Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 253


Coffee: House Coffee, Longleaf Restaurant; the coffee came in a porcelain carafe that matched the precariousness of yellow and red leaves in the Atlanta Botanical Garden outside; it was semi-sweet like old newspaper, remembering things that didn’t happen to you

I missed writing the Coffee Log yesterday. I was working, then driving, I got in to Atlanta at 1am. The city opened up under elaborate spidered overpasses. In midtown, lines wrapped around the Friday clubs.

This morning, under covers, the city was still cold. It looked different without the summer, all crowded in the bits of sunlight instead of running from it, there were families, and a sense of ‘get-together while we still can.’ Every brunch spot was full and the tables had mimosas.

Leaving the gardens, a four-year-old started walking backwards and said to her parents ‘Look! I’m walking this way now!’ It was the simplest thing and perfect and M thought so too.

Currently Reading: Another Country, James Baldwin

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An autumn garden has a sadness when the sun is not shining…

Francis Brett Young, Cold Harbour

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 164


Coffee:  Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee

I talked to a friend in Denver. She had a couple peanut-butter cups that were laced with TCH. She bought them legal, of course, from a dispensary. I told her what I know about the banking business around pot, how most banks won’t hold the money even where it’s locally legal due to federal criminalization. That means many of the cannabis outlets are holding large sums of cash and have to spend money on electric fences, armed guards, that sort of thing. My friend said that gave her a weird image – kind of scary.

Meanwhile, men and women around the country are still getting locked up for possession.

My roommate has a plot at the community garden. She grows morning glories, mint and rosemary. She took me to the garden a few weeks ago while we were walking to the office. It was a hot day, I watched her water. There were flies buzzing around, a couple coupled beetles, and a bright blue lizard basking in the sun. She picked a cucumber from a plot a neighbor keeps for the community and we went home and soaked it in salt. The slices made the summer heat more bearable. That taste – like dipping your toes in the ocean.

Who’s allowed to share the harvest? I drink beer weekly and get high off it. I watch my neighbors raise vegetables in a garden. There’s nothing so human as putting seeds in deep soil, nurturing life until it grows. And there’s nothing so human as choosing who gets to benefit from that life and who’s life gets locked behind steel bars for picking the wrong plant.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

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Anthropomorphism is unavoidable, I am finding, in writing about gardening: weeds don’t just grow, they grow with intent, they grow aggressively. Well, they do, as any gardener knows. They sneak in and swarm up when your back is turned.

Penelope Lively, Life in the Garden

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 85


Coffee: Pike Place, the apartment lounge machine

I’ve been trying to take my mornings back. The past two weeks I’ve set the alarm clock a little early, and it’s been hard, I’ve been tired, but today I woke up at 6:40 without asking my little blinking clock to guide me and that felt very good.

A part of my early mornings has been starting the day with walks. Nothing far, usually to the office to get coffee. It’s bad coffee, and I miss twisting up the beans with my hand-held grinder, but for now it’s a good excuse to move. Today, E came with me. We went to the lounge via the back way, through the gym (that always smells like yoga mats). There was no-one in the office this early. That was good – it meant this time was ours.

On the way back, mugs full, we stopped off at the community garden where E keeps a plot. She’s growing watermelons, though you wouldn’t know it by the tiny sprigs poking out of the ground. Next to her plot was an overgrown rose bush but the roses had withered and next to that were bright yellow squash flowers. Hornets buzzed between the plots like Monday traffic. A bright green lizard skated in and out of view.

At home, I took my coffee to the porch and wrote a little. I watched our flock of geese chasing each other through the grass. I read a message from a friend who was struggling with her sexuality. I cut an onion on sliced bread and ate it with sharp cheddar. All of this had me in the morning. There was a long, busy day that followed, but that’s another story. The early morning was enough.

Currently Reading: NOTHING! Couldn’t get back into Bourdain, no matter how much I tried; will pick a new book soon

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I love watermelon!
Chomp! Chomp! Chomp!

Greg Pizzoli, The Watermelon Seed