Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 141


Coffee: Pike Place, Apartment Lounge Blend

I sat all day in a stupor like a brown cat curled up, or a cooked shrimp, head and legs missing, a pink glaze, dreamy.

I know why I’m tired:

Last night, L was over, and he’d been having a rough week at work so we stayed out until midnight, eyes pried off the covers, pretending to be real people doing real things, but other people than the ones we usually are. By the time he’d gone and I’d gotten my head fitted to the pillow, it was closing on 1 am. I’m almost 30 – my body doesn’t do well with late nights anymore.

But there’s also the Lexapro – I’ve been taking it in the evenings because it makes me drowsy, but the drowsy hangs over in the morning. I wear it. The drug doesn’t have me in hot sweats like the bupropion but I can’t tell yet if the fatigue is worth it. Everyday becomes a Monday, sludgy, a heavy backpack, the ominous dinging of a new work-week. Maybe I’ll get used to it. Always optimistic.

Right now, the sky’s chicken-vein blue. There’s a full moon, or close to it. A good time to go to sleep.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

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The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.

Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 118


Coffee: Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee

The week ended like popping a blood blister. All the viscous stress of five frazzled days came oozing out.

I came home to a lack of appetite and sudden fever. Likely not a real fever but the heat built up in exasperated muscles. I immediately lay down and have been stuck horizontal ever since.

But at least it’s over. The worst weeks feel best on a Saturday, a good workout, or a stew after twenty four hours in the pressure cooker.

Anyhow, for now, I’m beat. This is me signing off. See you on a brighter morning.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

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Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Learn a little, here and there,
Weep and laugh and sweat and swear,
Hear a song, or watch a stage,
Leave some words upon a page,
Claim a foe, or hail a friend-
Bed awaits me at the end.

Dorothy Parker

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 117


Coffee: Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee

A thin blue beetle was the first bright thing. Then there was that phone call with the old woman who wanted to help her daughter with a new car. And, coming home, the spritz rain, five miles too far north for the thunderstorms, bouncing like rubber band balls on the windshield, tht-tht-tht-tht-tht-tht. I was listening to Nirvana but the rain got through between songs.

I’m still weightless. A long week of little sleep and too many dreams to pack into the hours. Bleary and in-cognizant, I see myself three feet ahead of me, manipulating common objects, out-of-body but in the most mundane way, where your hands only know how to wash dishes, cut green onions, do daily chores. It’s nice, in a way – the rest of me is left to walk around with ghosts.

I like to imagine… (that’s all). But imagining’s so much harder when you’ve got important things on your mind. I heard a story about hail that hit Sanford the size of nickels, about a scared dog with health issues, about a stoplight that was tipped over, webbing powerlines down to the roofs of cars, and about what it feels like to touch something, whether that something is a statue, a paper hat, a pink slip licked up and down with black letters inking your job away, or a human hand.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

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In my eyes, I’m not lazy.

Nirvana, Scoff

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 116


Coffee: Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee

The sky is pepper-blue. Only in the summer.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in corporate conference rooms. The walls are all tacked with motivating pictures. Overall pleasant spaces. A lot of thought and care went into these rooms, even if it’s the kind of air-conditioned thinking that forgets there’s any kind of world outside.

In the ongoing theme of this week, I’m tired. I speechless. I’m a soap bubble in a full bath, warm water, waiting to pop. I’ve got dreams of driving on a long, wooded road in the country, a vacation, fabulous destinations, only I never get to the end of the road and it’s getting late and I’ve gotta piss and there aren’t any rest-stops. That kind of dream. That kind of week.

But the sky is pepper-blue, pretty. It’s something. Amazing.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

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My heart is small, like a love of buttons or black pepper.

S. Jane Sloat, In the Voice of a Minor Saint

Coffee Log, Day 313


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

It’s New Years Eve. I guess my clock was a day off because I couldn’t sleep at all last night. I’m exhausted. I might miss the ball drop. Years ago, that’s something that might have bothered me, but I’ve grown comfortable missing out.

There’s this myth that life is the big moments. That’s why there’s an entire industry around weddings. But after the wedding, after you’re back from the honeymoon, what then? I’m as much a fan of pomp and circumstance as anyone, but I worry about those people that live life expecting it. What’s left when the ball drops and the bars close? Just a bunch of guys and gals in jumpers cleaning up the mess.

I read another chapter of Killing Commendatore at 9:30 last night. It might be what kept me up. I wouldn’t call it great. I would call it mesmerizing. The chapter went to great lengths to describe a painting that doesn’t exist. Very Murakami. And there I was in the margins watching a fake man dissect a fake painting. The fan was on. The lights were off. When I tried to sleep, the room was a bit too hot, too bright. But there I was.

On the other side is that modern yuppie zen shit. Culturally appropriated excuses for privileged white adults to work themselves at the bare minimum, thereby buying into a status quo that fully supports them at the expense of other people’s labor. Lazy. A bad look.

So as the year turns 19, old enough to die for her country, too young to get drunk doing it, who are we supposed to be?

I fell in love with Murakami when I read A Wild Sheep Chase in 10th grade. I liked his writing, liked his world, liked the direct and vital sex (I was full of teenage hormones), but most of all I liked this one passage where the narrator is spending days in a hotel room watching an office across the street from his window. There’s guys typing, filing, printing, copying. There’s an office romance that never gets to the surface. It’s all terribly boring. It’s the realest thing in the world.

So even if you miss the ball drop it’s okay as long as you’re missing it because you’re stuck to a complicated, hard, breathing life. There will always be another New Year. There’s only one you.

Novel Count: 8,688

Currently Reading: Killing Commendatore, Haruki Murakami

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festive hearts wane
and sink like tides of joy.

Ben Ditmars, Night Poems

Coffee Log, Day 300


Coffee: Bolivian Medium-Dark, Trader Joe’s Brand

I should cut my hair. I should vacuum. I should wash these three glasses sitting on my table. I should work out more. There are a half-dozen people I should talk to who I haven’t talked to in a while. I should make more plans for the future.

It’s mid-December. It’s 2018. I’ll only have one of these Wednesdays. I should make the most of it.

But instead I get stuck in traffic. A road rage of bumper-bumper in the blackening twilight. We’re all going home and getting there late. We’ll skip sit-ups and eat a little less healthy. We won’t pet the dog.

Every good thing you work for gets cast off like cicada skin as soon as there’s a bit of stress. American wealth wants to buy itself out of happiness with coupons for marginal comfort. I’ve got nothing to complain about but sometimes I only feel like complaining.

Somebody slap some sense into me.

Novel Count: 6,348

Currently Reading: Nothing! Done with Cherry, still deciding on the next book.

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I was most happy when pen and paper were taken from me and I was forbidden from doing anything. I had no anxiety about doing nothing by my own fault, my conscience was clear, and I was happy. This was when I was in prison.

Daniil Kharms, Today I Wrote Nothing