Coffee Log, Day 320

Hi.

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

My roommate was cooking eg-vocados for dinner and she had two extra so I had eg-vocados for dinner. To those not in the know, an ‘eg-vocado’ is just an egg baked in half an avocado. They were quite good.

Later on, we’re listening to music, a song she likes, and she tells me it sounds like the way you look at Christmas lights. And I think that’s perfect and I tell her. Which gets me thinking about what I love best about humanity, and what makes want to be an artist: simple metaphors.

I think there’s a good chance no-one else will listen to that song and spontaneously imagine it to be like looking at Christmas lights. There’s nothing about the song or about the lights that necessarily imply a connection. And even if you stared at both a long time, both under microscope and from as far away as outer space, you wouldn’t find any bit of the two contained in each other.

So E created a new connection. A tiny word bridge between two previously unrelated things. And it was a beautiful bridge, and now that I’ve been down it I can’t imagine the world without it.

That’s powerful.

When you’re a little kid, you only know your home. Then you get older and your horizons expand. That’s easy. That’s natural. Each new place is another notch of understanding, more knowledge of this large but finite planet. And when you’re good and grown, there’s a lack of magic – for me and I imagine for most people. You’ve already answered the big questions. You know what’s coming around the corner. Nothing in the world can surprise you.

But take two things and push them together and there’s something new. A book, a song, that’s art in a nutshell. It keeps you living long after you’ve burned life out. And it might just be divine – generating completely new, authentic content in a world that once existed without it. Spontaneous creation. A self-caused cause, of sorts.

But anyway, the night was good food and good company. I’m happy and full.

Novel Count: 12,143

Currently Reading: Killing Commendatore, Haruki Murakami

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Everything you can imagine is real.

Pablo Picasso


Coffee Log, Day 263

Hi.

Coffee: French Drip from the lobby at Johnson Hyundai; I took my car in for inspection and an oil change. They have a snack bar for you while you’re waiting. The coffee was better than it had any obligation to be.

You always expect something else to save you, or at least I always do. Life doesn’t work that way.

I lost five dollars playing poker on Saturday. It was a gregarious get-together of mismatched people. It was hosted by some friends from an open mic. There were two games going – a big group board gaming in the den, our small-betting poker scene by the kitchen – with just a black dog running checks between them. I was up early on a Full House but lost it all as the night went. I gave my money to a Christian and a probation officer.

On Sunday, I tried talking up a Persian girl. We met at the Cocoa Cinammon off Greer and I couldn’t help thinking of all the other women I’d met there already. It was a stacked deck and I should have known better. The girl was an architect and talked about creation. She motioned how you work the laser cutters around steel models. She had a pound cake and let me try a bite. Sweet, too much for me. At a little under an hour, she said she had something to take care of and that was that.

I met Sally again today. She’s getting fatter in her winter fur. We walked around the apartments together and sat on the steps petting. Six months ago, I helped this cat down from a tall tree. I wasn’t the only one to help her and I’m sure she would have jumped if we’d left her long enough. Still, I get the sense that she remembers me, the way I worried about her, that feverish and unnecessary effort. I think she appreciates the saving, whether she was in need of it or not.

Novel Count: 7,803 words

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

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“Look. You are playing poker (I assume you know poker, or at least—like a lot of people—anyway play it.) You draw cards. When you do that, you affirm two things: either that you have something to draw to, or are willing to support to your last cent the fact that you have not. You dont draw and then throw the cards in because they are not what you wanted, expected, hoped for; not just for the sake of your own soul and pocket-book, but for the sake of the others in the game, who have likewise assumed that unspoken obligation.” – William Faulkner, Knight’s Gambit

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