Τετάρτη, 4 Απριλίου 2018

Banks | Κατερίνα Τσίτση

Banks are places where people come together to convince each other on how well-spent their time [transformed in money] is. Banks are nexuses of time: each web connects itself to a human container and its job is to suck their ‘NOW’ throwing up coins, banknotes, debit cards, credit [?] cards with a conversion value of blood, sweat and drained souls. People stand amazed by the surgical performance of the life conversion machine. Their bones’ marrow flies in front of their eyes, cold and dead, ready to redeem the reminiscence of what freedom is. What the hell is freedom? How on earth did we come here? Thoughts – no one can hear them anyway – the queue is slowly moving towards the patient cashiers. Patient. Patience. Be patient dear patient in this enormous institutionalised conversion -land. You know that old saying, ‘patience is a virtue’ that people hammer in your head, in your heart, in your soul whenever they find a chance? ‘Patience is a virtue’ – wear it – is your white linen shroud, the lid of your coffin, a headstone – any religious shape – of your grave, ashes of your body floating on the waters of rivers and seas – wear it, be proud of your death. ‘Patience is a virtue’ and life a dead soul that have started to decompose. ‘Patience is a virtue’ and life the loss’ margin in an accountant’s book. Fernando Pessoa, I think we would have been good friends, after all. The queue is creeping towards the cashiers like a giant reptile poisoning everything it comes in contact with.

The resemblance of Laocoon and his sons takes shape in front of me and I nearly hear the rattles of reptiles’ bodies in fight. [I heard that sound, I think, but, no, this time is just the rattle of coins on the desk. Well, the same sound, the same poison]. The cashier takes the bags of coins carefully on her hands as she is weighing – waiting the weight of Saturn [to crash on her]. The man in front of her is talking on the phone and at the same time is emptying his trolley from the bags of coins, bags of time. Death of time – time of life. I don’t understand a word from his conversation, or actually there is a word - dunya – I know that word – is the world. Which world? What kind of world? I know that is written differently in many languages, but the meaning of it in my understanding is that of an open space, where you can rest all your fears – or in other cases that of a suffocative place where you can be taught all those fears. Coins and banknotes are being calculated. Computers are on, screens like mirrors are portraying the death of time. I am observing the cashier, I am being observed by the security camera in the corner of the bank. Likewise the mythological Polyphemus is looking after its flock. Such an Ulysses journey in this age of Panopticon. ‘Next’ – flew like a spear in the air dividing time in the eras of pre and post Banking.

A hand touched gently my shoulder and said ‘it is your turn’.

My turn? My turn to where?
                                   


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