Perhaps

(1978)

Sitting in a hipster coffee shop.  It is crowded in the late afternoon, everyone on computers working on something.  I'm a freak.  Like them.  Why would we come here to work on something rather than do it from the comfort at our own homes?  The coffee?  In my case, I had to get out of the house.  When I am not working, I am housebound, it seems.  A houseboy, maybe.  I have no rhythm, no schedule.  I have not transitioned from factory supervisor to working artist yet.  Ha!  That is a joke.  When I had to work every day, I could think clearly about what I would do when I wasn't working.  I forget what I thought, now.  Nothing is clear.  There are always chains that bind.

I just talked to my secretary.  They did the last interview for my replacement today.  The decision will be made in a few days.  The last nail in the coffin.  People are sad which is nice.  Things will not be the same when I leave, they say, and they are right.  I've never stayed within the boundaries.  When I enter a room, there is an expectation.  I have a certain grin, a tell, I guess.  My friend C.C. always said that they talked about thinking outside the box, but they spent all their time trying to put him back into one.  Then. . . someone would come along and turn the crank and the little Jack in the Box song would play, and sooner or later. . . .

He's been gone from the factory for awhile.  Every day it grows more corporate.  Sooner or later, they would overwhelm me and kill me, I'm sure.  I'm sad for those I leave, though.  Very.

I've had about all I can take of the hipster coffee bar now.  I feel the fool for being here.  Somewhat.  Not so much, maybe.  No more than anywhere else, perhaps.

Perhaps.