My god, but I've been putting some mileage on my car. Drove down to New York after my last class on Thursday, for my friend Jamie's birthday. A good time was had by all - even met up with my friend Brooke, whom I hadn't seen in 10 years, not since we graduated high school. We were all out carousing till about 3, then crashed and woke up at 8 *ugh* to drive back to Massachusetts so I could teach the last class of the day.
For the record, I love vodka. Drank myself silly last night, and not a hangover to show for it.
Time to finish this week, clean my house, and get ready for my dad to come out and visit.
Until then, try this on for size:
Sitting, writing, scribbling furiously away on an old legal pad, I search for the inner truths that will make my writing shine. All around me are tendrils of aromatic Costa Rican beans, ground up whispers of South Africa, and tender caresses of Kenyan dreams. I see nothing but the inconsequential rabble of the words on my page, and yet I am aware of so much outside myself that I feel Ive plugged myself into the Switchboard of Higher Consciousness. The bell above the door rings and instinctive curiosity tears my eyes upward. Moving to the counter to order a latte or a chai or a biscotti, I know and care not which, is a woman with a moon shaped face and a luminous smile. She looks at me, a little too long, and I again react to instinct, reaching for my sketchbook in order to capture yet another character for use in one of my (too) many unpublished comic books. She is entrancing, and I watch as her face shifts subtly from warmth to amusement to surprise to snickers. My attention shifts yet again, this time to the freshly spilled coffee coursing swiftly across my legal pad and towards my lap. I curse, and leap from my seat in the corner of the caf, adding my chair to my mocha in the expanding list of things I am knocking over. A jump to the counter, a mumbled excuse me, a frantic grab for the stack of napkins, and I am back on the disaster, sopping up Javas tears from my work. Fortunately, despite my clumsiness, only the writing has been soaked, sparing my sketches, library books, and pants from a similar caffeinated fate. I look up from the wreckage, and see the Moon Girl standing by my table. She asks to join me, and I say please. I invite her because I am embarrassed and I cannot write now anyway, for my paper is wet and my pencil has gone missing, and I do not care to embarrass myself further by digging for another while she is there. We talk about those things that perfect strangers always talk about, and eventually the conversation turns to what we do outside of frequenting (and trashing) coffee shops. I tell her simply that I write, and she says oh, that must be difficult, I couldnt think of anything to write about - how do you do it? I know exactly where the answer comes from when I tell her absolute concentration is the key, never letting anything external distract you to the point of being unable to write. She smiles again, and my embarrassment recedes in the wake of her understanding. I order another mocha and renew my focus on the moment at hand so that later I will be able to relate an involved tale of love(?) among the ruins of writing pads.
For the record, I love vodka. Drank myself silly last night, and not a hangover to show for it.
Time to finish this week, clean my house, and get ready for my dad to come out and visit.
Until then, try this on for size:
Sitting, writing, scribbling furiously away on an old legal pad, I search for the inner truths that will make my writing shine. All around me are tendrils of aromatic Costa Rican beans, ground up whispers of South Africa, and tender caresses of Kenyan dreams. I see nothing but the inconsequential rabble of the words on my page, and yet I am aware of so much outside myself that I feel Ive plugged myself into the Switchboard of Higher Consciousness. The bell above the door rings and instinctive curiosity tears my eyes upward. Moving to the counter to order a latte or a chai or a biscotti, I know and care not which, is a woman with a moon shaped face and a luminous smile. She looks at me, a little too long, and I again react to instinct, reaching for my sketchbook in order to capture yet another character for use in one of my (too) many unpublished comic books. She is entrancing, and I watch as her face shifts subtly from warmth to amusement to surprise to snickers. My attention shifts yet again, this time to the freshly spilled coffee coursing swiftly across my legal pad and towards my lap. I curse, and leap from my seat in the corner of the caf, adding my chair to my mocha in the expanding list of things I am knocking over. A jump to the counter, a mumbled excuse me, a frantic grab for the stack of napkins, and I am back on the disaster, sopping up Javas tears from my work. Fortunately, despite my clumsiness, only the writing has been soaked, sparing my sketches, library books, and pants from a similar caffeinated fate. I look up from the wreckage, and see the Moon Girl standing by my table. She asks to join me, and I say please. I invite her because I am embarrassed and I cannot write now anyway, for my paper is wet and my pencil has gone missing, and I do not care to embarrass myself further by digging for another while she is there. We talk about those things that perfect strangers always talk about, and eventually the conversation turns to what we do outside of frequenting (and trashing) coffee shops. I tell her simply that I write, and she says oh, that must be difficult, I couldnt think of anything to write about - how do you do it? I know exactly where the answer comes from when I tell her absolute concentration is the key, never letting anything external distract you to the point of being unable to write. She smiles again, and my embarrassment recedes in the wake of her understanding. I order another mocha and renew my focus on the moment at hand so that later I will be able to relate an involved tale of love(?) among the ruins of writing pads.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
It was whiskey i hope. From your profile pic you look like a whiskey drinker