Thursday, April 26, 2012

Writer, Banker, Candle Stick Maker

I work on the 12th floor of one of the taller buildings in downtown Miami.  Yes, it is 70 degrees in the middle of January and when I look out the east side of the building I can see the cruise ships ready to leave from the port of Miami.  Don’t be jealous, I work in a bank.  I don’t like calling myself a banker. I really don’t consider myself one, but, I’d rather be a librarian and resemble that image than the image of the banker, unless your image of a banker is sexy, mine is decidedly not.  A banker is the antithesis of what I am.  I am an inventor of stories.  A novelist.  A writer.  But mostly in my heart I consider myself an artist, because an artist creates and that is what I do.  That is what I do when I am not here, at the bank. 

This is hard to admit, especially since some people that know me may read this, but if you really know me it won’t surprise you - I don’t have a traditional bank account.  I would need one of those if I were actually attempting to save money, but I do that through my retirement plan and I spend everything else.  That means - pay attention - that I don’t have any credit cards.  And yeah, that might impress some people, but I know the smarty pants that immediately think, “that also means she has no credit”.  Yes, that too.  But I guarantee you something right here and now, and I will wager my retirement fund on it, we all leave this pretty little existence with the same thing, don’t we? 

Yeah, I get to justify that by saying I am an artist, so I am entitled to not think logistically when it comes to money.  You know what the funny thing is?  Currently, I am the Rockefeller in my relationship which is… you can’t begin to imagine how ironic that is.  So, reason number 75 for trying to publish is to make a reasonable living at what comes naturally.  Oh, man, and it used to come so much more naturally before this responsibility thing started slowing me down.  Age is a nuisance.  I'm starting to realize, and it is becoming blatantly loud in my head, that I have maybe thirty years left, and I want to be able to afford tea and toast when I’m in my seventies, you know?  I don’t want to retire from banking, I mean, if I have to, so be it, but in the same way that we leave this existence with the same thing, it’s nice to approach the end knowing that you did everything you could to realize your dream.  Whatever that is for you depends on who you are.  Sometimes it’s simple, like knowing that the two daughters’ you raised are finally safe.  Sometimes it means letting everyone see who are, inside out, conquering the fear or at least raising the pen to it.  Sometimes it’s the nest egg for your children.  We are lucky, some would say blessed, to come to learn what it is for us individually.  Humans struggle.  Human’s struggle and suffer.  Those of us that have the chance to breathe and contemplate, well, we are so incredibly lucky.  To be a writer.  To look out the window and watch as the morning sun blanches the sidewalk blonde.

To work in a bank. 

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