Habitue

When I go to the coffee shop where I go to write, the first thing I do is order myself a drink-- always iced and whipped cream-covered, the flavor is of no matter, and tall. The second thing I do is place it at the corner of my table where it stays untouched for the duration of my stay. Consider it a parking ticket, my license to linger. I take a while to write, you see; ideas do not come easily. In the meantime, the plastic cup steadily breaks into a sweat,the ice in my drink slowly melts, diluting the whipped cream into bits of goop which rest on top of, and never blend with, the coffee. And then, as if on cue and in complete harmony, one by one, words appear and sit on the screen in front of me, where they organize themselves into coherence just as slowly and thoroughly.

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Watercolors from more than a month ago:





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I wonder if this flu is but psychosomatic.