Coffee Log, Day 262

Hi.

Coffee: Sumatra Medium-Dark, Trader Joe’s Brand; the last brew of the batch, kind of sad, kind of frustrating, kind of capitalist – grocery store, here I come.

There’s specific calm to petting a cat’s fur on cold mornings. He rolls around. He’s been hunting bees and birds before they hide away in Winter. His paws have gotten fatter. He’ll lick you now and then.

Here’s this thing with energy – crisp, static – while you huddle in your coat.

You lose your fingers in his coat. Both your breaths are fogging. A patch of sun, the night that froze the concrete, nowhere else you need to be. Cold friction of a life. You take a bit of him with you. He’s hair on black trousers.

Suddenly, you like the cold.

Novel Count: 7,500 words

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

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“I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.” – Jean Cocteau

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Coffee Log, Day 188

Hi.

Coffee: Sumatra Medium-Dark Roast, Trader Joe’s

Slush life, you wake up too early, your bed’s not made, your breakfast sits on the counter long enough to make lunch; twigs in the window punctured by streetlights; toothpaste grin.

The hot water says ‘shower’ but you don’t want to. There are dirty knives in the sink. You turn up the radio. Your roommates are sleeping. You turn it back down. Bone-carved pyramid – your elbows, arms, head on the table next to speakers. ‘Passion Pit’ – Charlotte loves you, you only used to hear them in the city. ‘Sleepyhead’, a song… you planned it but feel lucky. You’re old enough to know all the work that goes into magic.

Strings like a spider’s web, the bad old times try to snare you. Every night, you wake up for the bathroom, only to settle in the arms of a different dream.

Currently Reading: Nothing! Still poking through some books, will settle soon.

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“Wake up when you want to/
’Cause no one’s really watching.” – Passion Pit, Carried Away

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Coffee Log, Day 105

Hi.

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

I got up at 5:30am. I’m working toward 5:00, I need the time, the end of the day gets wasted. Anyway…

At 5:30am I took a walk around the apartments. It was black-blue. There were a few dog-walkers. A couple was crushing on their car. Most of all, I noticed the birds. They were louder than a Gregorian chant. I walked slow so I could listen.

Different birds sung different notes, some of them were talking to each other, there was a fuzzy underbelly of the one-offers, the chirpers, then a middle confusion, then the high clean wonderful sun-blessed compositions. Glad I got to hear them. Surprised they didn’t wake me up through the walls.

Later, on the way to work, a fly was my passenger. I don’t know how or when it got in the car but it rode with me to the bank. It was good to have the company.

Currently Reading:
Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The Way of Kings, Brandon Sanderson

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“The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.” – Willie Nelson

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Coffee Log, Day 77

Hi.

Coffee: Organic Honduran, Trader Joe’s brand

Misty this morning. I woke up at 5:30am. That’s only half an hour early, but I felt it. The sky was just dark enough to trick you into dreaming. Only I couldn’t dream, so I opened my eyes and watched mist form.

Maybe my fondest memory of the year I spent teaching isn’t about teaching; I loved the morning drives. I taught in Durham, lived in Burlington – for those of you not in NC, that’s a forty-minute commute that turns into an hour with traffic. To open my class on time I had to leave just before six. Each morning, I’d stop at a trucker’s gas station for coffee and a pack of pop-tarts. The sour white glow of the station lights are a part of me now.

No travels today. Too bad. That should bother me more. I worry that I’m moderately content.

Currently Reading:
Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

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“It seemed to be fog, and perhaps fog was also rising from the ground, but at that altitude it was difficult to distinguish the mists that rose from below and those that come down from above.” – Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose

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