Coffee: Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee; back to that old office roast; the coffee comes in little pillow packages that tear too easily and it dumps out smelling like cigarettes caught in the rain; but I make it everyday for my comrades because it keeps us honest – you can’t hold any illusions of grandeur while you’re drinking this cheap weak stuff; and grandeur is dangerous whatever your profession but especially for those of us handling other peoples’ livelihoods; which is all to say, the coffee tasted fine
I used to walk along 15-501 where it passes through Carrboro because I had an apartment off it. I’d walk to the bus-stop, mostly, but sometimes to a city park that dropped off the road a few blocks away. In the winter, the park caught all the snow in it’s drifts and got the ground real muddy after melts. In the spring, it filled it up silkworms hanging in the hundreds from maple trees.
I remember the park because it’s one of those places I’ll never go back to. It wasn’t special enough, not all that important to me, and not so close that I’ll come across it without effort. A fat man in pinstripes could bulldoze the whole thing for another ten-story condo complex and I’d be none the wiser. But the park impressed me just enough that I can still call to it – green trees, wet gravel, the wood fence at the top of the hill.
I like that – having something wholly real and wholly belonging to me. It’s enough to think that God might exist, or that it’s dead and I’m the one who killed it. A vivid ticking cosmos going about it’s everyday a couple inches past my eyelids.
Currently Reading: Giovanni’s Room, James Baldwin
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You can neither lie to a neighbourhood park, nor reason with it.Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities