This part of my daily routine.
It follows exactly the same pattern every single day. It’s like a tick tock tick tock. The same tick, the same tock. It’s just like time though. Some days it’s too much. Some days it’s not enough. But rarely is it just right.
I can’t seem to write in my room. I’m trying to fix this. But I’m scared to. I have this coffee shop that I go to to write. There is an ass in there that serves me coffee. Nice coffee. Nice ass. It works for me. She plays the album tracks of the Top Forty ‘folk’ artists. James Blunt. Mumford and Sons. And that cunt with the dreadlocks. Every day. The same playlist. The last few days I have come into the coffee shop at exactly the same time. The same song is acts as my entrance music. I try to blank it out with the street noise that coughs past. And with the words that are scrambling around in my head like a sperm race.
I get the same coffee every day, at the same time. I drink two of them. My pattern has become so robotic and predictable that I don’t ask for a coffee anymore. I am given one. I sit in the same seat. I look around in the same way every time, checking in case there is something that I haven’t seen before. Something that can give me some more words. There is never a shortage of them. But it’s always nice to have more. There is never any change. There are two businesses across the street that sell stuff. One sells building supplies. Mortar, wallpaper, skirting boards and the like. The other probably sells food. There is always a big bag of onions at the door.
I smile at the ass. The ass smiles back at me. I say a little ‘thank you’. It farts back something similar. A fart that sounds like a strimmer on a gravel path and smells like Guatemala. And then I start to write.
Sometimes I get some good stuff. A whole piece might just come out of nowhere and go somewhere. But the opposite of that happens too. A lot. But it’s never a lost cause. I get some nice lines. An old car can always be sold for parts. Here are some of the spark plugs and fan belts I got today before I started writing this ‘piece’:
She borrowed radiance from the sunlight.
His knuckles burst white as he hung onto his mug.
My back has been wound like box bed springs.
And that’s it. I’ll admit that the last line had to be squeezed out in order to make this particular morning seem more productive than it actually was. And, reading it now, on this blog, ‘published’, for you, it’s shit. It just sounds like its fancy. It sounds like it means something. But then, I write under the premise that you will add your own meaning. I can only really tell when something reads like it means something.
But this morning was been a particularly wasteful one. This is why I’m doing this. Writing about nothing. I don’t have anything to write about. I have a few things on the go that I could work on. But I left my USB pen at home. I am going to work in half an hour. I don’t have time to go home and come back. Nor do I have time to write a short story. I like to write them in one sitting you see. Rewrite them in a different one. But now I’m left here like one of those onions across the street. Or like one of those farts in the wind that the ass points at another customer of less importance than myself, wheezing and heaving as it drifts out behind them as they stroll with cardboard, leaving me to sit, clutching porcelain, squeezing and popping farts into my little computer and flushing the effects of my desperate constipation onto the blog and out to sea. Because it’s just part of my daily routine.
If you think you know what any of this means, please let me know.