Disjointed Thoughts, But Not Because of Alcohol

I sit here, with a cup of rum beside me and an open notebook, wanting to write something. Two girls perch on the edge of my couch, as I slouch across a giant pillow on the floor.

I don't understand why I only get the urge to write when I am particularly down and out. Is the point of everything to prove that the stereotypes are true? To be a writer is to be depressed? I'd rather not, thanks though.

I sent an epically long email this afternoon, and it was more writing than I had done in a very long time. The more letters I write, the more I will be inspired to write.

One of my summer courses is an Ekphrasis course. It is a theory from Greek philosophy in which you respond to a piece of art with your own artform. We will be (hopefully) doing a great deal of writing and editing with feedback during the 7 week course. One can only hope.

Three Teenage Girls Walk Into A Coffee Shop. . .

I only have 21 minutes left of free wi-fi here at Starbucks. It seems that most of my posts are written from the beaten-up chair tucked into the far back corner on the right. The braiding is coming off the right arm, peeking out white cord beneath blue velvet. The back cushion is smashed out of shape, pressed down by countless people here for business meetings, meetings with friends, or as an escape from meetings.

The baristas are all loud, telling stories about co-workers not on this shift. The one other guy in here has the courtesy to walk outside to talk on his cell. I've been here since about 4.30. I did my Biology homework. I applied for a job. I drank a grande soy vanilla latte. I'm trying to figure out the best way to get home, while avoiding the traffic that loves this part of town. I would start going to the other Starbucks, but it is in a newer building. The coffee smell hasn't had the chance to permeate the walls there.

The coffee smell is home.

I get some of my best ideas sitting here, smelling the smell, listening to whatever mix cd was approved by all. Of course, even my best ideas aren't worth that much. Someday I'll get better at writing them all down. I suppose that's why I write here. At least I'm writing something, getting into the habit of it all.

Someday, my best ideas will be good ideas, and something will come of them other than outlines and plot sketches.

He's a big man now that he drinks at Starbucks

The barista's laugh is loud, grating. The two small boys at the next table stare, watching me flip through a thick chemistry text.

I'm not sure who I am any more. Gone is the sweet girl who swore to save herself for marriage, clinging to the dreams and myths of the 50s. In her place is an over-cynical quasi-optimist who doesn't really care about what she will feel tomorrow, only wanting justification and adoration in the here and now.

Weasley was perfect for the sweet girl I once was. He reminded me of a time when I wanted a thousand small children running between the legs of my many Great Danes.

He turned out to be truly idiotic. Forbidding me from large words in his presence, calling me every pet name but my own. Refused to step foot in my haven, because he hates coffee. Wanted sex-telly-sex-telly like a stereotypical guy.

So I went for it. I went for the brash Southern burr with the blonde hair and the defined abs. Turns out, those kinds of guys aren't any good for me either. He just wanted a quick and easy lay, not even holding my hand while leading me to the hill he wanted to couple on.

I kept thinking, If I coax him, he'll get sweeter, softer. He didn't. So we didn't. Did we? I'm not sure.

Perhaps my plans for the future are too big, too broad, too overwhelming.

The only reason I'm pursuing a degree is because the Peace Corps requires volunteers to have a bachelor's in something. In order to travel the world helping people, I have to learn how to help myself. But the purpose of traveling was supposed to be to find myself. Can I help myself before I know who me really is? The irony is astounding.

I'll write a book about it someday.

Lip Gloss

Writing isn't necessarily epic. I always forget this.

It can be the flash of a camera, rather than the steady lights of a stage. It doesn't need to be six novels long, trying to record how a frown became a smile. It can simply be the quirk of the corner of a pair of lips. A focus on the blossom of a secret grin. Ignore the surroundings, the hands, the feet, the other people. Just the one set of lips, shining with petal pink lip gloss, off-white teeth peeking from behind. The slight dimple forming on one cheek. Perhaps, perhaps, the crinkle of an eye, sparkling and warm.

I don't need to write that the lips are smiling because of X and Y and Z, in that order or maybe not. I don't need to write that the hands are clasped to a locketbookflowerforkwaterbottle of indefinite shape. It needn't take 672 pages to tell the whys-whos-wheres-whats-whens.

It takes as much skill to tell all that in 15 pages.

Wishy Washy Pandering

Oh jeez. 

I know I should ignore the ifs, whys, wheres, hows, whats, and just keeping writing the words down. But I want to KNOW and I want to know NOW. 

I'm sitting on my bed in a over-sized shirt and underwear, reveling in an empty house, listening to Debussy. I'm typing words and wanting to call it writing. The words could maybe be a story, an empty story full of hot air and worthless platitudes. It could mean little to me in the end, and even less to her.

But. But. 

It could be a tempestuous tale, wroth with significance and tears and smiles.

Attempts

Listening to Amanda Palmer always inspires me. I want to work with her on something someday, even if it is just to run her merch table at a show. 

How do you write about a person who wants nothing to do with you? I'm not sure what I think I want to say, just that I want to talk about her. I suppose I'll pour it all out, only to hide it away where the light of day can't find it. 

That's not true. I'll send it to my other half, to critique and comment and sympathize. 

Empty apartment we

would have been shared.

A lovely sunny place

with nooks and cranies packed

full of books and notebooks and knitting needles.

Second Time Around

There is another blog, floating around the interweb, with a similar name and a similiar style. I lost it, can't find it. 

I sit drinking coffee, reading words written by others, both hard and digital copies. A new phone sits next to me, another sign of the consumerism I haven't quite given up. 

As I read, I wonder. 

I've got words (stories-characters-plots-twists-endings-beginnings) in my head. But the creation eludes me. I want and want and want. Wanting does not mean success. Wanting does not mean words on a page at the end of the day. 

I've got a paper journal, full of thoughts and emotions. And another, full of poetry better left unwritten. I've got an electronic outlet, full of rambles and half-conceived ideas.