Now Playing: Layla, Clapton’s acoustic version

“He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with his hands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop. ‘Do you know I’m very much afraid of it – of that remarkable mind of yours?’”
— Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady

Likewise, Mr. James. Though I’m not sure I’m afraid. More like fascinated. I could “talk” to you forever. (Reading counts as talking, right?)

This morning, I visited a coffeehouse I hadn’t tried before. It was just what I needed, at least on a Monday, especially this Monday, as I try to reenter the world. I want to say so many things about it, but my heart feels quiet. Contented. Seen. Heard. Move along. The jewelry box is closed—except to its owner. It has a key, but you have to earn it with stories and poems.

Speaking of owners, the owner of the coffeehouse told me proudly that he brews his own lavender syrup, and I told him I’d sip my London Fog with reverence to acknowledge it, and I did. When I returned indoors, he looked eagerly for my verdict.
“Fantastic. I’ll be back,” I said.
Though maybe not every day.

I tend to frequent my old haunt, full of so many memories. It’s now run by a nonprofit that trains people who need jobs. Here’s how they describe themselves:

“A coffee house experience that opens new doors for an inclusive community. Advocating for individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities. A community experience like no other, with a delicious cup of coffee!”

They’re lovely people, and I want to support them as much as I can.
And that porch. That long covered porch with its slatted ceiling and acorn-shaped finials. The Japanese maple I’ve watched grow more handsome each year. The floors I’ve walked while rocking a sentence. Almost 18 years of history now, though this is the second owner. Eighteen years. How can that be?

You’d think I’d be over drinking tea outdoors by now.
Nope. I will always love it.
I’m okay with that.

Yesterday, I opened my novel and really thought through it, something I haven’t done in a while. It’s going to require reworking, which is both exciting and frustrating. You’d think I could write one novel, just one, without circling endlessly. Bring the damn plane in for a landing, Word Raccoon. I think she’s just too nosy, always wanting to see what everyone else is up to. Curious. Let’s call her that instead.

Today, I opened another novel, the physical copy of Portrait, and found I was starving for it. It came alive in a way the AirPods version just doesn’t. Like eating real food after days of funeral cookies. I sat with it, touching sentences like the letters were raised. I hope I never lose that feeling for beautiful words and the story they build.

(What’s a synonym for sentence? I can’t think of any, only distant cousins. Well, period used to be one, but that’s archaic now, except in academia, if I remember correctly. Hmm…I wonder when it became associated with end punctuation. I could look that up, but not now.)

Sometimes, when you press on a sentence with your finger, you can see something liquid come from it. Nectar? Water? Wine? I don’t know what to call it, but it’s quenching.

Speaking of real food and drink: I wanted a salad for lunch, but I was too tired to go get one. And I cannot believe this, but we had zero vegetables in the refrigerator. Do not trust websites that chirp, “Hey, tell me what’s in your cabinets and fridge and I’ll tell you what you can make.” I feel betrayed. And more than a little unsatisfied by the dubious results featuring microwaved frozen vegetables, canned chicken, and kimchi topped with “bam bam” sauce.

I gave that kimchi a free ride to the trash can.
(I have a grocery order coming tomorrow, so I’m good. Or I will be.)

My husband’s band is playing this Friday in Huntington. I’ll be rushing there from a hair appointment, because apparently, the longer your hair is, the longer it takes (that can’t be right). But hey, my hair will be ready.

Also… rumor has it the gig is half a block from a bookstore. I might have to sneak off and scout for more poetry.

We were watching Hacks last night (I DID NOT SEE THAT PLOT TWIST COMING!) and just: wow. Those writers are UH-MAZING. They embody the “leave it all on the floor” philosophy. They twist again, leaving nothing but the recurring themes and echoes.

While watching, I happened upon something online, an object that had belonged to a painter, and I was mesmerized. I wish I could show it to you, but it ripped a poem out of me and I don’t think I can even share the title yet without giving away my little plot twist. Rats.

I think I only wrote one other poem yesterday:
On Learning (Redacted, but a Relative) Read Fifty Shades of Grey and Not My Novel
(FYI: I have not read those books. Not my style.)

I’ve only written one poem today.
Maybe my poetry doesn’t like the kimchi either.

No matter. I’m still mentally sipping that London Fog and reading Portrait of a Lady. Or is that Henry James drinking it?