I move on down the street, hoping to find something new.
This is Ormond Rd, Elwood Village. And I come here to keep working on my white pages. The words will come. The words will come.
April 1, 2007
a freelancer's afternoon
I move from coffee shop to coffee shop, carrying my white pages. Here I sit by the window, warmed by the sun. Here I retreat to the garden, pretend I am far away. I choose cafes for their music, and their tables. Now I sit on a long, wooden thick plank communal table, drinking carrot juice. French dub plays, and the rhythm of my writing changes. Jeremy calls, and we sigh at the week’s injustices. Ohad sits at a café in New York, and we commune over sms. We are planning our travels this year, next year, and 2009. We are sure things will happen just so. But this is too much distraction. I have work to do, and that’s how I justify my smoothies and lattes and muffins. They play the blues, and it helps me settle. And just then the hostess says, the boss just called, he wants us to close early, I’m sorry. No problem, I say, I wasn’t focusing anyway.
I move on down the street, hoping to find something new.
This is Ormond Rd, Elwood Village. And I come here to keep working on my white pages. The words will come. The words will come.
I move on down the street, hoping to find something new.
This is Ormond Rd, Elwood Village. And I come here to keep working on my white pages. The words will come. The words will come.
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3 comments:
Smoothies, lattes and muffins don't need excuses, just as hoppin' from one coffee shop to another doesn't. Ok, this all might help in putting down black ink on those pages screaming to be written upon. It might help in spending your time just a bit differently than just looking at the ticking of a clock in some bar. At the end the ink will flow. Probabaly when you less expect it. Certainly when you don't have time to dedicate to it.
Don't worry. There's no deadline chasing you. Nip at your latte. Enjoy your muffin.
ps-It's a sunny, warm day. No more deadlines. For now.
http://freelancersunion.org
"And something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and I suddenly saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open."
(Poetry, by Pablo Neruda)
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