ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Coffeeshop Monolgues I tried to post this earlier but the server was down when I was at the Living Room. Now I'm at Claire De Lune's Coffeehouse. I recall the simpler days when I used to bar-hop, now I coffeeshop-hop. What has happened to me? I can't stop writing about how splendidly good I feel today. It's perpetuated by reoccuring instances of wonderfulness, yes that's a word! As I exited the library I ran into Kevin, a homeless man with the coolest assemblage of afro and facial hair that can be conjured by a human being. I met him a week ago outside of the library and we chatted for a few seconds. He asked me if I had seventy-five cents and I gave him all of the change out of my left pocket. You see, I'm meticulously premeditated in my pocket configuration. Cigarettes, lighter, and loose change go in the front left pocket of my jeans, cash, keys, and a pen in the right. In the back right is my wallet and, unless I have cargo or painter pants on, the cell phone goes in the back left. I scooped my hand into the left pocket and deposited all of the change into his open hand. Although it wasn't 75cents, his little face lit up like I'd never seen on a person before and he thanked me profusely. Now he remembers me everytime I see him. He asked me if I had any change tonight and, though I didn't, I was able to give him a cigarette. We chatted again and I made sure to get his name. He's always outside of the library and I look forward to our meetings. On the way here to the Living Room Coffeehouse, I passed many people who all said hello sincerely. I chatted with a homeless man briefly about the weather and how pleasant it was compared to Texas, where I came from. It got me to thinking about the change that has come over me since moving to San Diego. I've rediscovered my sense of humanity and lust for life. It lead me to believe that Texas is harsh and calloused and strives to make its constituents the same way. Thank God I got out. To further elaborate on my elated mood, the songs playing in my head were Tal Bachman's "She's So High", the most disgustingly sappy love song since Michael Bolton's "Have I Told You Lately...", though with that song you eliminate the "-ly sappy" and leave it at "disgusting". The other song was Coldplay's "Don't Panic", the chorus echoing "We live in a beautiful world." What the fuck, man! I'd never have that sort of internal jukebox in Texas! The woman at the counter before me here was beautiful, and by beautiful, I mean beautiful! The way you imagine women in California to be. It was shattering how ravishing she was. The coffee is delectable as usual and served with the same graciousness I've come to expect here. San Diego has taught me a lot about judging people too soon. Everyone here is pleasant or at least has the potential to be so, and if you give them room and let them prove it, they will. The only downside to my current state of elevation is that I have no one to talk to about it. That's why I'm rabidly typing on the cold, unfeeling, impersonal internet. Moments like this make me feel at one with the world around me but individually more alone than ever. I just want someone to sit across from me and listen. Or to sit across from someone else and I'll listen. I want to be locked in meaningful conversation, or perhaps meaningless conversation with accentuation on the inflection of verbs and adjectives, heads coming together to ascertain the perfect configuration of adverbs to exaggerate the meaning of "good". Ist that too much to fucking ask? Am I destined to go through this art gallery of astounding beauty commenting on the wonders of nature and humanity to my own fucking inner-monologue, only to be mourned after my passing, my ramblings exhumed and pondered? Or not even that? Just to expire, lonely and penniless and utterly forgotten, all of my words flushing into the abysmal depths of emptiness like so much shit. Whoa, bummer. On to other topics, I met a really cool fellow last night named John who is preparing to open a restaurant at the end of my street. He was a delight to talk to, with a peculiar dialect that had him accentuating the initial syllable of words and inserting extreneous pauses, such as po-tato and to-mato. He told me many wonderful stories over our hour and a half meeting, one in particular of a woman who ate at one of his former restaurants and told him about escaping from Auschwitz, the Polish concentration camp, as a child. After following the remains of the adults who cleared the minefield so that the children could live, they came to a farm just as the farmer's wife was feeding slop to the pigs. She said that the rancid garbage and rankled shit was the most exquisite smell she'd ever beheld, that's how hungry and destitute these children were. He said, though the restaurant was packed at the time, you could hear a mosquito fart as she finished her tale. Harrowing, isn't it? Well, I'm going to finish this coffee and find SOMETHING to do with myself, dammit! Good evening everybody! 9:33 p.m. - 2003-03-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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