Before anyone walks in the room, there is clay. Lumps, torn for a greater whole, placed on brown paper towels, the kind you find in restroom dispensers at school. One sits in front of each chair, waiting under the lights, in the humming silence of anticipation.
Buzzing bees, people amble through the door in packs, filling the moments between breathes with boisterous accolades of acquisitions, conquests of portfolio performance, romantic escapades or last nights television shows they live through vicariously with vacant eyes. A few even rattle off tales of kids soccer games or this years vacation from three months ago.
Styrofoam squeaks, drooling brown java into rings around its base, absently one hunk of blue clay rolls to the center of the room, it's previous resting place now used to clean up the mess. A well intentioned shiny leather shoe finds it, dragging it into the carpet in a great smearing arc, until a throat clears like a bull horn squelch, bringing the room to order...
Use your clay to make something that represents you.
All the pretty words that once floated on the breeze vanish into the vacuum of air leaving the room. Every idea becomes crumpled paper balls cast at the waste basket of expectation. What do they want me to make? What will they think? What is the right answer?
Even the crickets have gone quiet, then one black suit, harrumphing in frustration rises to the occasion, belching under his breath of better things to do as he pushes through the door, escaping to a sterile world of spreadsheets and emails, where he does not have to think about who he is.
Because in the midst of everything else,
he has forgotten.
What will you make with your clay?