Coffee Log, Day 200


Coffee: Sumatra Medium-Dark Roast, Trader Joe’s; Don’t know how much you miss something until it’s gone. I spent forty-five minutes this morning unboxing, washing, and testing the new coffee pot. It’s nothing fancy, but it makes a good cup.

A girl and her father went around the apartments sticking voter registration forms in everyone’s doors. When they got to mine, the girl looked in my window and our eyes locked. She’s thirteen, fourteen, pigtails only a kid could pull off. She had a blue dress. I was so surprised to see her I didn’t have time to smile so maybe that’s why she hid. It was comedy: I see her drop down below the windowsill; she’s walking like a prowling lion; two feet, four feet, ten – she’s at the door; I’m glancing over, trying not to spook her; she slips the registration form and runs away giggling.

When she was gone, I got wondering: was that an innocent fear – the kind that makes kids creep behind their parents’ legs in the super-stores – or was it something born of 2018, the kind of neighborhood fear that puts horns on pedestrians and ghosts in every window? I don’t know. It was pretty funny, pretty sad. I wanted to tell her ‘Good job.’ Hell of an American way to grow up, getting out the vote.

I’m already registered, was already planning to vote this November. Now I’m geared up again: let’s make a world where our kids feel safe and comfortable.

Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith

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“Elections belong to the people. It’s their decision. If they decide to turn their back on the fire and burn their behinds, then they will just have to sit on their blisters.” – Abraham Lincoln


Coffee Log, Day 197


CoffeeTea: Bigelow’s Earl Grey, pre-packed; fragrant like a rest home, bitter like all the missed opportunities that got you there.

My coffee pot broke – again. I bought it to replace one that had lasted me four years; this pot barely got three months of use. I didn’t have time to pick up coffee on the morning drive so I settled for making black tea. It was alright. The pack was old. That doesn’t make much difference to the flavor, but knowing I’d had this tea since a different zip code piqued an uncomfortable aroma.

It wasn’t a bad day; wasn’t a long day; I couldn’t connect to it. People came and went. The bank was busy for a while then it wasn’t. I heard stories from my coworkers – real rough shit about their families. I ate my lunch with a plastic knife and no fork because I forget to pack cutlery. Outside, August still nuzzled September. Inside, it was ice-water cold.

I’ve been having old dreams. Well, they’re new dreams about old places, old people. I’ll be sitting in a desk in an empty college classroom; I’ll talk on the phone with you. In the dreams, it’s always stormy. The sky’s cobalt and somewhere close is thunder. I wake up at midnight, then at 3:30, and then a little late for my alarm clock. Each time, I’m sweating. It’s not fear. A long day on baseball bleachers watching the game, no shade, just sun. I wash my sheets regularly because I’m convinced they smell. I wouldn’t know, though. The older I get, I’m losing my sense of smell.

I took a walk tonight, not very far, saw some kids, talked to a neighbor. Cicadas made noise in the trees. I looked up. I wanted to join their party. Unfortunately, I never could find them.

Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith

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“… it is one thing to desire, another to be in capacity fit for what we desire.” – Thomas Hobbes