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.