slipping by

I couldn't tell you where today went, we all seemed to have the lethargy, my guitar was distorted and languid this morning and my alto had less range than usual, coming home to zone out, go out and see the relatives, where the discourse is always thoughtful, coming home through sheets of rain listening to Alice in Chains, planted the rest of the seeds that might grow into flowers, lots of cleome that always reminds me of benevolent alien life forms or sea anemones, reading and drinking tea, bending copper wire into shapes with a pair of pliers because sometimes the words don't come. The cats have been lonely and interrupt whatever I'm working on, demanding attention and affection, bestowing sandpapery kisses.

I don't have much to say, so I'm not going to try too hard. It's a good night for contemplation, a comfortable moodiness, good for depressed brit-chick trip-hop and pondering of the good kind.

golden

There's more people than I'm used to here at the usual coffeeshop hangout, as I finish up my take-home quiz, drink ginger peach green tea, attempt to restructure the purgatorial novel along the lines of 'Dubliners,' scrawl feeble attempts at verse, and relish the solitude among texting teens, undergrads studying calculus, and a crew of middle-aged regulars.

It's nice to be somewhere where nobody knows your name but it's not unfriendly. The only person who's tried to talk to me was a bum who said I looked like a writer and tried to sell me a four-color pen in exchange for bus fare.

I keep thinking it's warmer than it is, not looking forward to going back outside because a thermal and a hoodie doesn't cut it yet. I don't want to go back out into the cold when it's so warm and golden in here, with the Christmas lights and the buzz of caffeine, the hum of indistinguishable conversation and muted music.