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Morning Coffee - Slide Presentation

Memoir Writing-Sunday Morning Coffee 2009

Here I am drinking my coffee alone and thinking about things …

Norway coffee sipping out on Karl Johann, Oslo, Norway when the sun is out in that crisp, cold country …

Berkeley, California, near Virginia Street, the bakery on the corner selling fresh pastry of the light kind and fresh, fresh café latte also …

Turkey, Istanbul … No, no! Just a fantasy! But you know what I mean?

French vacation, little town, the bar open with fresh, fresh espresso, and stale baguette.

Cut up from the previous left-over day … while we look out on the plaza, the fountain dry, the pigeons in a flock crying and gobbling, and a bright French sun, as only French can be, shimmering through the dark, closed streets, houses boarded against strangers and history’s wars. It’s good coffee in this small, shimmering village, is it not?

You are with me still, I think. Remember our bedded nakedness, please. How have we moved on? Intimacies don’t last … not as steady as French coffee in the mornings … is it?

El Cerrito, California, getting up in the sun’s first light, also at Linda’s house, even before the kids, who sleep late since it is not a school day … but I am restless, always the restlessness that good coffee gives, the soul’s roast, the refiner’s fire …

Attenuated times … here I am in a today world in Malden, The Netherlands, again drinking my morning coffee alone, window slats open to the new house being built directly across the street.

Sunrises and sun have burnt off the frost because it is still winter, and in winter, you know how it goes, don’t you? Don’t you?

Don’t you know how it goes in life?

Sunday mornings when everybody takes a day of rest except the restless and the writers, musing their thoughts upon a Sunday morning deserted world, just a couple of last night’s lovers driving their cars down our streets, thinking thoughts …

You have done this, right?

I live in a lost world of the past. Only the house builder across the street has the arrogance in today’s depressed economy to create for himself a big, big house dwarfing those next to it … and what for, really, what for?

I live in a world of a builder’s future, thinking of past coffee in Berkeley, coffee in San Rafael, Coffee in Bristol, England, Coffee in Lilhammer, Sunday morning coffee in Oslo, Coffee on the plaza in Nerje, Spain with the blond little English lady I just slept with who prefers tea and won’t talk to anybody until she has had it.

Order coffee on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley California, Café Mediterranean in the old days, the sunny old days when our thoughts, my temporary companion and I, were not on the past, nor the future, but hot, wonderful lattes brown, aromatic, made milder by hot milk, stimulated in brown sugar, echoed in literary laughter, in small talk of the fat poet wandering the streets, selling her poems so she too could have café latte at Café Mediteranio, I call it now …

Memory slips a bit in older age, but then again, life slips by for us all, marked by our Sundays, our café espressos, lattes, whatever …

Juice the night skies with love and laughter … lend me your vagina, please, I want to sleep rested from our glory hours.

And then to awake early as I love it because the sun is fresh out only in the mornings. I want to walk the near streets to our special café when espresso is squeezed by the Turks, the Armenians, the Italianos, who have immigrated …

Everyone has family, don’t they? But I am intellectual, having liberated myself from my poet father and crazy, painter-poet mother?

Does it all echo back to that? To mornings in moist walled apartments, old, built of blood, bones and bricks in the past, eight stories high, 35 Water St, and fading, DIGBY 96847, something like that …

Shall I make the call into The Past?

Too late now. I have traveled at random … I have come to the present moment, sipping alone because she, my companion, is still asleep while I have my thoughts, my friends of the past, my places to live at, my adventures of the night and of my literary day.

Conversations at dusk but at dawn more alone than ever, echoes on the walls of Café Nowhere-Everywhere, the immigrant up with me and a few solo others, drinking the finest coffee brewed in the world from chromed espresso machine, the clinking of dried dishes sorted out, the clinking of my thoughts also.

What is life then but the musings of isolate man, the solitary individual going nowhere for a dime, as my father says in a city poem of his, once alive himself, a member of existence drinking coffee …

I remind myself I am, looking into the brown residue of a life now lived these many years, perhaps never to dream again, to have expectations into a future, to browse the Great Bookstore of the future, looking for literary lights of the past to light my next days.

Now I am solitary, and window looker-outer, a fresh coffee drinker labeled Peru and tasting very good with a dash of honey and a slip of bio milk.

I am the future, my charming young, imaginary friend of so many of my dreams.

I am the future, my friend, listening now for all you have to say …

I regret nothing.

I regret nothing because it is past.

I regret nothing because I think of it, of you, my golden love, night and day …

Another hot milk for my café latte, please, and one more espresso!

I can handle it … if you know what I mean?

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