The Cage

I am an artist.

I make things, usually for no good reason.

I take a lot of pride in what I make but will probably tell you it’s no good.

I live in a fractured world. There are few people I am close to. I fear strangers in the streets too much to speak to them, but if they looked me up online, they’d probably find enough for a short biography.

I have an encyclopedic knowledge of the history of my art form. If I don’t know it, I can probably find it out…but I probably know it. And because I know it, I know things today aren’t what they used to be. I don’t need an old person to tell me. I have known no real scene, no real hopes of breaking through without selling my soul to a corporation.

Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil. At least the Devil was probably straight with him. Guitar for your soul—no fine print.

My eyes and ears are open. I feel a lot. My senses are so strong I need blinders to keep from going insane. Every once in a while, I take the blinders off and spit out my gag and write something. Then back they go and I keep my head down.

I am an artist—but not that kind of artist. Don’t worry. I like what you like. I don’t put anybody down. I don’t judge anyone. I don’t say the wrong thing unless it’s the right wrong thing.

I don’t have opinions. What do I know? I feel too much to have opinions.

I am a worrier and a timewaster. I try so hard to make things right, but then I lose patience and fuck it up. Then I back-track.

Then I wonder—does it have to be this way?

I look at the chains that wrap round my body, check out the cage I’m in. I give the bars a closer look.

What do you know? Pure straw, spray-painted charcoal black. No wonder there’s such a chemical smell in here.

I sit for a moment and think. Could straw really be all that’s held me in all these years? I’ve placed my hands on those bars before—how did I never feel it? Looks like steel til you get close up.

Surely it can’t be.

I lift my hand, slowly reach for one of the bars. My fingers get closer…closer…I touch it.

Steel. Pure, hard-as-rock steel.

I breathe a sigh of relief. I knew I couldn’t have been such a fool, twenty-one years wasted in a straw cage.

I forget about it and go to sleep. But in a couple days, the nagging question returns.

I saw straw.

I look up—pure steel.

I reach my hand out once more, for the last time, I promise myself.

My fingers are a millimeter away when I stop. I don’t think, my mind just changes, and I don’t touch—I push.

The cage falls to the ground without a crack—just a rustle.

Pure straw.