Coffee Log, Day 342


Coffee: Locomotive Blend, PennyCup Coffee

Two more weeks and I will have been posting coffee logs for a year. I’ve been posting daily, though I did miss one day. Still, 364/365 ain’t bad.

When you’re a kid, people tell you to journal. They want you to write but only so that you can become proficient. You’re supposed to know how to put sentences together. You’re supposed to present yourself professionally.

I always hated those assignments. They seemed silly and inconsequential. And to be fair, they were silly. Given a weekly prompt, keep your daily log. There’s no soul to writing something because you have to. No different than signing your name on a receipt.

But somehow I’ve come full circle and started daily blogging in my later twenties. Of course, no-one told me I had to do this. That helps. And the topics change based on whatever I happen to grab. But it’s still a journal, of sorts. There’s no way around that.

Today’s been rough. Nothing in particular has happened to make it so, just a feeling. Sometimes, sitting in your desk at work and looking at the world through the office windows makes you feel insignificant. It’s like a terrarium: you see all the acrobatics you’ve gone through to trap yourself. I’m happy, in a way, and that’s the saddest thing of all.

But at least I can take the time to write about it. A little bungee bouncing me back to some sort of center. And here you all are reading this, every day, for a whole year. Thanks. You must be very patient.

Novel Count: 19,974

Currently Reading: Killing Commendatore, Haruki Murakami

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By the time it came to the edge of the Forest, the stream had grown up, so that it was almost a river, and being grown-up, it did not run and jump and sparkle along as it used to do when it was younger, but moved more slowly. For it knew now where it was going, and it said to itself, “There is no hurry. We shall get there some day.

A.A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner

Coffee Log, Day 245


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

It’s been a week of traffic. I’m driving to a branch in RTP. Maps says 25 minutes but the trip always takes longer. I was five minutes late the first day, five minutes late the second, etc. I even turned the clock back on departure but I was late all the same.

I like it though.

Five years ago I was a teacher. I got the job in Durham then had a bad break-up. I’d been living there, the break-up broke that up. I moved home for awhile. The commute was Burlington to Durham, 45min one way. I left early and stopped for coffee at a truck stop in Haw River each day. I got to see the sun rise. On three separate occasions, I passed a burning semi pulled over in the pre-dawn. It got to be an omen. I didn’t like the commute so much back then.

But I’ve come to appreciate the in-between. Nothing can phase you on the road. No goals, no expectations. You’re stuck. It’s lovely. It may feel like you’re trapped, but really the whole world is on hold for you. What’s that? There’s dishes needing doing? Later! And work? Bumper-to-bumper says I’ll be a few minutes late. And when I get there I’ll unpack the car of all your things – the clothes, the letters, the mattress pad you used to sleep on, hand them off one at a time in your driveway, and watch you take the shortcut through the garden on a cloudy day to deposit yourself back in comfortable places, turn the key, wave from the window, and lovingly say ‘bye’ forever – but for now, the doors are locked and I’m moving, only looking left and right and never too far in the future.

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

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“A sip of wine, a cigarette,
And then it’s time to go.
I tidied up the kitchenette;
I tuned the old banjo.
I’m wanted at the traffic-jam.
They’re saving me a seat.” – Leonard Cohen