There are boiled eggs cooling on my cutting board. Coffee in front of me. No, behind me. My timer is still running in the corner, probably at fifteen minutes or so, I was supposed to stop it at five.
Looking at a hangnail, I wonder where I will fit when I go back home. Will they let me walk places. Will they let me read. Will they place me on a shelf in the den. Or under the sink with the comet and old sponges now only used for cleaning the tub. There is routine here, even though I pretend there is not. I must vacuum. Islands and Busdriver on my morning speakers.
I miss school. I don't imagine that I've really been at one. But perhaps it was my doing. That it is an office more than a classroom. That it is a business more than a place to push students, piss them off, get them into the fog, as my father is fond of saying, so that they might encounter that moment when I, as a guide, am insufficient to their journey. And they can show me that I am wrong, and head out on their own. And find that the fog has lifted. A beautiful moment.
I share a common dislike of clowns. So why have we been drawing them then having conversations with them. I'm even doing their voices. Psychoanalysis unnecessary. I am the clown here.
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