Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 110


Coffee: Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee

I hear someone walking above me. I don’t know my upstairs neighbors. I’ve been living here for two years. These days, we’re all private people.

I get to know you by the way you walk. There’s a few people living there. Often, between the hours of six and seven thirty (pm), there’s a lot of banging above my room. I’ve narrowed it down to two options: you’re working out; you’ve lost control of the thing that lives in your closet.

Usually I don’t hear you. That doesn’t mean you’re not there. There are many things we do that don’t make enough noise to rock the floorboards. You might be reading. Or knitting your grandmother a sweater. Or you could be staring out the window at the lights above the playground, wondering why that one special person said no to kids. Or maybe you’re catching up on the Soaps.

The footsteps I hear tonight are light, brief, comfortable. You’re not thinking about what your feet are doing. It’s Thursday, you’re settling down. I picture pink bathrobes still damp from nine-thirty’s shower and a cup of water you’ll take to your bed. I don’t know where you keep the bed but it might be above me. And there you are, lying down peacefully, not knowing how your sound carries, or who the floorboards take it to.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

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

I don’t know how long I kept at it…
I felt reasonably safe, stretched out on the floor, and lay quite still.
It didn’t seem to be summer any more

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Coffee Log, Day 107


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

My head’s cornmush. One week of 5am mornings is catching up to me; my body will adjust; it hasn’t adjusted yet.

I read a lot of articles today but don’t remember most of them. There’s something to journalism: in the left ear and out the right. It’s supposed to read that way, you take what’s important and aren’t bogged down with the glut. Still, it’s a strange read. If I were wagering, I’d say it’s got something to do with the combination of matter-of-fact exposition and aggressively unfunny witticisms. But who knows…

The one that stuck with me was an article on the Yapese people of the Yap island, a former territory of Japan, currently inhabited by only two Japanese. Japan’s rule was long enough to have an affect on the islanders. They resisted the empire but only so much as any oppressed people can. What struck me was a small fact tucked in a gaudy paragraph about local festivals: unlike most other Micronesian cultures, the Yapese wear no tattoos. They used to, but Japan’s tattoo stigma took them away. For the festival, they still sheen in nut oils, celebrate bare-chested, but there are no more pretty pictures tied on them like brothers.

I don’t have much to make of that fact but it left an impression.

Currently Reading:
Americanah, by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

The Way of Kings, Brandon Sanderson

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“Wear your heart on your skin in this life.” – Sylvia Plath