i am not savvy enough to make it as a full time artist
not yet at least.
so i live this double life. this confused oreo existence of black and white.
i am the hard chocolate cookie to some. the mushy white filling to others. each clearly and distinctly defined by their own unique laws of physics. neither aware the other exists until that moment when they are introduced to each other, mashed on by heavy teeth, and ultimately destroyed. swallowed to provide nourishment for the giants all around.
but it is better than the alternative: an office job. an incandescent desk. a personalized cubicle with generic family pictures, everyone beaming. probably because the photos were taken elsewhere; far from this place. outside of this building. away from the breakroom and its abused microwave.
and those stupid chairs. those stupid wheeled chairs we roll around in like invalids; pantomiming importance. i hate those chairs and that awkward kick-walk lazy people do to get around the office.
• • •
i was hungry.
alright, i was desperate. completely and absolutely desperate for anything and anyone that would pay me a buck and help put me back in place. back onto some path of existence that included money and the liberties and freedoms it affords.
like pants. and protein powder. and other marvels of social and nutritional engineering.
they liked me at the interview; they always like me at interviews.
they call me two days later. can i start monday? you bet your ass i can. and so i did.
• • •
everyone is nice to the new guy. it's like the beginning of a romance. there's lots of smiling and eye contact. everyone and everything is soft and pliable. the single girls are especially friendly. the married ones talk about their husbands, how long they've been married, and the neverending demands and importance of their children.
and then you realize you just moved in together; for eight hours a day. with eighty seven strangers. that's when you get a little nervous.
• • •
i make it a day and a half before i have a breakdown and call the ex from my car in the company parking lot. i have to talk hurriedly and quietly while trying to communicate the full state of my panic, as some of the drones are on their way back in from lunch.
i am impassioned. slightly hysterical. if you didn't know any better. you would think i was getting attacked by a swarm of bees within my very own automobile.
i think i made a mistake, i say. i don't think i can do this. i mean: i can do this, but i just can't do this.
she settles me a bit. tells me it's okay. that i need to do what's best for me, not what's best for them.
but everyone is so nice, i say. there's the 401k to consider. and they have a sweet insurance plan.
i make it til friday, which just happens to be payday. i feel terrible about the whole thing. but reluctantly take the check just the same.
my corporate life is dead and buried deep.
• • •
when it is not full with obligation, stress, and all the drama that comes with helping run a small business, my head is full of colors and words and grandiose visions of future projects.
but by the end of the day, i am dry; pulled from the bone by my duties and drained of the enthusiasm i wake with most mornings.
i am the idiot in need of a recharge. so, i sleep. and wake. and do it again.
and on my better days, i tap into my other half. the mushy white filling that only a small part of the world will ever know or see.
on my better days, i feed the giants. and then i feed myself.
