I scratch my head. Ah yes, the coffee.
From Some Stones Don't Roll
A Kindle Novella
I reach for my tweet writings. I read the New York Times in bed about how the Communists of China were attacking a commune where communism was actually practiced and harmony appeared to reign. Gray Communism Chinese Style is all government coming down on this breath of fresh air. And I think my own polity within my mind is just as fatuous as that. "Keep fewer things for a longer time." I look at my recent tweets. Two of them have minor errors. I am a fallible law giver. Do not trust me. The drip is faster now. I have lost $40K on paper in the last four days. I tell my man relax. Where are the pigeons? I will have some more coffee. Funny. Coffee was my nemesis when I was in my late 20s and going mad in Geneva. They said it was the coffee that was making me crazy. I believed them. I had no will. I was the captive of others all the time. I was without a center. I was a ripping success. I had friends who spoke truth. I hit walls and cried they will not move. Whew. I will have that coffee now.
I have a judge's chair whose skin has peeled and given way to duct tape and then to a denim covering it has lasted longer than most of these chairs I have had for decades now as I have spent all my days at this and other keyboards writing away, rolling away and pushing myself up ambulatory to go and get coffee. It has been five years of iced coffee poured into me and stowed in plastic highball sized screw top containers. Between sips I screw the top back on so I will not inadvertently cause mayhem with an involuntary movement which cannot be explained. There. Did I see a pigeon? Something went by outside. Outside I see my building reflected on the black glass side of the building across the street. I see two duplicates of the little lamp by my keyboard. I look over the obsolete music things on the sill and beneath the blind and nothing moves. The radiator that once functioned is mute. The floor is snaked with cords. I scratch my head. Ah yes, the coffee.
A Kindle Novella
I reach for my tweet writings. I read the New York Times in bed about how the Communists of China were attacking a commune where communism was actually practiced and harmony appeared to reign. Gray Communism Chinese Style is all government coming down on this breath of fresh air. And I think my own polity within my mind is just as fatuous as that. "Keep fewer things for a longer time." I look at my recent tweets. Two of them have minor errors. I am a fallible law giver. Do not trust me. The drip is faster now. I have lost $40K on paper in the last four days. I tell my man relax. Where are the pigeons? I will have some more coffee. Funny. Coffee was my nemesis when I was in my late 20s and going mad in Geneva. They said it was the coffee that was making me crazy. I believed them. I had no will. I was the captive of others all the time. I was without a center. I was a ripping success. I had friends who spoke truth. I hit walls and cried they will not move. Whew. I will have that coffee now.
I have a judge's chair whose skin has peeled and given way to duct tape and then to a denim covering it has lasted longer than most of these chairs I have had for decades now as I have spent all my days at this and other keyboards writing away, rolling away and pushing myself up ambulatory to go and get coffee. It has been five years of iced coffee poured into me and stowed in plastic highball sized screw top containers. Between sips I screw the top back on so I will not inadvertently cause mayhem with an involuntary movement which cannot be explained. There. Did I see a pigeon? Something went by outside. Outside I see my building reflected on the black glass side of the building across the street. I see two duplicates of the little lamp by my keyboard. I look over the obsolete music things on the sill and beneath the blind and nothing moves. The radiator that once functioned is mute. The floor is snaked with cords. I scratch my head. Ah yes, the coffee.
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