Crap. I deleted all my friends. I suck and now have no friends. Please rerequest my friendship. I'm dumb.
This is kinda long so you don't have to read it but here's a story I wrote.
The front of the cafe was glass. It was broken up only by a low brick wall, a door frame, and a wooden ice cream cone that said "$1.50" across the green colored ice cream scoop. The bodies moving inside were clearly visible from the street outside and it seemed much like a living painting. I would often hesitate going in. I felt like I was putting myself up for display. When you walked in through the door a series of small bells, which were connected to the inside of the door, chimed. It was not a loud chime but right next to the small wooden stage on the inside it was enough to draw the attention of the room. Partially because of this, I kept the same old couch as my designated "spot" every wednesday night until much later when they replaced it with those long legged exposing chairs. But on this night the couch was still there. So when I entered the already crowded room I was ready to bee line for it with my head down in order avoid the eyes of the regulars. I like to be the eyes, but I don't much enjoy being on the other side. It seemed that the "eyes" that regularly gathered at the Beatnik Cafe were much more superficially tuned that they would appear at first. I was not in favor of suffering their judgement. Sometimes I'm not entirely sure as to why I came back there so often. Why had the pretentious nature of the cafe escaped my knowledge for so long. I had always felt it there but for a long time it was drowned out by the appeal of the show.
And what a show it was that night; I must have touched someone for every two steps I took. But the number of steps it took reach my sanctuary wasn't large. I wasn't far in when I realized that my couch was occupied. The occupent was about my age at the time; she was probably still in high school. I had seen her there before but not on a regular basis. She was obviously out of place. I doubt that she frequented very many similar places. I was less irritated by having to relocate than I was by getting caught off guard. The girl did serve some perpose though. I know it's hypocritical but I enjoyed watching her squirm in this unknown element.
When she spoke it would come out in a rush; words crawled over each other to be heard. They lost meaning as one thought drowned into the next. She didn't even seem aware of the room but, instead, seemed uncomfortable with herself. When a response was handed to her she fixated on the speakers-lips and nodded her head in tune to her bobbing foot or, at times, dancing fingers. Normally she would pull at her bottom lip with her teeth, sometimes blistering or chapping the top layers of pink skin. But during more captivating conversations she would rest her thumb in the crest under the arc of her bottom lip and strum at the border of the moist interior of her mouth. Her index and middle finger would rotate as if they picked fast enough notes would be heard. She treated her skin like it was foreign to her. I quickly grew bored of watching her tune her lip to the chirping sounds of her companions voice. I wanted my couch.
The hard wooden chair that I had settled for left so much unconcealed. This was not my place. The hard painted wood was a poor substitute for the soft leather. The leather that had surely once been cold and stiff was now worn thin and soft the way it had been when I first drank coffee in it. It felt like the skin of a great grandmother ,thin and folding, but not feeble. No, it was curiously warm and made me feel sheltered. In the couch I was the eyes. I would bury myself against its broad back and hold my mug up to my nose, breathing in its warmth, as random people wondered in and out. They would perform for me all night on the porcelin stage of my coffee if I decided to stay that long. Their suspiciously uncasual casualty always amused me.
This girl, who sat so ignorantly defiling my home away from home, hadn't yet grasped the unwritten rules of the Beatnik Cafe. If you understood them than you could blend yourself in and go unnoticed. The game was to pretend that you were high if you were sober and that you were sober if you were high, but above all act bored. I didn't like being part of it but I got a kind of thrill from watching it unfold. The cool suave nature ended up being what brought me back time and again. I was a sucker for a charming smile and a witty joke, but it was so unlike like me that it made me nerves. On the other hand, this girl was making me uncomfortable with her coffee jitters and desperate demeanor; there was going to be no happy medium for me tonight. I was contemplating escaping to the back porch but it was not an easy thing to do. The building itself was compressed between a thai resturaunt and an optometrists' office. It was a long rectangular building congested with tables and chairs along with a stage, bar, kitchen, and other random shelves and electronics. The tiny building was well beyond its maximum capacity tonight and I sat at the side opposite to the back patio.
While I was uncomfortable pushing myself through crowded rooms the thought of touching so many bodies on the way through was somehow exciting. One last hesitation and I left the fidgety couch theif behind me and submerged myself in the mob of people. Then I was drowning in a sea of limbs, polite hellos, abandoned chairs, and eyes. The air was thick with the smell of body odor, clove cigarettes, and a variety of coffee. Although I was doing my best to avoid meeting the eyes of anyone I recognized I heard my name above the low roar of voices and then someone touched my arm. Cindera smiled warmly and I had to smile back. I kept my defences up but stopped. Although conversation with her was normally slow and awkward, I always enjoyed it. It was probably because she took it upon herself to rub my back with one hand while she spoke to me. A little weird but, damn, it won me over every time. When silences grew too long she always, coincidently saw an old friend with a sore back and in dire need of small talk. Without anymore interuptions I reached the black iron framed door that brought me to the brisk desert night. Out back the environment was more intimate and demanding; people expected you to interact. For now, everyone was gathered in a circle singing some shitty Eagle's song to an accoustic guitar. I lowered myself into a painted wooden chair and molded the dirt with my feet, thankful that all were preoccupied. The rythms from inside carried thorugh the thin plaster walls and melted nicely together with "Hotel California." I sat lower and tilted my head up towards the cloudless, moonless night. The noices of traffic were weakend by the clamor of people and dishes but its presense was soothing. I fell into the noices and was overlooked.
