Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 165

Hi.

Coffee:  Maxwell House Master Blend, Office Coffee

All of us thought there’d be a storm. We heard it on the weather; common gossip on customer’s lips. And for a while it looked like the sky would crack like torn-up asphalt, but in the end the clouds cleared.

Every so often I go back to Greece. Not physically, of course. We got caught in showers coming down Mt. Olympus. They slicked up the ice toward the top and made it run. I wonder if that ice is still up there? The world’s a lot warmer than it used to be.

I walked by our apartment pool and it was full of people sun-bathing. Or drowning the week’s worries under five feet of water. They looked like skinned fishes in a Saturday market. They had pocks on their backs and matted hair. One family had a dog.

I like the sound a storm makes just before it arrives. The whip of air. Frantic quiet.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

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Older Fags and Younger Fags, Like Legally Young. Daddies. Zeus and Ganymede.
Ganymede was a child, Ziggy schooled her.
Yeah, You Were There, Michelle retorted, On Mount Olympus. You Were Working the Door. You Carded Ganymede.

Michelle Tea, Black Wave

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 126

Hi.

Coffee: Pike Place Drip, Apartment Office Coffee

Blood-red back of the eyes when you’re waking up late, sun already exasperating your room. I had dreams about you. I left those dreams for another day.

Later, in the evening, surrounded by friends, tv on in the background, sound like rolling in an inner tube down a wet ride at the water park, I check Facebook and see an old friend getting married. He’s all smiles in pearly white photos. She’s all smiles too.

Soon, another bedtime, to dream of drowning cities so stuck in old ruts they have to paddle.

Currently Reading: Queen, Suzanne Crain Miller

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Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. 
I am haunted by waters.

Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 94

Hi.

Coffee: Maxwell House Drip, Office Coffee

I got home and filled a white bowl with tap water then set it outside. There’s a longhair black and white cat that comes around. I saw her poking under my neighbor’s car. It’s 100 degrees. She was hiding from the heat so I figured she could use the water. When I came back, though, she’d run away. I left the bowl on the ledge we use for putting down bags as we get the door. I haven’t seen go for the water. She’s a skittish thing. But I once found her meowing at midnight outside my window so I know she knows how to get here. Tonight, at midnight, maybe she’ll come have a drink.

All day, the heat was all anyone could talk about. Pundits puttered about droughts and early fires. There was a break around noon when some clouds came over but then it was right back to the convection. Most of the gossip goes like this: “I’d have to wake up two hours earlier if I was to mow my lawn today!” One guy came in with a green hat and long sleeves. He works outside, construction. The heat must have been unbearable in all those layers, but I guess it’s better than getting burned.

Every year, the same old voices are loudly denying climate change. Meanwhile, a hole opened up so big over Australia that it’s killed off the Great Barrier Reef. It’s okay, I think, to destroy something if you’ve got a purpose. It’s okay to cut down a forest to build houses for your family. But the people bearing the brunt of climate change aren’t the ones benefiting from the destruction. Mostly those too poor to move out of the way of tidal waves or heat death. That’s a bit depressing. It’s aggressive. One man turning up the temperature in all the other rooms while sipping ice-cold margaritas. We should all be fixing margaritas for each other, or else settling for a splash of tequila in a salted shot.

Burn the world a little bit if you have to, but do so equitably, and with enough sense to leave the house out of the fire.

Currently Reading: Have picked a new book but not had the chance to start it yet; more info to come

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Once again there was the desert, and that only.

Stephen King, The Gunslinger

Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 45

Hi.

Coffee: Maxwell House Drip, Office Coffee

Rain came dramatically after work, a thunderstorm. It’s turned us all into frogs hopping between tiny islands of dry ground. We need the rain. It’ll wash off some of the pollen. Earlier, everyone was coughing on a yellow pine-pollen cloud.

I made something new for dinner. It had many familiar parts – onions, soy ground beef – but the seasoning was different. I chopped up cilantro. I added two limes’ worth of juice. I topped everything with cans of black beans. Mexican-inspired. I served it over rice. It was a good experiment.

Today was long and frustrating. I spent a lot of time spinning in place. Not literally, of course (that might have actually been fun). Work was a series of problems. I solved all of them, but they weren’t the kind of problems you feel any sort of accomplishment having solved.

I think that’s where I’ll leave it today. Right now, I’m drinking a glass of water and listening to the rain. I’m trying to move from ‘frog’ to ‘fish’ so when the thunderstorm goes long enough and the creek outside stars flooding, maybe it’ll carry me away.

