A Gift Must Move

"A gift must move." 

What?  I shift uncomfortably in my seat.  This guy is making the whole room nervous, but we are his hostage.  His, and Homeland Security.  We'd crossed that line between the potential for terror and humiliating shoeless safety and there is no going back.  The man hadn't looked unusual on the other side.  He was three cows ahead of me through the chute and he'd appeared pleasant, friendly with the agents, but not too friendly.  That was a great act, and he'd fooled them all.  But now?  Stark raving lunatic.  I glance around, everyone seems to have picked up on a cue to ignore this guy that I've missed.  Good plan.  I peek down at my phone, scroll for the Kindle App although I know I haven't loaded any books. 

"Creativity must be expressed to exist."

Geez, dude, go preach it somewhere else!  I am NOT your target audience on this, trust me.  I root through my bag for Chapstick, a sudoko, gum.  Anything to tamp down the uncomfortable anxiety that this guy is creating.  The room has it's armor on and I am the chink - I am giving the nutcase the attention he demands.  I mustn't let the team down.  Come on game face!  Ignore!  Ignore!!  Gah! He's looking right at me, he's talking TO ME!  Dig, dig - aha!  A butterscotch candy.  I'll just pop this in my mouth and pretend that guy is some old Wilfred Brimley type.  Bring it Grandpa, I am looking right through you now. Moo, moo, moo.  Your words are just old man cow sounds now.  Grab yourself a rocking chair and fall asleep under your Saturday Evening Post, man.  I'm sure someone will wake you when it's time to board. 

"Talent must travel outwards."

Dammit!  I can hear you.   What does that even mean?  The only thing I want to see traveling is you, pal, outward from my space.  You, and that plane.  Where the heck is the plane?  Aren’t we supposed to be boarding, like RIGHT NOW?  My luck this granola munching coffeehouse beatnik gets seated next to me.  Try it, just try it buddy.  Where are my earbuds?  WHERE ARE MY EARBUDS! 

"Ability must not be contained."

Howzabout you try containing your pithy wisdom, hm?  I am not an artist.  I am not a musician or a painter or a sculptor.  There are no latent Michaelangelo tendencies within my very adult existence.  I composed the same bored-with-science high school schlock poetry that everyone did.  I turned my notebook covers into album covers.  I lined my eyes with the blackest pencils and avoided the sun.  I was a teenager and filled to the brim with the oh-so-artistic spirit of angst we were all drinking with our bootleg hard lemonade.  I grew up.  That petulant teenager has washed her face and traded her Chucks for the best Blahnik knockoffs I can afford.  Get off my case.  I don't have time for poetry and painting.  I have a life, why don't you try that?

“If you do not share the skills you have been given, it is as though they don’t exist.”