Coffee Log, Day 124

Hi.

Coffee: Fair Trade Ethiopian Medium Dark, Harris Teeter Brand

I saw graves in Pittsboro. The sun had gotten behind a cloud. NPR was running a story about an NFL player turned activist. Lunch was over. It had ended a while ago for the grave-dwellers.

What gets preserved…

In the late nineties, my parents built an annex. My mother’s father was dead; my grandmother needed somewhere less familiar to live. I watched the construction. The blond wood, the wet foundation. I practiced taekwondo routines when the workers weren’t around. The skeleton boards were Hong Kong.

Eventually, the annex was a home; then it was a grave when cancer got her; then it was storage. It was storage for a long time. Fifteen years – spiders replaced by other spiders – in 2013 life went south for me, I moved back home. I remember clearing the boxes. I made a new space in the annex and lived there two years in my early twenties.

In the end, though, when the centuries strip America, her blond particle boards will decay. In the luckier places, the foundation might stick.

Maybe you’ll see my footprints punching ghosts.

Currently Reading:

History of Wolves, Emily Fridlund (2017 Man Booker Prize Shortlist)

Support Relief for Family Suffering at the BorderRAICES DONATION CAMPAIGN

“We’re going to meet a lot of lonely people in the next week and the next month and the next year. And when they ask us what we’re doing, you can say, We’re remembering. That’s where we’ll win out in the long run. And someday we’ll remember so much that we’ll build the biggest goddamn steamshovel in history and dig the biggest grave of all time and shove war in it and cover it up.” – Ray Bradbury, Farenheit 451
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Coffee Log, Day 113

Hi.

Coffee: Organic Sumatra Blend, Trader Joe’s Brand

I’m getting bored of my same-old coffee. Any suggestions? Comment me some. It’d be swell.

I worked in Pittsboro. The last time I saw the city was in 2012 shortly after my apartment was robbed. We lived in Chapel Hill. After the incident, we spent a week at her father’s house in Cary – we couldn’t bare sleeping there anymore. Day two, I had to drive back to talk to the police and take inventory. To get there, I drove through Pittsboro.

I remember thinking it was a lovely, quaint town. Back then I didn’t recognize the bookstore that has racks of Nietzsche and historical accounts of Nazis; the confederate statue pointed North. I’d thrown up all night long. My mouth still tasted like acid. I was on the way to salvage a life I’d worked hard for. I welcomed my small town drive.

I took a walk today. I remembered six years ago. I saw the statue by the courthouse. I ate at an old diner on Main and was surprised they had vegetarian options. I talked to a lot of folks today, one of them saved $700 in pennies and donated it to a church project – they built a rec center. He told me he donates all his excess now. Three years ago, his house was robbed by his nephew. Took all the cash, valuables. He said he felt sorry for the guy, but that taught him money’s best when it’s doing work.

I don’t save much, mostly because I don’t have the opportunity. I don’t give much either, unless you’re counting time. There’s a few of us watching the Northern border that are trying to make up for the toll our ancestors took.

Currently Reading:
Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The Way of Kings, Brandon Sanderson

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“The robb’d that smiles, steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.” – William Shakespeare, Othello

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