Maybe it isn’t the people freaking me out but the cafe itself. The walls are dripping with pseudo-creative portrayals of whatever the fuck passes for art these days. Twisted images of faces and nature in swirls of color and form. It seems like they might be moving, so I gotta give them credit for that. But what does it all mean? What am I supposed to know? What do they want me to see? They got little cards with descriptions next to each one, and while that’s at least a starting point, they don’t tell me how to look into this mirror. The biggest thing in print, below the little faded gray, don’t-read-me-because-I-am-being-difficult italics 5-word description of the piece, in a bold-black jump off of the paper and grab for my wallet numbers, is, of course, the price. More valuation. So that’s how I see it. I see someone who pours their heart out on the canvas in a fit of foiled embodiment and is then forced to put a price on the head of their genius. I hope they enjoyed the ride because this destination sucks. You gotta love the process because the finale is always a whimper.
Maybe it’s this process that’s freaking me out. I got seven days to make something of myself, and here I am on what? Tuesday? And I haven’t even invented plants yet? What the fuck am I talking about? You cant invent plants. You have to grow them. Only the great Oz can pull a plant out of his ass and call it creation. We little people gotta stick to the process and wine and dine our notions until they reach our hands, and we manage to fumble about with the sticks and stones until our straw man takes form and goes on a journey to get a brain. Let me know if you find it, my son, because I sure could use a bit of that.
Maybe it’s the drugs that are freaking me out. I swear I haven’t seen straight since the ’90s. Too few too many times taking a trip across the road to find out what the chicken found on the other side, and while everything seems pretty much the same again, I just can’t seem to settle back into my cultural role. These expectations aren’t measured for me. The sleeves of fiscal responsibility hang too far over my hands for they were cut and sewn for someone much bigger than I. Except in the crotch. These too-tighty-whitey truncations bite into my creative urges and make me sorta angry all the time. I try and adjust the fit with a casual grab and tug but these sleeves are dragging on the ground behind me and when I try and gather them up I find there is no end to them. These shoes I am trying to fill are clown shoes. It’s a setup. No one can do it. I gotta tear these clothes off and run through the streets. But I gotta do it really clever like so I avoid the cliches and engage the heart and brain and courage I choked out of the wizard before he sent me home. I gotta make this life count! I start sweating with terror as my throat closes, and my eyes bulge. This brain is too big! This heart is too full! This courage is going to get me killed!
“Can I help you?” Says the far too innocent barista. Well, that seems pretty far fetched at this point. But I’ll give it a try.