12:39p. Literary lunch, but on Saturday. At Starbucks on 12 and Mission. Glare from ricocheting sun, from floor tile, bothering me here in the back. Mocha2. No prompt for this session, just to ingest all around me, let all these characters fall into the consciousness river. Two ladies at 12, early forties, talking about goings-on in each other’s family, I think. Have wined beats playing, but not loud. So a little detected dialogue. Two ladies at the small circular wooden table to my left. One in a chair, the other, next to me, on this long cushioned booth seat. Another man, older, at my 1, reads the papers, with a small cup of steaming black. He too looks so eased by the Saturday reality. Another character, an attractive 20-something blonde, at my distant 2:45, sips a drink through a straw, probably not to stain her teeth. Not a cold cup, as it’s not in a transparent container. She reads a book. Also with little concern, like I and the 1 o’clock role. Weekends, some living solely for their days off. I won’t be that way, ever. I hope. Each day’s a working stint, something worthy of capture, for the page. The lady next to me dumps sugar into her coffee, three packets. Stirs it like there’s a rush. She laughs with her friend, before the friend gets up to get a napkin. The lady to my right, not on the cushion but at a singular table, types on a calculator, for her math homework, in a workbook of some kind. Probably mid-40s, back to school. Can’t help but feel happy for her, strangely proud of her.
Only 2 shots in my fuel. Don’t think I can talk another 3. Haven’t written here in years. The last time I had a sitting here was, I think, three years ago, just after xmas. It was pen-to-paper. Poetry, spoken word. Yes, I remember getting that Poetry Speaks book, bringing it with me. On a collection mission, with my verses. Recent and past. Again, staggered by how much I’ve written. This truly is my theology. These words, pages. The language, the authors, books, thoughts, Exchange of Ideas. Planning on leaving this coffee shop around 2p, which gives me, currently, 6 minutes with an extra hour. Love weekend Lit Lunches, in their more accommodatingly situated frame.
No wine for a while, for me. Empowered, even though I miss a varietal’s kiss. This is out-of-character for me, something I’ve wanted to try for a while. Probably why I’m enjoying it so much. Man just set a bag down, table at right. Feel too constricted, enclosed. Do I leave, or stand ground? His role: late 40, academic wardrobe, like he teaches math or Anthro at SSU. Miss the classRoom, every time I mention anything studious or scholarly. He returns, only to pull his table away from mine. He stands with his newspaper, rocking slightly back and forth. Not as settled as the surrounding cast. He stands, minutes after entering space. He reads, rocks, flips page, continues in teetering waves.
Have to use the restroom, but don’t want to surrender this seat. Could ask the ladies left to watch my spot. But I’m not that trusting, proudly. The 12 o’clock ladies depart. I dash… No, halting Self. Don’t want to be rude. But what do I care? Then, the professor’s wife sits next to me. She points to the ladies’ table. They rise, take possession of it. Then change mind, take the table in front of the blonde. Interesting. Wife pushes chair along the tiles, about twenty feet or so, awakening all present, even me over music from my phones. Even more interested.
[1/21/12 – Sa]