Tag: south of the border west of the sun

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 3

garethlivesay1 Comment

Hi.

Coffee: Sumatra Medium Dark, Trader Joe’s Brand

I’ve been writing these logs late in the day recently. Nine or ten, just before I go to bed. It’s like I’m trying to wait for something to hit me – some big thing. Of course there’s never that big thing. Only a marble-bag of small ones.

The rain broke today. All of a sudden everything was gunked up in sun. Blue-white skies and warm skin. People came out of the woodworks to check their mail, walk their dogs, talk to their neighbors – any excuse to be outside. I’m usually more a fan of cloudy days, but even I had to admit it was magic to see the sun again.

I remember when I first moved to this apartment. I had two weeks before I started a new job. I spent most days sitting outside under the gazebo. It was an old gazebo, full of wasps, it isn’t there anymore. Back then I was taking notes for a different novel. And I was keeping a journal, something of a predecessor to this blog. I wanted to make sense of that anxious feeling you get when you’ve moved somewhere new. I don’t know that I ever got my hands all the way around it, but the writing helped.

Night now. I should get to bed. I still feel like I’m waiting. It’ll follow me to sleep. Maybe we’re all always waiting for something. And it might be too boring to find it.

Novel Count: 26,571

Currently Reading: Killing Commendatore, Haruki Murakami

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“For a while” is a phrase whose length can’t be measured.At least by the person who’s waiting.

Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun


Coffee Log, Day 301

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Hi.

Coffee: Bolivian Medium-Dark, Trader Joe’s Brand

I’m convinced you can only love someone in the rain. Rain condenses your world. You have to think about where you’re stepping, whose hand you’re holding. There’s too much pressure to pick a direction in the sun.

A guy in a neon rain slick works phone cables in the parking lot. He’s whistling.

Dead meat steam meets him. A Mexican restaurant, lamps on, lunch tables.

I’m smelling cooked skin and car oil.

The radio tells me what it’s like being dry. NPR stories. But I’ve just got this space, this space, this space…

Lovely shadows of winter trees in every puddle; I’m over there, running to find you.

Novel Count: 6,563 

Currently Reading: Nothing! Done with Cherry, still deciding on the next book.

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

Look at the rain long enough, with no thoughts in your head, and you gradually feel your body falling loose, shaking free of the world of reality. Rain has the power to hypnotize. – Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun

Coffee Log, Day 167

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Hi.

Coffee: Fair Trade Five County Espresso Blend, Trader Joe’s Brand

I met a lady and her mother. The lady says: “Guess her birthday!” Her mother says: “Aha,” a bit embarrassed. The lady’s glowing so I throw out a number. “Wrong!” she says. “It’s September 1921!” I was off by 20 years.

A century…

My grandfathers died in their 70’s or 80’s, grandmothers did the same. My mother’s mother lived with us before she died. She had hospice. I got the call in 7th grade and my Dad came to pick me up. My mother was too torn up to drive. I remember sitting in the back of Lit class not telling anyone why I was leaving. I was scared of getting bullied; I was even more scared of pity. You’re a weed in the garden, something that doesn’t fit; death has stiff burrs.

Last year, I knew a woman in her 90’s. She had soft hands, I remember shaking them. She told a lot of stories then told them again; she’d become disconnected. We talked about Burlington. We talked about Greensboro. I knew her through a partner, we sat together in the winter-white bedroom and watched old family tapes. Those were nice moments, but they were just lace on the larger tablecloth of care-giving; winter-black nights trying to keep your hot, wet, scared, stressed, granddaughter’s body from shaking out of my arms.

I told my Dad I didn’t need to see the body. So he made the call, we drove a couple blocks, and came back to an empty hospital bed where her soul used to recline. My mother was crying in the living room, I wasn’t ready for that. Instead, I took five minutes with the empty bed. The last few months before she died, my grandmother had become disconnected. She called me by my uncle’s name; told unknowable stories to my mom. I’d seen her sweat, shake, and piss herself. Now, there were clean white sheets. Hospice had spirited away every trace of her. “Better place, better place,” but sometimes she’d seemed happy in her delirium. Didn’t know my name or maybe her own but she was still my grandmother. You’re never lost completely. Otherwise, why would the care-giving hurt?

The lady and her damn-close-to-100 mother drove off. They were beaming and proud. They had each other, had full heads and strong bodies. You never know who’s shaking themselves to sleep, though.

Currently Reading: LaRose, Louise Erdrich

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

“Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I’m gazing at a distant star.
It’s dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago.
Maybe the star doesn’t even exist any more. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.” – Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun
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