11/26/13– 9:02am. Leaving for café. Quite excited, I’ll disclose. Motivated by a reader’s response, this morning. Already had one cup. No details, other than the odd silence in this condo. Characters.. what I need. The café’s sounds, unintended instruments. Spoons, register chimes, orders, falling menus onto that carmelized wood floor.
My lips, again chapped. Not a surprise, with the heater on as much as it was last night. And now this morning. Rain not expected till Thursday, “Thanksgiving”. Not in much mood to teach today. Maybe ‘cause all I want to do is write. That has to be the reason.
Alice on her way back, with little Kerouac. Miss them both. I do enjoy the current quiet, around this desk, on both the condo floors. But it doesn’t represent the entirety of my actuality. It’s not Truth. It’s manipulated.
And suddenly, now, I don’t want to go to the café. I’d rather be here writing. That’s odd. I’ve fantasized a morning café coffee & comp session for weeks now. I probably need more coffee, that’s what it is.
Putting mySelf in Hemingway’s day. That is.. there were no laptops, no internet, no bloody cell phones. I’ll walk into that café armed only with the newJournal. Plus a couple pens. Won’t touch this laptop again till tonight, when home from 1A section, which by the way is now officially done with Mr. Poe’s work. Not sure what we’ll be doing in class tonight, but I need to cook something.
note: haven’t heard from Mendocino, yet… Do I call?
detail: disgruntled character, with work, older, still going from job to job [just what this writer will avoid].
detail: the student, always moving, planning, calculating… What I want to be, again. Thinking of that student I met yesterday, from Stanford. The drive in her eyes.. the obsession with her program, pursuit.. just what I’m craving, and what I’m nearing, I feel.