Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 236


Coffee: Americano, Caribou Coffee

My upstairs neighbor’s son passed in a car crash yesterday. She came by crying and told us to forgive her for the family commotion upstairs. I told her not to worry, that I was there for her, but I didn’t mean it – not because I didn’t want to mean it, but because there’s nothing I can really do. I only learned her name this morning. I baked the family brownies and brought them over. She had hair rollers and was smiling.

This is the second son that’s died in our apartment building this year. I didn’t know them, but I’ve been thinking about them both all day. That’s all I’ve got for the Coffee Log. Tell your friends you love them.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

Support Relief for Family Suffering at the Border  – RAICES DONATION CAMPAIGN

What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? – it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye.

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 219


Coffee:  Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee


A kid came over and called me ‘kerfuffle,’ said it was my new name. She needed a new one too so I called her ‘yordle,’ the first thing that came to mind. Her mom came in and sat in my old green rocking chair, talking over troubles at work. Her boss is an alcoholic, and it keeps going from there. The kid was trying to get my roommate to play patty-cake but my roommate wasn’t budging. Mom went on, and on, and I felt bad because I was drinking, only a can, 12 oz, but it seemed like more when she was telling her stories.

These people used to be my neighbors but we never started talking until they moved away.

Anyway, cheers to another evening, and if you ever see me, call me kerfuffle – I think it fits.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

Support Relief for Family Suffering at the Border  – RAICES DONATION CAMPAIGN

Oh, this beer here is cold, cold and hop-bitter, no point coming up for air, gulp, till it’s all–hahhhh.

Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 151


Coffee: Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee

I took a walk. I ran into a guy and his dog. The dog’s name was Jarvin. He was a puppy – Jarvin, not the guy. He pulled the leash when he saw me. I asked if I could pet him. The owner said ‘Okay.’ I walked across the road and Jarvin met me. He put his paws on my hips and his nose in my belly. I’d got a bit of his fur. Quickly, though, Jarvin lost interest. There were gnats on a clover patch. He chased them around.

Sometimes the nicest thing in the world is to know the name of someone else’s pet. Casually intimate, like a bathroom towel. The next time I see the dog I’ll say ‘Jarvin!’ and he’ll look at me or maybe he won’t. And his owner will wave and we’ll smile with a knowing, ‘this person’s safe enough, I can trust them as far as the end of this leash.’ Neighborly. And rare. No-one has the courage to say hello anymore, and no-one has the space to get to know someone in any more intimacy than passing.

Anyway, I’m tired. I’ve got a few days vacation. I’ll have more to say then.


Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

Support Relief for Family Suffering at the Border  – RAICES DONATION CAMPAIGN

I said hello to the poodle.

Rick Riordan, The Lightning Thief

Coffee Log, Day 135


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

The rain took the heat away, then the rain went away too; packed-up houses. I took my daily walk in the space it left.

Tonight, I saw: a new family. The mother and father were both taller than me; their son was twig-high. He was toddling, dressed in a red tee. They held both his hands when he needed it. The three walked the parking lot searching for sticks and acorns. He picked one; he wasn’t satisfied.

“They’re better by the playground,” Dad says.

“Yeah,” says the toddler.

There’s a bend in the neighborhood that obscures oncoming traffic. The rain washed the tires of an SUV loud enough for me to dodge. My downstairs neighbor drove by. She waved. In her wake, I saw a mother and daughter slogging toward recycling. Mom was stern. She had handfuls of wood and cardboard. Her daughter was sterner. She pulled a pink wagon full of broken boxes.

Trees look best in a storm; your first love coming out the shower. I snapped a few pictures, even the sewers looked nice.

At the dog park, wet fluffs were yapping. They had death in their lungs but cuddles everywhere else. Their owners chatted across the fence. The dogs weren’t happy. Both were fat, still hungry.

The last stretch goes by the office, the pool, there’s a deck that’s always open and a guy in a dark armchair who’s always watching TV. We see each other often but look away when our eyes catch.

I took the new bridge across the stream. I saw the family again, only the Dad and son this time. I waved. Dad waved. The kid ran circles, he was scared of me; I’m no stick, no acorn. I said “Hi Hi!” to red shirt, folding my best paper-plane smile.

“Say hello,” said Dad.

“No!” said his son.

He ran away to find more fairies. I wasn’t hurt; summer storms are enticing company.

Currently Reading: LaRose, Louise Erdrich

Support Relief for Family Suffering at the BorderRAICES DONATION CAMPAIGN

“I’m tryna get high as I can.” – Future, Hate the Real Me


Coffee Log, Day 54


Coffee: Organic Sumatra Blend, Trader Joe’s Brand

The storm’s been coming like an Amtrak passenger train – that is, slowly and with lots of disruptions.

My downstairs neighbors invited me on a walk. It was a nice day. The kid cracked jokes and mostly cracked herself up. We got talking about the ways the Triangle’s changed. We ate ice cream below a beautiful arbor grown with vines that my neighbor said she would lie down and look up at forever. A pretty good day.

As of the writing this, the storm still hasn’t broken. The sky’s that perfect color like ‘you don’t have to go anywhere or be anything but what you are.’

Currently Reading:
Nothing! Will pick a new book this week.

Fund the Coffee Log 🙂 –  

“In March the soft rains continued, and each storm waited courteously until its predecessor sunk beneath the ground.” – John Steinbeck, East of Eden