Cafe Letters
Writing a letter might get you out of that stuck place; now you have an audience of one and your communication has a clearer objective.
Today, we’re digging into the crates of Open Thought’s fourth volume, A Closer Look at Nothing.
Waking up this morning, I received three soft little paw taps on my shoulder. For a second I thought it was one of my cats trying to get my attention—then I realized the door was closed. Both cats were in the front room.
Was it Pema?
I called out to her.
No matter how alone we think we are, it’s just the opposite. That’s the spirituality of life. The circumstances we find ourselves in indicate all the elements of story. These things can change in our favor. It all depends on perspective. Being alone, living alone, can be an absolute luxury. To die for.
Reminders of sentiment. For the time being. Grass fed. Fail to set sail. This morning is streamlined in the mid-50s, the early days of Spring, flipping for joy in easy steps through town.
The coffee from the other day did its damage. Now you know. The body fights to heal back up from that. The acidity is no joke. I wish I could have it my way, but no. It’s the other way around. Now I can barely manage the caffeinated iced tea. I’m wrestling through the pain.
I knew this kid, he walked up to a stranger on the street and said—Is this real?
Step away from certain people who will only drag you into a world of pain. Don’t believe me? Find out for yourself. You’re gonna do that. You’re reading this now after having done that. It’s over. You’re in the middle of it. You’re paying the price. You could be writing me how much you’ve paid, how much you regret it.
Is This Real Kid got everyone in his car and held them hostage. Started crying and freaking out, sped through town with a lead foot. Screams. Screaming. Slow down. Stop this car. I’m getting out. Many flew out.
When you’re young, everyone is a part of the experience, life expectancy is an unknown variable. Living on the edge. Living dangerously. You never know who is gonna walk in through the door and what you’re dealing with. My own foundation is like You’re gonna have to deal with me, though. You don’t know me, either.
Do you really want to make the world a better place? How these thoughts fly up—there’s the speed of the mind, but also this rotation loop track. You’re looping. Remember being in the dirt? You’re looping. I think of last year running around being social, drinking a bit before I knew my liver couldn’t handle it. There was meeting new people, and getting into some great conversations.
Now, I’m white-knuckling the crust from eye corner, both eye windows. Deep pools. Entrances. River path leading to inner meaning. The consciousness becomes more refined. You start reading minds. Older now, the days are blending together. So don’t dismiss an older person. See if you can pry into what they’re really trying to say. Initially, they might not want to give it to you. Not everyone is feeling as charitable as a writer.
Alcohol, if the body can handle it, can open the door to the truth. That’s where we need to get. Chances are, you’re not ready.
Dark times ahead.
There could be another plague
in the works,
and Trump
again.
Try to push these thoughts away, but they're here. Such a future is possible. We will have to make the best of it. People can turn into killers. They probably already are. Sentences spill the charms. Make sure not to fake your own death. Water thaw.
Ice loaded into the microwave. What will happen? Flowers bloom throughout the dormitory. Thank you for your service. Trouble in paradise.
The dream was destroyed by the alarm clock vibrating on my wrist. Apparently, nothing else happened. Nothing is going on.
The characters come back for a reunion but aren't given anything to do. They're sitting on the couch and one of them tries to mask his drinking problem. He's living on borrowed time. Let's get through the interview. Who knew this would be something of a Thanksgiving dinner? Who knew you'd turn into the wild uncle?
Ask the Chief of Police to do his fucking job. Okay, we're off on the wrong foot. Try something else. When the slab is blank, try counting sheep leaping over a country fence.
Oh, sleep tactics, I forgot. I wanted to mention this some time ago, my findings. A great way to do it is to count from one to twenty and that's it. No need to sync the numbers with your breathing or anything. Just count and notice how you're slightly changing as a person as the numbers pass. Count along until it tires you out... You soon will find yourself falling into dream. It can happen as easily as that. It's a trick to calm the mind so it can rest and enter a state of rejuvenation.
Sleep and meditation are so important. Probably you should avoid doing both of these in public. Don't let the world catch you in such a vulnerable state. This is in your control. You decide when to release your vulnerability. Insist to hold the keys. When you're driving, you also control the radio. Road rules.
Anyway, write me back, if you can. Dole out advice today... I've forgotten the next part. Probably something about writing. Oh, I was saying, about letters and the art of letter writing, it's a different form altogether. Writing a letter might get you out of that stuck place; now you have an audience of one and your communication has a clearer objective. It's worth a shot. Given enough time, writing switches up to all sorts of styles.
In the cafe—sit and listen to government workers chat and bore you to death. Listen closer, if you want. This is cafe life, after all. Write long enough to see them go. Get up to use the bathroom and new tables are cleared.
Write long enough and the dirt and grime of the place becomes clearer to you as if you did three hits of acid before breakfast and mind mental picking up constructs phenomena mismanages it for the sake of the experiment and reconstructs it inside of buildings in the shapes of letters and numbers, inside of the English you hold, resting in hammocks of these elements.
Stay a while. Go deep. Deep diving. Philosophic excursion. Explore down in the memory ducts and be brave.