2024, incomplete memoir, Ohio River Valley Literature, prose, Working Class Literature

I used to haunt coffee shops

I used to haunt coffee shops. When that was a thing. One of those spirits armed with a book, a notebook, a pen.  I’d hardly speak to anyone besides the barista.  I favored places that still served bottomless cups of coffee; it was the closest I could come to the greasy spoon joints I’d find at two in the morning, sometimes still drunk.  Coffee cost a dollar, though at some point some old codger would be there bemoaning used to be a nickle. That was before ‘Fair Trade’ was meant to make us feel better about the blood cost of coffee.

I used to haunt coffee shops, though my second ex-wife would call me rude for being anti-social in a social space. Like I broke the contract I never signed.  Though I would step outside to smoke a sometimes bummed cigarette, which I believed counted for something.

There are fewer tables and chairs for ghosts now. Now all the aimless spirits wander digital landscapes with earbuds blocking out the hum of other people’s lives. The coffee is To Go whether I want to go or not. We wander unmoored for the lack of coffee shops and hardly anyone has a cigarette to give anymore.

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2023, incomplete memoir, nonfiction, Ohio River Valley Literature, prose, the no-scape, Working Class Literature

A recovery update: 4 weeks to the day

Some of my post-surgery recovery reading: the new memoir from Werner Herzog.

Trying to keep busy is awful. Waiting is the worst. You’d think I’d have all this time to write, and generally, the amount of writing I do corresponds to the amount of time I have.

But I also tend to write better when I’m on the move… or at least in motion. At work. On the road. In between. Something. I feel a little stuck in my head. All the words tumbling uncontrolled like a high water crest rolling downriver towards a broken dam.

Waiting is unnatural for me, in the same way that being this stationary is unnatural. People are sometimes surprised to learn that my natural state is in motion, since I’m on the tubby side. But the human body is a machine made to function best in motion. At least this works towards some advantage with my PT.

Amanda got home from work yesterday, exhausted from the Good Work of the World. She fell like a lightning struck oak on her side of the bed face first — not even bothering to remove her purse or hoodie. To her credit we still managed to get out of the house. We went to Lowes yesterday to buy a new toilet seat because the old one cracked, and no one likes getting bit on the butt. I was very little help in the replacement process, but I did enjoy the outing. Scratch that. I NEEDED the outing and she, rockstar that she is, tolerated my lousy mood.

Maybe there’s truth to the stories of hardware stores’ rejuvenative powers?

We also at dinner at Kashmir, our favorite Indian restaurant. The saag paneer was amazing, if not a little spicier than normal.

The couple in the booth behind us reeked of an odor that I call “redneck headshop”… that powdery, floral combination incense that very white midwesterners associate with Far Eastern Enlightenment. [NAMASTE Y’ALL!] Even a little chokes the oxygen out of the room like the incense used during High Ceremony Catholic Mass. It didn’t take away from the food, though, or the amazing company.

Which is to say: thank you, Amanda, for being so amazing. I don’t deserve you. Then again, you knew what you were getting into… ❤️

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2023, aesthetic, incomplete memoir, Ohio River Valley Literature, poetry, prose, the no-scape, Working Class Literature

brief homily on aesthetic

Time and the river have washed away all of my lyricism. What remains is a poetry of growls and mud.

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