he held his arms high in the air, which signaled that he had found the Nihilamamo Head and that the Euromamo visitors should enter the village. The few Nihilamamo villagers who were stirring took little notice.

  As they entered the Head’s hut, it took a few moments for Rick’s eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. He counted approximately sixteen hammocks strung along the outside wall of the hut. The rest of the room was in disarray with clothing, cooking pots, stools, and weapons scattered around. Not that Rick was a stickler for neatness, but the hut was too disorganized even by his graduate student standards. The messenger directed the Leader’s attention toward a hammock on the far side of the hut. It was a little wider than the others, but had no other special characteristics. The hammock swayed as a heavy man pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes. When he saw the Leader, he raised his eyebrows in recognition. The messenger stood close by to translate their conversation.

  “Hi, friend,” he said. “I apologize for not being up to greet you.”

  “Were you up late?” asked the Leader with a cordial smile.

  “No.
I went to sleep early enough. I don’t know why I didn’t get up. I should have, I guess, but I didn’t.”

  “We’re here for our annual meeting.”

  “Oh, yes. We were expecting you,” the Head responded, trying to recover from his grogginess. “Let’s see what we can find to eat.”

  “We had breakfast in our camp,” said the Leader, trying to be helpful.

  “After your walk here, you must need something more. Roufto,” he called to a nearby bunk, “Do we have any food to serve our Euromamo visitors? Will you see to it?”

  “Yes, Head. I’ll take care of it,” Roufto replied as he got to his feet and wobbled drowsily out of the hut.

  “I am afraid we haven’t done much to prepare for your visit. My apologies. We aren’t as good at hosting as you are,” the Head said to the Leader in a low voice. “We’ll find something though.”

  The Head invited the Leader and the rest of the Euromamo to gather at the rough wooden benches built around a fire pit in the center of the village. Before they could sit, they had to remove items that had been left on them, but that was done shortly. Rick stayed close to the Leader so he could hear the discussion between the two leaders through the interpreter. While everyone was getting settled, Roufto roused enough Nihilamamo to produce herbal tea, nuts, and salted meat for the visitors and the Nihilamamo to eat. Rick noted that neither leader offered formal greetings to the other, although their relationship seemed amicable.

  “How are things going with you and your group?” the Leader asked.

  “I haven’t thought about it much,” the Head answered. “If we work hard, we have poverty and disease. If we work little, we have poverty and disease. We all die, don’t we, Euromamo and Nihilamamo alike, at the ends of our short lives?”

  “I didn’t intend to remind you of sad things, dear friend.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m reminded of them anyway,” he replied gloomily. “It’s a part of life.”