Anything can be an instrument, Chigurh said. Small things. Things you wouldnt even notice. They pass
from hand to hand. People dont pay attention. And then one day there’s an accounting. And after that
nothing is the same. Well, you say. It’s just a coin. For instance. Nothing special there. What could that
be an instrument of? You see the problem. To separate the act from the thing. As if the parts of some
moment in history might be interchangeable with the parts of some other moment. How could that be?
Well, it’s just a coin. Yes. That’s true. Is it?
Nothing would happen now. All that had happened was that some pieces of metal had innocently lifted other metal; nothing more. And that pouch would lie there in the dark for an unknowable span of days, and nothing would happen then, either. It is a mysterious trait of this world that the slightest cipher or symbol of which one is utterly ignorant can determine the days of one’s life.
— Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men
--- the character Chigurh, from the same novel and author.
It’s almost like a koan for me—thinking about what in my history I have lost on a coin toss is a great jumping point into more introspection.
Do you one-coin or two-coin?
I’ve lost plenty of karma by taking the wrong side in “discussions.”
Are you sure it’s not because of inane comments like that one?
Do you one-koan or two-koan?
TCIYAKS (this comment is yet another karma sink)
--The Ones Who Walk Toward Acre