Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 214


Coffee:  Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee

I was reading an article about how spiders learned to fly. It starts with a note about the boat Darwin rode on, and how he woke up one morning 60 miles off the coast of Argentina to see that all the sails and rigging were covered in spider string. Thousands of red spiders had boarded, new passengers. They must have come from the mainland.

The rest of the article got into how spiders use electric currents to propel them, how they sense currents in their fingers, but it was the first bit about Darwin that stuck with me.

I used to get dreams about spiders. I’d waked up covered in them. Or rather, I’d be waking up like that in my dream. Sometimes it was bad enough I’d turn the lights on for a bit before going back to sleep. Recently, though, those dreams have gone, and I generally like spiders, because they’re strange and foreign even though they’re everywhere, guests in the broom closet, owners of no house. An American dream.

Back to Darwin’s boat: picture it. Come on, try a little – these spiders were too small to bite. See the sun setting up as you cross the top deck, blue skies, green Argentina. There are a couple clouds but it’s breezeless. You’re rocking back and forth.

It’s gradual, at first, the way you notice. You stare too long at the main mast, the way you scrutinize your coworker when you’re not quite sure he’s cut his hair. Then there’s the sails; the netting; the pink barrels that got pink being blasted by the sea. Everything’s alive and moving, a subtle crimson, and when you move there’s a thickness to the air.

The spiders could have drifted into open oceans, electric seas, but they found Darwin’s boat. A home, unexpected, strange bedfellows, new looks to everything, starting over. Again, the American dream.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

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

“But how can you walk away from something and still come back to it?”

“Easy,” said the cat. “Think of somebody walking around the world. You start out walking away from something and end up coming back to it.”

“Small world,” said Coraline.

“It’s big enough for her,” said the cat. “Spider’s webs only have to be large enough to catch flies.”

Neil Gaiman, Coraline

Coffee Log, Day 350


Coffee: Locomotive Blend, PennyCup Coffee; my second to last batch if I’m judging the amount of beans. I’ve liked this coffee. It was a gift, which always helps, but I would have liked it if I’d come across it on my own. It’s direct with it’s flavors but still a little complicated, especially if you drink it like I do – big mouthfuls lounging on the back of your tongue. Makes me want to get up and do something, but doesn’t guilt me when I’m only sitting down.

I was having a conversation with a co-worker about her dogs. She treats them like children. They go with her everywhere. She won’t board them, says it’s cruel. And maybe it is – if you can give something a good life, why wouldn’t you?

I used to know a woman who had two cats. One was gray, one was brown. They had dramatic personalities. The gray could would wake you at 3:00 am to show you it’s shadow. The brown cat would hiss if you got too close. Once, brown cat ate a piece of plastic. She was real sick. So I took the morning off to drive her to the vet. She was in a tiny plastic carry-on. She made the most pitiful sounds. The vets took her in for surgery and I waited a couple hours, then she was better. Afterwards, she’d sometimes come to sit with me when I was reading in bed or working on something.

There’s a lot of emotion in the world, even if there’s not much intelligence. But intelligence tends to produce things like McDonald’s and plastic bottles, so maybe it’s overrated.

Novel Count: 20,399

Currently Reading: Killing Commendatore, Haruki Murakami

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

Name the different kinds of people,’ said Miss Lupescu. ‘Now.’

Bod thought for a moment. ‘The living,’ he said. ‘Er. The dead.’ He stopped. Then, ‘… Cats?’ he offered, uncertainly.

Neil Gaiman, The Graveyard Book