Where have you been?
Flash writing (20 minutes without a pause):
It was a daily ritual, at least when I wasn't flat broke, which was more often than not that year. But, this was a good month, late July, 2007, I think, and I'd somehow managed to keep aside enough for a morning coffee. I'd read some quote from Twin Peaks' about giving yourself a gift every day, and a caffeine fix that included a walk outside, was mine.
I wasn't alone in this endeavor. The rush of bodies walking in small groups, or in their own worlds, clambered towards the green and white oasis of Starbucks, going through the security gates at the Warner Brothers entrance. We weren't exactly "on the lot", but close enough to require a bag check.
My mind was filled with the cacophony of song lyrics, daily stresses and the daydreams of what I was writing at the time. I didn't notice anyone around me. The weather barely registered. Sometimes I walk through life that way, so unobservant, barely in the world at all.
Would I have recognzied you if I'd caught your eye? You claimed to have seen me as I'd walked in a daze, pushing open the doors without looking up, stepping into the line.
Ahead of me was a woman who wore her entitlement like an accessory, treating the barista on the other side of the counter like less than hired help, barking a complicated order at her in sharp tones. I made a comment under my breath to no one in particular. I'd been on the other side of a counter before, many actually, and though I'd never made coffee or food (mine were clothing and book and record stores), I'd dealt with people like her.
I didn't mean for anyone to hear me. Sometimes I forget that there are people around me at all. But you heard, and you remarked back, agreeing with my disheartened observation. I glanced back then and our eyes met. I rolled mine, and you laughed.
We both were kind to the barista and tipped her well, trying our best to make up for the rudeness. My drink took longer and when I turned to leave, you were gone. I felt a tinge of disappointment, though I wasn't sure why. I had nothing more to say, but...I'd wanted to say something.
You were waiting outside for me. You asked me for a light.
We both still smoked back then.
I knew who you were, but I never said. Not then at least. Not until much later.
I couldn't tell you what we talked about that first late July morning. I'm not sure it even matters. You were there and I was there, and in those early moments some synapses fired between us. A connection started to form, just the early stages, and we'd refer back to that day in the days, and years, that followed.
On bad days you'd bring me a coffee.
On days when we hadn't spoken, days when we were all but gone, on some of those days we'd send a picture of a coffee we had, as a photo text, often saying nothing else, but saying so much more than nothing else.
Coffee became a memory, a trickery, a secret language between us.
Even now, miles away, I could send a coffee reference, a photograph, a quote, or just the order I still remember as yours, and it would say more than hello. It would say I miss you. It would say that I'm thinking of you. It would say things that I choose to not say even here.
Today I am thinking of you.
But, today I send nothing.
Because today it all hurts when I think of trying at all.
So, I write. I listen to music and write. And, I remember.
Maybe not every word we spoke. Hell, I can't even recall what that rude woman even said.
But, I remember your eyes. The way your sleeve brushed my naked arm. The way my head tilted slightly to the left. The way your smile tilted slightly to the right.
I remember the sound of your voice interrupting mine in that excited first conversation way when two people have so much to say.
I'd say I miss you, but really, I just can't.
Again :: Lenny Kravitz
It was a daily ritual, at least when I wasn't flat broke, which was more often than not that year. But, this was a good month, late July, 2007, I think, and I'd somehow managed to keep aside enough for a morning coffee. I'd read some quote from Twin Peaks' about giving yourself a gift every day, and a caffeine fix that included a walk outside, was mine.
I wasn't alone in this endeavor. The rush of bodies walking in small groups, or in their own worlds, clambered towards the green and white oasis of Starbucks, going through the security gates at the Warner Brothers entrance. We weren't exactly "on the lot", but close enough to require a bag check.
My mind was filled with the cacophony of song lyrics, daily stresses and the daydreams of what I was writing at the time. I didn't notice anyone around me. The weather barely registered. Sometimes I walk through life that way, so unobservant, barely in the world at all.
Would I have recognzied you if I'd caught your eye? You claimed to have seen me as I'd walked in a daze, pushing open the doors without looking up, stepping into the line.
Ahead of me was a woman who wore her entitlement like an accessory, treating the barista on the other side of the counter like less than hired help, barking a complicated order at her in sharp tones. I made a comment under my breath to no one in particular. I'd been on the other side of a counter before, many actually, and though I'd never made coffee or food (mine were clothing and book and record stores), I'd dealt with people like her.
I didn't mean for anyone to hear me. Sometimes I forget that there are people around me at all. But you heard, and you remarked back, agreeing with my disheartened observation. I glanced back then and our eyes met. I rolled mine, and you laughed.
We both were kind to the barista and tipped her well, trying our best to make up for the rudeness. My drink took longer and when I turned to leave, you were gone. I felt a tinge of disappointment, though I wasn't sure why. I had nothing more to say, but...I'd wanted to say something.
You were waiting outside for me. You asked me for a light.
We both still smoked back then.
I knew who you were, but I never said. Not then at least. Not until much later.
I couldn't tell you what we talked about that first late July morning. I'm not sure it even matters. You were there and I was there, and in those early moments some synapses fired between us. A connection started to form, just the early stages, and we'd refer back to that day in the days, and years, that followed.
On bad days you'd bring me a coffee.
On days when we hadn't spoken, days when we were all but gone, on some of those days we'd send a picture of a coffee we had, as a photo text, often saying nothing else, but saying so much more than nothing else.
Coffee became a memory, a trickery, a secret language between us.
Even now, miles away, I could send a coffee reference, a photograph, a quote, or just the order I still remember as yours, and it would say more than hello. It would say I miss you. It would say that I'm thinking of you. It would say things that I choose to not say even here.
Today I am thinking of you.
But, today I send nothing.
Because today it all hurts when I think of trying at all.
So, I write. I listen to music and write. And, I remember.
Maybe not every word we spoke. Hell, I can't even recall what that rude woman even said.
But, I remember your eyes. The way your sleeve brushed my naked arm. The way my head tilted slightly to the left. The way your smile tilted slightly to the right.
I remember the sound of your voice interrupting mine in that excited first conversation way when two people have so much to say.
I'd say I miss you, but really, I just can't.
Click to viewAgain :: Lenny Kravitz