Crowded Exile - An Adventure in Banking

To commit to solitude is no act of passing whim. Even short respites from collegial contact are not taken simply as exercises in amusement. They are the last resorts of a stable and functioning mind, or they are the immediate fallback of a wanting and anxious state of being. In any case, the act is not as simple as wanting to go for a walk in the park ... it boils down to either a need for fresh air or a commitment to that accursed dog. Any other people walking in the park should be held with immediate suspicion and reported to the authorities.

So when I went to the bank yesterday, I was trying to be as sociable as possible, lest droves of Magisterium agents descend upon my erstwhile pleasant afternoon.

But the creeping sense of despair and isolation that normally accompanies a Wednesday afternoon could not be evaded. Nor could that hollow introspection that normally accompanies a trip to the bank be stifled. It seems that the deities of misfortune were conspiring to bake me cookies... of disaster. As I traversed below the overcast sky, my thoughts slipped to a light paranoia akin to the passing forbidden sparks of a depressed/oppressed worker slave living in a dystopic dictatorship.

And then it slipped further, as I contemplated the futility of carrying on with finances in a world where wage slavery ostensibly creeps into every life. I mean, seriously - when hard-working con-artists like the late dear Mr. Madoff are subjected to the same horrifying stiflings that every horrid corruption of the working class world experiences from God's glorious wrath, humans have transgressed that sacred line between just and lust.

As an aside note, I saw the Great Martyr while driving around once. As all of his enlightened followers now well know, he has been exiled to the sordid confines of Connecticut and Westchester County, NY. While on my Thursday outing last week, he pulled up beside me. His face was weary with carrying the burden of man's sins. I reached out to share in his pain, but he cast my hand asunder, modestly and unassumingly informing me that I must carry on where he left off.

And so, now wandering straight into the concrete wall in front of me, I emerged from my inward thought stream. The bank teller asked me what I was smoking.

Oh great, I thought forelornly, now I have to make conversation, like a true American.

I asked him how much he received for remuneration on Columbus Day. He flatly told me that he didn't speak Aramaic.

Plebeian.

I then swiped the deposit receipt from him (at some point during my mental travels, I must have subconsciously carried out my errand) and went on my sad, sad way. At least I won't have to leave the confines of my blog for another few hours. In the meantime, I shall find solace in my crowded exile.