As in:
It was the exercise of his own free well, admittedly through drips of inattention and drabs of distraction, the led Calvin to give up on a spiritual life altogether. No middle age crisis this. Just a weathering homogenization caused by seemingly logical choices. By osmosis he gathered that it was important to be comfortable. It was likewise important to be cautious. Curiosity is for the young. Self-confidence, he was sure, is what the experienced in life should affect. Even if they’re really scared shitless.
But then his wife forced him to get serious about estate planning and there went his Saturday mornings. The three hour workshops were so boring, even for him, that at one point he fantasized about down dressing to a loin cloth, divorcing Marcia, and fleeing to a Burning Man gathering in the desert.
After the second session, but before his imagined liberation, he fell asleep on the couch in a way that bent his neck against an arm rest. This caused a mild case of hypoxia and induced an unforgettable dream.
He was abandoned, downtown, by Marcia and left to find his way out of the city. He walked through the noisy warmth of a pizzaria then emerged out the back door onto a street lined on both sides with nothing but Starbucks shops and banks.
Banks of all kinds.
From the World Bank Ghandi walked with Silvio Berlusconi, instructing humility.
From the Food Bank, two large stalks of asparagus walked arm and arm with two large pieces of cooked bacon.
From the Sperm Bank, Woody Allen and his battalion of neurotic, sperm-tailed companions from “Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, But Were Afraid to Ask,” were running up a ladder, onto the roof of yet another Starbucks.
From a towering Goldman Sachs, the Devil walked with Tim Geitner, who was nervously chewing gum and checking his shoes.
From the Word Bank leaked dozens of words. They flowed in various liquid fonts from the safety deposit vault, spelling out “prepositional,” “caramelized,” “jejune,” “mastication,” “desultory,” “ermine,” “booty,” “xenophobia,” and “fragged” before disappearing into a storm drain on the street.
At his last stop, at a massive seed bank, the small seeds slept in tiny match boxes beneath the dome of a marbled basilica, each with a tiny face carved in the seed head.
And that was when Marcia woke him up, reminding him to clean out the gutters.
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