Coffee Log, Day 237

Hi.

Coffee: Colombian, Starbucks Brand (grocery store bought, a gift)

The train tracks are brown all around but silver on top. That’s where the force of friction burns clean as the train goes by. I’ve always liked this, the contrast. It’s hopeful – maybe we can all be burned clean.

I’ve been too busy this week to keep up with the news. I can imagine it just fine. I don’t know if it’s the times we’re living or if I’m just getting old but I’ve gotten to where I can tell the national trauma by checking peoples’ faces.

Today, I ate lunch at a Noodles & Co. It was busy, slick, wealthy. People kept coming in from the outside. Halfway through my meal (a pad Thai, too sweet) this girl in a red NC State hoodie takes a table two up from me. She has her plate, glass, everything she needs. But it’s a window table, and tall, and public, so she picks everything up again and sits in the corner where the walls meet. She eats fast and fingers a tablet. Her bushy black eyebrows are winter caterpillars.

So after lunch, I knew the world must still be wrong.

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

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“I’ve got nothing to offer you kids but these noodles. They’re good noodles but they won’t change the world.” – Madeleine Thein

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Coffee Log, Day 228

Hi.

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

I didn’t take a shower until 4:00pm but when I did I lay down and let the water tell me about its day.

I didn’t work today; the banks are closed; it’s Columbus Day. A perfect celebration for modern America: wealthy white man who gets lost, screws up, loses half his fortune then makes it back on the backs of brown-skinned bystanders. Reminds me of a certain president.

But personally, it was a good day. I slept well. I dreamt of reconciliation; dreams are as close as you get sometimes. I spent the morning working on projects, the afternoon drinking ice water and submitting short fiction. For dinner, I went with a roommate to Remedy Diner in Raleigh. They serve the Impossible Burger, she wanted me to try it on account of my meatless-ness. I tried it. It was good. Had the tang like something had died for me, but nothing did, nothing with a head full of thoughts anyway, and so it was guiltless. Outside, NC State students paraded to this or that bar like they’d never know another summer.

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

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“In this world, there are things you can only do alone, and things you can only do with somebody else. It’s important to combine the two in just the right amount.” – Haruki Murakami, After Dark

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Coffee Log, Day 147

Hi.

Coffee: India Extra Bold Roast, Cafe Crema

We sat outside at two black tables with a tree taking up half the space. The tree was potted. Someone had stuck a bow in it.

‘Writers’ – what a weird word. Less a profession than a red-eyed cry of aspiration, though anyone of us claiming the title probably wishes there were dollar bills behind it. I called myself a writer in elementary school when my poems won contests and my first short story was printed and bound by the school librarian. Then I stopped in high school when I realized I was only writing for myself and friends.

Well, I’ve been published a couple times since then. It’s not much, nothing to brag about, but I mention it because it didn’t take the feeling of ‘not-a-writer’ away. In 2016, the sense that no matter who saw me, who read me, I might still feel insufficient sunk me like a swiss cheese boat. I’m still sinking. But I’m also working harder, planning smarter, and writing every day.

Am I a writer yet? Damning, liberating, only way I can respond is: who cares?

I ate falafel with friends from the Third Wednesday Open Mic tonight. They all wrote good words. Secretly, though, I spent half the night staring at the girl in the black dress with the boat-oar legs at a separate table; she was scribbling something furious in a bound journal.

Currently Reading: LaRose, Louise Erdrich

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“A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” – Thomas Mann

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