Cafe Mind, Mind Cafe

Today I arose at a hefty 10 AM after lying in bed for more than an hour, staring out the window, at the screen, scrolling the tubes, watching the spectacle. After waking, I finished the cherry cider leftover from the night before, a nice, 6 oz. lift to what had all the trappings of a perfect Sunday morning, minus the availability of the Eucharist (my own fault, really). Instead of the liturgy, I repaired to the cafe, my seeming church, its congregants my brothers in faith, these days. There are all manner of folk here and only the old men come in, much like myself, for their soups and coffees alone. There is a boy who resembles the fat kid from Stranger Things on an awkward and seeming first date with a young lady. They make small talk and fumble with their cups. There are families, whole scores of people, with babies and children eating tiny portions of grilled cheeses. Old ladies consort in the corner. People stab plastic straws into disposable cups with a prurient urgency. Lana Del Rey is fucking slaying me and I'm close to sobs. Holy God, send a little help to your scribe down here.

Yesterday I was in the cafe solely for reading. I had been writing a truly insane piece of journalism that will never see publication (but that's okay) but put the juice on hold for the day in order to scratch around through a collection of thoughts from various authors. Continuing my education, as it were, refreshing the knowledge I'd forgotten. I stopped after each section in each book to "rest my eyes" as my mother would implore me if I video gamed too long. The cafe was a bustling oasis of warmth and I had just finished a story by Laura Van Den Berg (Volcano House) where the protagonist's twin sister fell victim to a mass shooting. I began to dwell on the absurdity of this, the logistics, the tactics, the possibilities of a man (white, mid-twenties) prepping in the nearby bathroom to gun us all to hell (the delicate click of rounds into magazines). I arose to investigate, found no shooter. Pro-gun Trump guy was in the cafe and I considered the lack of public violence in my town. How would one go about such an endeavor? Remember basic Marine training. Begin planning. Arrange recon. Make recon. Complete plan. The thing I can't remember unless I google (Its acronym's placeholder being an I). Supervise. What was I doing if not making said reconnaissance? I studied the layout of the cafe, the patrons, the curiosity of mass shootings happening in mostly open venues like supermarkets and malls. Here, we were/are target dense, few exits, choke points for bodies, literal fish in a barrel. Why hadn't the imagined guy from the bathroom come in blasting? Which corner would he take first? What child could I steamroll to escape? The thought of a hand grenade rattling around in the small nook. A possible incendiary device, maybe more. The pop pop pop of 556 rounds into puffy coats and bodies. The baristas flooding out through the kitchen in back. Maybe a surprise? Maybe Pro-gun Trump guy engages the target with a concealed pistol? Maybe an "allahu akbar" prior to a clean and final light? Rest your eyes, Benjamin. 

I go back to work tomorrow. Not excited about that one. I suppose its necessary as I've worn out my welcome at home and everyone needs a break. This "vacation" of mine has been, like all things, a mental odyssey. Another family through the door, vacantly looking around before selecting a table. A child in bib snow pants (mauve?) runs about smiling like everything, the world, life, is okay. The beauty of the young is so grand, in that they are ignorant of all the ways the earth will destroy them. Yesterday (Friday?) I watched a short-eared owl coast above the Matanuska river before plunging, presumably for prey, into the reverse slope of a nearby rise in elevation. Everyone is speaking wordlessly, replaced by the music making a circuit of my ears which in turn is equally as meaningless/ful. Ah, fuck it.

I suspect I should get in this balloon and motor.

No Title

The air here is tight and mind is moving. A man walks by in the street, smoking a cigarette and here I am under the cruel magnification of the window pane as the sun blasts in her meridian. The cafe is a bestiary filled with all manner of species. Below, on the walk here, I passed one of two known bus stops in town. It, the bus stop, is a scene of constant evolution and its current iteration is one of higher than usual entropy. There is a broken Sobe bottle, a bed sheet, and three cigars stubbed in rude lingams in the center of each seat. A story happened here.

A student killed themselves this past week. There are any number of reasons why one may take this course. I had to inform a friend of theirs via phone and the other student was literally speechless. I informed the student that they would likely receive many calls, cloyingly so, inquiring about their well being with the undercurrent of fear that this still living student might be pushed to flip the same switch as the deceased not necessarily out of an overburdening sense of another's life but that too many student suicides would cause inquiry and, as we know, inquiry into government contracts is never a good thing for corporate. I allowed the student could opt out of answering our number but that if the student wished to speak to me my office number rings out to my cell so anytime I was available. The student thanked me and I left them their space and own tumbling through the void. Hopefully, the message arrived intact.

There are ladies the next table over praying nonsensically over their food. Three women, different generations, all white giving thanks for their late lunch. Absurdity planes away in every direction. This morning on a pornography streaming site I saw, in the comments, the two top rated comments on a ridiculously gonzo scenario'd video were from what were likely two men. One poster, DannyDevito4206969, lamented life's pointlessness in the face of crushing loneliness and repetition and that the video was not even arousing due to the cyclical nature of suffering alone in the world. Other posters replied, encouraging this anonymous soul to maintain, maintain. Later on in the comment stream, Lay's Potato Chips delivered a text ad imploring the online fappers to satisfy their snack hankerings with their brand. I suppose meaning is where you find it.

The world is doomed, as it perpetually has been, but sometimes you get good news. A friend visits. You find a penny heads up on the biking trail. You fall in love farther than you had been. An eagle alit in a tree regards you. A billion little miracles flood your life at any moment leaving you in profound befuddlement. You slow dance with a cat to Lana Del Rey then weep for a young person now gone. Anything will happen.

The air here is tight and mind is moving.