Novel Count: 37,208

Currently Reading: The Sense of an Ending, Julian Barnes

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And since today’s all there is for now, that’s everything.
Who knows if I’ll be dead the day after tomorrow?
If I’m dead the day after tomorrow, the thunderstorm day after tomorrow
Will be another thunderstorm than if I hadn’t died.
Of course I know thunderstorms don’t fall because I see them,
But if I weren’t in the world,
The world would be different —
There would be me the less —
And the thunderstorm would fall on a different world and would be another thunderstorm.
No matter what happens, what’s falling is what’ll be falling when it falls.

Alberto Caeiro


Coffee Log, Day 206

Hi.

Coffee: French Roast, Trader Joe’s

My car smells like the ocean. Maybe the hurricane stuffed the hood with fish ghosts.

I took two trips today: short ones, the first to get groceries, the second for dinner. The grocery store was vacated like a June school building. The restaurant was the same. A long weekend for some, hard weekend for others, everyone reeling from the vacuum-suck of dodging Florence’s bullet – we made it through safely. Banks and government offices will re-open tomorrow. September keeps passing. Today gave us all time to sit and think about wasted preparation; the responsibility of safety.

I think I’ll donate the case of water, jars of peanut butter I bought and didn’t open. Give goods to people that need them; lessen the sunken weight of prosperity.

Currently Reading: Autumn, Ali Smith

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“While we do our good works let us not forget that the real solution lies in a world in which charity will have become unnecessary.” – Chinua Achebe

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Coffee Log, Day 187

Hi.

Coffee: Sumatra Medium-Dark Roast, Trader Joe’s; I brewed a pot but stopped drinking 3/4 through. Bored coffee or bored life?

Carrying couches in a house stripped to underboards. Tonight, R and I helped his brother furnish. He had the radio going early aughts and the AC panting like the last kid in track. It was a nice house, sexagenarian, unkempt lawn lilacs, picture windows, broody strange corners that’ll make future kids (if they have any) cry ‘ghost!’ As with all moves, each piece of furniture was awkward and all of it had to go upstairs.

My arms ache – I miss this feeling. First year back from overseas, I worked part-time at a clothing store. I was backroom, stocks and boxes, lifting crates up ladders. I got to know clothes and I got to know sets of prepacked instructions: build this, build that. I woke up early and left at noon. I had nice, thick shoulders. I was trying to write a novel that I later scrapped.

Bottled water – ‘purified by reverse osmosis.’ R’s brother bought this at a Food Lion, now it has a corner of my crowded table. I read and re-read the label. I think how lovely it might be to be ‘purified,’ whatever the method. Blood transpires like mountain mist and I’m left clean, empty, wonderfully waiting to be refilled. I have a habit of going to work on time, coming home later, spending a few hours after dinner looking forward to this or that exhibit, party, date, publication. A long time ago, my part-time labor brought me home to sweated afternoons in my parent’s annex, alive with generative thoughts I still haven’t formed.

But the point is, it’s easier to think with sore muscles than a busy head or heart.

Currently Reading: LaRose, Louise Erdrich; FINISHED!! Will have a review soon

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“Minerals added for flavor.” – Food Lion Water Bottle

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Coffee Log, Day 154

Hi.

Coffee: India Extra Bold Roast, Cafe Crema

I’ve been eating raw tempeh for a week. I thought that was okay, but apparently it’s dangerous. In Japan, I ate eggs fresh-cracked and uncooked pig intestine from a shady bar. What’s ‘dangerous?’ Yesterday, I read an article about parental hand-holding shaping an entire generation to be anxious and depressed. Today, I went ahead and cooked the tempeh.

They just found liquid water on mars, or at least the probably did. It’s buried a mile deep near one of the ice-caps and they can’t figure how it hasn’t frozen. They also found a petrified piece of bread from 14,000 years ago in Jordan. It revised some logic, complex cooking must have come first, farming after. Apparently, the Epipaleolithic chefs seasoned the bread with mustard seeds. Beetle-eyed conspiracy theorists are revising their Martian narratives: the ships came quicker, and they taught prehistoric man dope recipes.

A restaurant in an airport doing high-volume; beef bowls; pickled ginger; gray plastic bowls to prop your cracked egg.

Currently Reading: LaRose, Louise Erdrich

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“If there is a hard, high wall and an egg that breaks against it, no matter how right the wall or how wrong the egg, I will stand on the side of the egg. Why? Because each of us is an egg, a unique soul enclosed in a fragile egg. Each of us is confronting a high wall. The high wall is the system which forces us to do the things we would not ordinarily see fit to do as individuals.” – Haruki Murakami

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