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In honor of International Coffee Day (tomorrow), I share with you this slightly abstract shot of coffee steaming in a styrofoam cup on the porch of the Rabbit Ears Motel. It was very good coffee (to me), which means that it’s like coffee you’d get from a truck stop or a jar of Folger’s Crystals. In other words, anyone else would think it was terrible coffee. Poor MKL is a bit of a coffee snob, and is scandalized by my lack of taste in this area. But it has provided us with kind of a code for the quality of coffee in restaurants, as detailed below:

Me: Is the coffee good?
MKL: YES! Would you like a sip?
Me: No, thank you.

Or…

Me: Is the coffee good?
MKL: You’ll love it. (Because he doesn’t like to speak ill of things I like.)
Me: Thanks! (drinking the whole thing)

Mystic Coffee
Steamboat Springs, Colorado.

Quote of the day: “Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives… and to the “good life”, whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.” — Hunter S. Thompson

Daily gratitudes:
Bookstores
MKL
Cooler air
Healthy grocery shopping
Helping people find their way

I love this shot – it looks like a slightly abstract painting to me.

It’s the end of a long-short week – curious, isn’t it, how four-day work weeks can feel as if they are six days long? I’ve had a lot of thoughts this week – about the future, about possessions, about forgiveness, about mortality – and have reached no particular conclusions, except that I am looking forward to the future. And the rest of those things take work – except for mortality, of course, because we have so little control over that.

DSCF0755

 

Exuma, Bahamas.

Quote of the day: “Without leaps of imagination or dreaming, we lose the excitement of possibilities. Dreaming, after all is a form of planning.” — Gloria Steinem

Daily gratitudes:
Watching tiny children determined to open heavy doors
Increasing the weights in my workouts every day
Snuggles with Mr. Man
Fred Astaire dancing on the ceiling in “Royal Wedding”
That stuff that melts ice on the sidewalk

 

In His Era
(In abstract memory of the late Clark Wang.  Rest in peace, Clark.)

It was last week we found ourselves in Cat’s Cradle
After sangria on the too-cold rooftop of Papagayo’s
Waiting for the music.
We danced and smiled and bloomed
And Zan lusted after me
And I laughed and said no.
(I learned months later in a Boston parking lot
that he had a wife and six kids.  I was glad I had said
no.)

Sarah and I always wound up our nights
at the Continental Cafe, even when they were close to closing.
Coffee and Perrier
and talk of darkness in the lights of our souls.

Tonight, I indulge in Irish Whiskey with Christine
in a too-loud pub.
We talk of everything, and I lust
sight-unseen
after her 20-something son,
forgetting how old I am.

In my heart’s age,
my mind’s years,
I am still sitting on a wooden bench
at Cat’s Cradle,
marvelling at the music
as Trina and the band warm up,
and wondering who will
walk through the door
and what will happen
next.

I am not creeping up
on a half a century
unplanned,
writing poetry at night
on a public bus.

Or fighting a lingering battle with death,
and losing.

Or perhaps I am.
Perhaps we all are.

June 2019
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