Coffee Log, Day 226

Coffee: Cafe Pajaro Extra Dark, Trader Joe’s Brand

I sit out a comfortable mid-evening at a friend’s condo. We watch everything but the big things, big news. Nothing we can do about the news so we might as well sit. Sit and drink. Everyone who wants to fight you will hold their fists for tomorrow.

I had lunch with my family, dinner with friends. In between i killed time and took a drive. I’d brought a book. I was in Burlington. The only open cafe on this side of town is a Starbucks. I thought about it. I haven’t bought a drink from the company since their tepid response to kicking out two black men for existing earlier this year. But I wanted to sit, wanted a drink, I drove past the store two times. Eventually, I sat in a parking lot and read ‘Cherry.’ I rolled the windows down. Cool, but they paved the road and the lot smelled like asphalt. I choked a few times. But I didn’t spend a dirty dime.

Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith; Cherry, Nico Walker

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WARNING: Flip-cap cover contains small parts and poses a CHOKING HAZARD for young children. – warning label on a Deer Park water bottle

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Coffee Log, Day 171

Hi.

Coffee: Fair Trade Five County Espresso Blend, Trader Joe’s Brand

M tells me he got a job at the camera shop operating equipment. He’s been working ten years through film school, MFA’s, gigs in LA. The job won’t pay great, he’ll have to take a second. As a screenwriter and director, it’s far from what he wants to do. But it’s a step in the door. M played it down when he was talking about it but I could hear the gymnastics in his voice. I was ecstatic, didn’t try to hide it. I poured brandy and took a toast. Nothing better than working toward something.

Summer rages on. We sit in the shade and listen to cicadas. I learned how to say ‘cicada’ in Japanese – semi – from a teacher in Koga. One year my junior, many years wiser, though I don’t know if she’d agree. She kept having to remind me of the word because I kept forgetting. We stood on the beach. Green algae. Clean water. She pointed to the path you’d take to get to her elementary school. There were trees up the coast where the sand died. “Semi,” I said. “You remember,” she said. You could hear the bugs.

I read somewhere that cicadas crawl from the ground once every few years, sing a little, make love, lay eggs, die. I admire that singularity of purpose. Some days, I’d like to crawl out of the breadcrumb soil, sing a little, make love, set my roots, and die. Other days, though, I just get drunk.

Congrats, M. Thank you, A. You both inspire me.

Currently Reading: LaRose, Louise Erdrich

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“Dog-day cicadas are very dark with greenish markings and spend four to seven years underground before emerging in July and August.” – Quote on the National Geographic Kids entry about Cicadas

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