after copious consumption of both punch cards and caffeine, i move to propose blue copper as the best coffee in town. i like cortados and flat whites because they have the right amount of milk, and this place does them both like they’re up for an award.
it’s only just now 9 a.m. and the world still feels quiet, the yellow locust tree in the courtyard dulled by the cloudy light. something about the moment makes me want to read a newspaper, the closest thing to which i have is a chrome window with thirteen unread articles open in separate tabs.
unpopular (?) opinion but i think fall should be at least 40% rain. how else can one reasonably achieve the moody and broody demeanor the season requires? on a 70-degree sunny day i am forced to consider alternatives:
billie holiday
walks down memory lane (scrolling through camera roll)
unnecessary quantities of herbal tea
closing the curtains and playing thunderstorm white noise on my speaker
there’s one particular maple on my street that far outshines the rest – the street tree equivalent of hot and popular valedictorian. of course, i would never convey this favoritism to its neighbors, not out of guilt but respect for their individual worthiness.
on my last walk i gathered what i fear to be the last bunch of grapes, the last bouquet of flowers before the frost comes for us all. there’s snow on the mountains, now, so it’s not looking good; this is the first season since i moved here that i didn’t buy a ski pass.
it could have been the last warm day but nobody knew for sure. i tried a new route to the coffee shop and found a table the perfect height for DJing discarded on the sidewalk’s edge. i didn’t run but marched quickly home to get my car, and then A called to tell me he wasn’t leaving town. i put the phone in the breast pocket of my overalls, on speaker, and heaved the table, solid wood, with a grunt into my trunk. an ash tree yellow like a traffic light looked on. slow down. i was panting but he didn’t seem to notice, drove all the way back to the house and cleaned the wood and set it clumsily in the living room.
still out of breath, i said goodbye, surprising myself with my strength.
speaking of strength, i decided i’m taking a break from alcohol until thanksgiving. i’m not a martyr but i do want to prove to me that i’m not. every few years i’ll spend three months pretending i’m not drinking too much wine: a charade that usually ends in a poorly timed hangover, a string of horrific migraines, or a confusing escapade in a stranger’s car. i’m not 20 anymore, which is an annoying thing to say at 25, but maybe it’s prudent to try on a new routine, before habits harden into traits.
my no wine november is more about discipline than abstinence. i foresee no future in which i do not have a bottle of orange wine in the fridge. i care about consumption being intentional, however. i’m wary of the crux at which the search for pleasure turns to the desperate desire for relief.
when i got back from burning man, i said everything would be different, and though i didn’t know how or when, i intend to keep that promise. nothing is black or white but wine is white or red or pink, and i have greater aspirations than to sit around and drink.
last weekend i had a yard sale and the whole block showed up. not really, but it was hopping, and i made at least two new friends. when i was a kid we had a garage sale in our cul-de-sac driveway, and i have a vivid image of my mother walking around in my dad’s tool belt. it must have been full of cash, because it wasn’t full of tools, and that was the sort of energy i attempted to bring to the event.
i think we forget in our modern diaspora that there are people in the houses on every street in our neighborhoods. in the age of the decline of the front porch, which was once referred to as the “living room of america,” it’s rare we come face to face with our neighbors like we used to, exchanging it for the contemporary privacy of backyard decks and patios.
often considered somewhat of a status symbol, porch sitting was perceived not only as a social and relaxing activity, but a legitimate way to prevent crime. (imagine!) it connected communities: providing the ideal setting to catch up with friends, talk business, and exchange gossipy whispers of who might be boinking who.
the heyday of the porch was between the 1880s and the mid 1920s, without air conditioning or television to incentivize hermitude. by the 1950s, the car was king, and there were fewer evening passersby to invite for a sit in the rocking chairs.
as a long time proponent of the venerable front porch, i seek them out in the houses i rent. what i didn’t realize was that the yard sale would take the porch’s ethos a step further, beyond a friendly passing wave or a brief hello-goodbye. i invited my neighbors in, let them try things on in my bathroom. i played music and we chatted about more than the weather, though never quite breaching the subject of boinking. i gave piles of clothes away because i soon considered everyone worthy of a discount. it was the first time in a while i felt like more than an online profile.
i feel grateful to live in a place where there’s even a sidewalk to walk on. in the average soulless subdivision you’re lucky if you can get to any place worth going on foot.
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eventually, i’ll write a whole piece on porches, preferably while sitting on my humble, rotting porch. it’ll have to be after thanksgiving, though. sorry. unfortunately, a porch sit is nothing without wine.
obsession of the week
a plain old cup of drip coffee. this is, unsurprisingly of late, shamelessly influenced by gilmore girls. rory and lorelai just make it look so chic. as much as i do love my milky espresso, there’s something timeless and cost-effective about a hot mug of black coffee. to be honest, it’s making the latte feel pretentious.