Saw this in the rearview mirror and wondered--Carter's death or the rise of Trump? I know I said "no politics," but what can I do? The man is a behemoth. He dominates everything all the time. Here is my favorite "Bond" moment from Monday.
This has to be SPECTRE!
O.K. I'll stop.
* * *
Let's begin again. This is my new view each morning when I open the curtains of my mother's kitchen window. When I write, I sit in the chair I slept in for months after the accident facing the back wall of the living room. I fall asleep in the same chair now some nights when I am reading. I feel nothing about it, no horrible memory or spookiness. Incredibly, I think, I have no PTSD over the whole affair, and rightly I should. I hate what it did to my body and overall wellbeing, of course, but I just get on with things. In the afternoons, I go to my house. It is already becoming something of a stranger to me, the familiarity, the daily routines and rituals. Perhaps, however, it is good. Maybe I was wearing ruts.
I am making new ones here, and they are not so much of my own choice.
There are some of the old habits still, though. I went to the cafe yesterday mid-afternoon. I had gone home to do some business before the maids came. A soak, a shower, and out the door.
One of the kitchen kids was working the counter, the 70's punk rocker with the girl band. The day was gloomy and grey, the cafe quiet.
"Do you know how to make a cafe con leche?"
Her eyes danced a moment, then she shook her head.
"That's o.k. I'm going to teach you. It's easy"
"O.K."
She looked comfortable behind the counter now, moving gracefully and with ease. I told her so.
"Yea, I used to be like. . . ." She made some uncertain, spasmodic herky-jerky movements and laughed.
Then I noticed the music. Holy smokes, '50s cafe jazz stuff.
"Did you pick the music?" I asked.
"Yea."
"It's great."
"Yea. . . it's kind of a moody day."
She's like twelve years old. I had underestimated her.
She handed me my coffee.
"Thanks," I said. She smiled, I think, at the compliment. I said no more. Good. I have to keep myself in check, you know. Living the life I am makes me susceptible to over-talking. I do not like over-talkers, though I now understand the phenomenon. I know its source.
I took my coffee to a table in the "other" smaller room. I sat down facing the wall of windows. Silhouetted at the facing table sat a girl and a boy. He got up and walked outside to vape. The girl was bone thin with straw hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. Hight top Chucks, palomino colored peddle pushers, a corduroy jacket over a nondescript top. Her left foot and knee were bouncing like crazy as she stared at her computer screen. I'd read that the bouncing leg burned up significant calories. I think I read that. She was really burning them, then, I suspected.
Then I looked around the room. At another table sat two BIG girls drinking iced mocha lattes. The one facing me had a bouncing leg, too. I was disappointed since I have that affliction, too. I'd hoped it was an easy weight loss solution.
The muted light fell through the windows onto the big cement wall where they hang the art displays. It was blank now, just a rough textured surface with a subtle, swirling, irregular brownish hue. I've thought about that wall before. It is perfect for portraits. I had three very good cameras in the car. I wanted to get one. I wanted someone to stand before the wall so I could make a photo and see how it looked. I wanted to get the counter girl. I wouldn't, but I wanted to. I just don't have the moves anymore, don't have the confidence. I did. Once. For most of my adult life, really. I was certain people wanted me to make a photo of them. I was certain a photo here with the soft, filtered light coming from the window and the irregular wall would be beautiful. Trust me. It would be something perfect. But I don't have it now. Maybe it is not me that has changed, though. Maybe it is the world. Still. . . I don't know. . . someone can certainly do such a thing with grace and ease and confidence. I'm sure she is young. Could be a he, but more likely a she now. Hip and unafraid. I could picture her doing it.
It is a seduction, such a thing as that. It is. This is something I know.
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