Coffee: Pike Place, Apartment Lounge Blend
Sometimes you get reminded about just how narrow the boundary is between you and the rest of the world. I cut my thumb open while slicing onions.
It was interesting being an ink pen, spilling red marks on a poor test of cutlery, the chopping board, the floor. I went through half a roll of paper towels before the bleeding stopped.
But it did stop, and that’s remarkable too. Just as easy as you’re opened up, you close again, like a big steel shutter, midnight doors.
Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller
Support Relief for Family Suffering at the Border – RAICES DONATION CAMPAIGN
It’s easier to bleed than sweat, Mr. Motes.
Flannery O’Connor, Wise Blood
Coffee: Cafe Pajaro Extra Dark Roast, Trader Joe’s brand
I stood on the bridge in the rain and thought about smoking something (I didn’t) then I thought about drinking something (I didn’t) then I thought about writing something (I did).
I’ve only smoked four cigars. Tobacco has been in my blood since birth. Well, probably before birth. I’m a North Carolina boy. The pride and prejudice of tobacco leaf grew my home. Pride in the gaunt Southern swagger of smoking something strong on a hot summer porch; prejudice in the bloody hands my ancestors forced to pick it.
Fire’s in my blood.
I think that being Southern means being the most proud, arrogant bastard standing below the sun; I think that being white Southern means an unreachable sin, a wretching guilt, and the knowledge that the day you’re born your heart is already six-feet deep below black-brown soil.
And we smoke that fear away.
Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
The Way of Kings, Brandon Sanderson
“I think it is safe to say that while the South is hardly Christ-centered, it is most certainly Christ-haunted.”- Flannery O’Connor