A woman reading my poetry book in the cafe.
She was writing in her notebook so I spoke to her and asked her if she was writing poetry. She said no she was writing reflections to take it to a deeper level, her understanding of herself and stuff.
Yeah I do that. If someone is reading a book I’ll walk up to them and ask what they’re reading. Sincerely. Invariably they will share their book with me. Gladly. It’s a thing I do in the cafe. Why not?
It turns out we all want to share with each other but we don’t often get the chance in a random, spontaneous way. This woman was so super cool. I got a hug too. I don’t think she would mind that I took her picture.
Aside from 5 cats and 2 raccoons, one opossum and 10,000 fish there is no one to talk to around my place so I go to the cafe. There people are gathered and sociable. They come to the cafe so they can be around people, otherwise they could stay home, close the curtains and drink coffee much more cheaply.
Sometimes you see kids in the cafe. Their parents bring them. I like watching them explore, climb the stairs, investigate things. touch the objects of their interest. They will look at you, even wave if they feel like it.
No kids here right now, just adults. Adults are ok. They get locked into their space though. Hard to break through unless they’re reading a book or writing something. Being on your phone doesn’t count. That’s virtual.
And of course there’s the din, the coming and going of indistinct conversation that you can’t quite understand, the underlaying of the music, somebody’s playlist oozing out from the speakers mounted on the wall above the bar. The music changes but the din does not.
I wonder what would happen of I just went around and talked to everybody? Just barged in and said “Hi, happy New Years”? It all depends on the inflection in your voice I think, that’s what I’ve noticed. There is some subtle signal that says “Hi. I’m friendly and playful. No hidden agenda here.” People pick it up right away. I guess I won’t do it though. It would be too much like a politician. I’ll just pick my targets carefully and move when the omens align.
Omens. Harbingers. Indications. Portents. Premonitions. A sign sent by the gods indicating future events to come or future events that might come. That’s according to the dictionary on my phone.
Omens abound. They’re not rare, they’re ubiquitous. It’s a perceptual thing. Did I perceive it or was it an omen? Check your omen-o-meter. Did the needle swing to the right into the green zone?
The coast was clear so I got a picture of my two favorite baristas. Well two of my favorite baristas of all my favorite baristas. The omens were good. I jumped in before any more customers got in the way.
The ceiling in this place rises like a . . . like an aspiring spire of some sort on top of the hill overlooking the sacred space. Every space is sacred but it helps if you have a spire. Good omen.
The music stops. It’s strangely quiet, this holiday day, the day after New Years. Then it starts again and the din fills in or merges into the general auditory experience. Phssst and crash goes the cappuccino maker.
Although I’ve never noticed it before there are layers of sound, distinctly different like the ocean and the wind when you’re standing on the beach under a palm tree. The visual field tapers off into the vanishing point - a zenith invisible and impossible to define, infinite, out there somewhere in the cloudy sky.
I can’t climb up there. I have to be content to sit here in my seat. Everything from side to side is intact, it’s all part of the scene being seen. It’s a portent or an omen. It’s telling me that I’m here. I’m witness.
I can’t tell what anybody else is saying.
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music from Best of Abakus 01:23:21 - “Circles”
support this producer here Cure Music
in the cafe II