Decaf

I’m writing on paper today, with a pencil, and it makes me feel kind of fancy.

I need to write, and I need to get out of the house, so I’m on a road trip to the local coffee shop, the one where all i have to do is say hi, and pay, because they already know what I want. Maybe it’s a weird way to feel fancy, but it works for me.

I’d actually forgotten how nice it feels to write with a pencil. It has to be the right pencil, though, and more importantly, the right paper, or it’s no fun at all. I find no joy in writing on napkins or paper shopping bags with a bic pen. I don’t even like pens; they get ink all over my hand -I’m left-handed- and even nice pens don’t feel as nice to me as a Staedtler blue pencil on Rhodia paper.

I like the sound, too. It’s such a nice smooth scratching that somehow isn’t irritating in the least. I can’t hear it right now on account of the mild coffee shop clatter backed by the occasional smooth jazz, or whatever that music is, but I can feel it. I can feel the graphite wearing down as it leaves its tracks on the page. It’s a good feeling, such a satisfying tactile......tactility.

I just watched a sheepdog with a crew cut run through the intersection at full gallop. He looked pretty happy about it. There was a kind of joyful spring in his step, unlike the frantic owner who has no hope of keeping up, and is already nearly a block behind, and steadily losing ground as he waits for traffic, his lungs, and the like.

And now a lady has fallen full on her back as she approached a car stopped at the light! What is going on? She’s up now, and she appears unhurt, and is getting into the car that is now sitting at a green light.

I should get out more often. Two great stories happened right before my eyes in the span of a single minute.

I think the shorn sheepdog was left with dad when mom drove away, and the dog wanted to go home and lay in bed instead of a lame walk in the rain with dad, so he was chasing her down, and why wouldn’t he? Seriously, why wouldn’t he?

I don’t really care, but my creation of explanation is automatic, and oftentimes I spend quite a while doing it before I even realize that I’ve imagined an entire life for two people and their dog. As for the lady falling on the street, that can only be explained by mischievous magic, or a severe inner ear condition. It could be hereditary, but that’s none of my business.

People watching is fun, though. If you watch what people do, and then attempt to explain those actions by inserting your own set of motivations, you’ll often find yourself in some very awkward, uncomfortable, hilarious, or shocking mental spaces. If your brain gets as excited about these impulsive forays in the the wilds of other minds as mine does, it’s a bit like the Holo-deck in Star Trek, a virtual reality, but without all the technology, or possibly purpose. Like I said, it happens automatically, and it’ll go on until I change the subject.

There’s a story there, and there, and over there. Just look around. Do it, and ask yourself, What IS that?, or Where did it come from?, or, Why did that happen?

There’s always a story. It might be rather dull, most stories are if you stop with out at least seeking the root, the moral, and truly feeling something before you quit the chase.

I don’t know if it’s worth it, this symbiosis, if that’s what it is; maybe it’s more parasitic. I can’t find the right word. It’s getting noisy in here.

I get overwhelmed sometimes; empathy is an expensive habit.

Speaking of habits, I really enjoy a good coffee. I drink decaf because I get super janky and edgy when the caffeine hits me, and I don’t like it. The problem is that if you drink enough very strong decaf, the distinction becomes moot.

I need to go for a walk. Now.