so I have no choice but to ingest a noisy sbux right along with the 3shot moch’… ugh, the mood sinks. Why do these fucking people have to be so boastful with their lives; the women in the corner, talking about who dated who and who’s friends with who and why and then going into gossip about “how they’re all…”
Then don’t listen, you’re probably thinking.
Okay.. I’ll try.
No I won’t. ‘Cause I can’t. Even the women to my right, one table in front, with her daughter is quiet. Why can’t adults?
Need to keep phones in bag. All times. Still jittering from two cups brewed in Autumn Walk Studio. So I hold off on sipping the coffee-milk cuvée.
rime note: “compositional cuvée, amalgamation, never losing or separating from concentration— awkward and obstinate oscillation, okay so what I’m often brazen…”
One of the ladies in the corner just increases in volume. Ignore it, ignore it… I’m trying.
READER: Has this ever happened to you? How do you ignore someone talking SO loud, just ignorant to the people around them and to how outer-space-height in volume?
Deep swig of the moch’. All I taste is milk and espresso. Good. My fire will run past the words.. oh, more gossip, shocker.
Transporting myself to a cabin. In the Sur woods. Solitude. Only life, no nearness to or fear of death. Not woebegone, not goopy. Just me: meditative, appreciative, looking at the ocean and how it just roars for me, my new love affair, wanting to rise for a short walk around those trees then back to the cabin but I just stare more. I don’t even write. No singular words, no sentences, sounds, or odd rimes, just watch the waves and the hovering gulls staring down at the blend of intense blue and foamy white, light blue encroach on odd green. This cliff tells me, “Do what you want, don’t plan, just live, live and live with a careless color and shape.”
9:07, and my daydreaming is broken by the time, the numbers hopping into my eyes from the screen’s dreaded upper-right corner. Miss my babies, little Kerouac with how sweet he was this morning, telling me how much he’s going to miss me and little Emma, smiling at me as I walked into the room to check on her thinking she was still asleep but no she was right there, waiting to gift me a smile to start my written day.
Yesterday confirmed, with an striking force, bomb-like impact, that I am meant to teach. Share and exchange ideas, help students reach where they want to be, both as reader and writer, student, but Human as well. And again, HELP. I can’t do so on my own. I’m not that good at what I do.
How would those yappy harlots in the corner react if I threw the rest of this bagel at them? I have half, so just enough to piss someone off if I were to throw it at them.
“What they go, what they go…” one of them, the quieter of the loudies, says.
What the hell?