This is kinda long so you don't have to read it but here's a story I wrote.
The front of the cafe was glass. It was broken up only by a low brick wall, a door frame, and a wooden ice cream cone that said "$1.50" across the green colored ice cream scoop. The bodies moving inside were clearly visible from the street outside and it seemed much like a living painting. I would often hesitate going in. I felt like I was putting myself up for display. When you walked in through the door a series of small bells, which were connected to the inside of the door, chimed. It was not a loud chime but right next to the small wooden stage on the inside it was enough to draw the attention of the room. Partially because of this, I kept the same old couch as my designated "spot" every wednesday night until much later when they replaced it with those long legged exposing chairs. But on this night the couch was still there. So when I entered the already crowded room I was ready to bee line for it with my head down in order avoid the eyes of the regulars. I like to be the eyes, but I don't much enjoy being on the other side. It seemed that the "eyes" that regularly gathered at the Beatnik Cafe were much more superficially tuned that they would appear at first. I was not in favor of suffering their judgement. Sometimes I'm not entirely sure as to why I came back there so often. Why had the pretentious nature of the cafe escaped my knowledge for so long. I had always felt it there but for a long time it was drowned out by the appeal of the show.
And what a show it was that night; I must have touched someone for every two steps I took. But the number of steps it took reach my sanctuary wasn't large. I wasn't far in when I realized that my couch was occupied. The occupent was about my age at the time; she was probably still in high school. I had seen her there before but not on a regular basis. She was obviously out of place. I doubt that she frequented very many similar places. I was less irritated by having to relocate than I was by getting caught off guard. The girl did serve some perpose though. I know it's hypocritical but I enjoyed watching her squirm in this unknown element.
When she spoke it would come out in a rush; words crawled over each other to be heard. They lost meaning as one thought drowned into the next. She didn't even seem aware of the room but, instead, seemed uncomfortable with herself. When a response was handed to her she fixated on the speakers-lips and nodded her head in tune to her bobbing foot or, at times, dancing fingers. Normally she would pull at her bottom lip with her teeth, sometimes blistering or chapping the top layers of pink skin. But during more captivating conversations she would rest her thumb in the crest under the arc of her bottom lip and strum at the border of the moist interior of her mouth. Her index and middle finger would rotate as if they picked fast enough notes would be heard. She treated her skin like it was foreign to her. I quickly grew bored of watching her tune her lip to the chirping sounds of her companions voice. I wanted my couch.
The hard wooden chair that I had settled for left so much unconcealed. This was not my place. The hard painted wood was a poor substitute for the soft leather. The leather that had surely once been cold and stiff was now worn thin and soft the way it had been when I first drank coffee in it. It felt like the skin of a great grandmother ,thin and folding, but not feeble. No, it was curiously warm and made me feel sheltered. In the couch I was the eyes. I would bury myself against its broad back and hold my mug up to my nose, breathing in its warmth, as random people wondered in and out. They would perform for me all night on the porcelin stage of my coffee if I decided to stay that long. Their suspiciously uncasual casualty always amused me.
This girl, who sat so ignorantly defiling my home away from home, hadn't yet grasped the unwritten rules of the Beatnik Cafe. If you understood them than you could blend yourself in and go unnoticed. The game was to pretend that you were high if you were sober and that you were sober if you were high, but above all act bored. I didn't like being part of it but I got a kind of thrill from watching it unfold. The cool suave nature ended up being what brought me back time and again. I was a sucker for a charming smile and a witty joke, but it was so unlike like me that it made me nerves. On the other hand, this girl was making me uncomfortable with her coffee jitters and desperate demeanor; there was going to be no happy medium for me tonight. I was contemplating escaping to the back porch but it was not an easy thing to do. The building itself was compressed between a thai resturaunt and an optometrists' office. It was a long rectangular building congested with tables and chairs along with a stage, bar, kitchen, and other random shelves and electronics. The tiny building was well beyond its maximum capacity tonight and I sat at the side opposite to the back patio.
While I was uncomfortable pushing myself through crowded rooms the thought of touching so many bodies on the way through was somehow exciting. One last hesitation and I left the fidgety couch theif behind me and submerged myself in the mob of people. Then I was drowning in a sea of limbs, polite hellos, abandoned chairs, and eyes. The air was thick with the smell of body odor, clove cigarettes, and a variety of coffee. Although I was doing my best to avoid meeting the eyes of anyone I recognized I heard my name above the low roar of voices and then someone touched my arm. Cindera smiled warmly and I had to smile back. I kept my defences up but stopped. Although conversation with her was normally slow and awkward, I always enjoyed it. It was probably because she took it upon herself to rub my back with one hand while she spoke to me. A little weird but, damn, it won me over every time. When silences grew too long she always, coincidently saw an old friend with a sore back and in dire need of small talk. Without anymore interuptions I reached the black iron framed door that brought me to the brisk desert night. Out back the environment was more intimate and demanding; people expected you to interact. For now, everyone was gathered in a circle singing some shitty Eagle's song to an accoustic guitar. I lowered myself into a painted wooden chair and molded the dirt with my feet, thankful that all were preoccupied. The rythms from inside carried thorugh the thin plaster walls and melted nicely together with "Hotel California." I sat lower and tilted my head up towards the cloudless, moonless night. The noices of traffic were weakend by the clamor of people and dishes but its presense was soothing. I fell into the noices and was overlooked.
VIEW 25 of 31 COMMENTS
I think u little girl neeed to update your journal..