It rains so few days where I live that I’ve come to see it as a gift. A gift for repose. Rain is a nightshade, for when the skies turn and streak with amethyst, everything seems to fall asleep. People clear the streets. Cars diminish. All seems quiet and murky and green. And then it stops, and the night lifts, and the people come out, and the cars enter the road and the sky slips into a cloud of bright pink. It’s beautiful, really, to be a part of this rejuvenation. I look at the sunset and imagine the earth falling forward or sideways or backwards, depending on where I am, and the sun sweeping over it as it turns toward the soft, ghostly moon. When I take a moment to absorb these natural, majestic processes, I’m reminded of how much bigger life is; it extends into the sphere of space, where stardust carries both the seeds of future organic properties and the imminent threat of the end, when all goes sublimely quiet. Forever.
Bit of a heavy thought to have on a run outdoors, but I find when I try to focus my mind on something else, the exercise goes by in a blink, and soon, two miles are over. Afterwards, I came home to finish another edit of my current short story. It’s a little freaky but honest. Children are always very honest when they tell stories. How amazing the day will feel when I can share a published one with you, and link it right in between these black marks of text. Each week, I write at least two. By the end of this year, from a probability perspective, I’m hoping I will be able to revel in the joy of being published.
You know, most often I find myself working as I do today, for an hour or two in between tasks, or early in the morning, or after dinner on a workday: I always work at home. I would like to get a little more adventurous in my workspace, but I am lazy when it comes to getting to and from somewhere and schlepping my laptop and notebooks around. But I do love cafés. I do. I love coffee and tea and I work well with the kind of blood type that’s caffeinated. I even like working in pubs; I did that in Oxford, and I was very productive (I find having a drink gets the thoughts going, so it’s great for idea-churning, but for me, I have to be careful to only drink a little, or else all I want to do is fall asleep). However, I seem to have a sort of complex about writing out and about, though I can tell you I crave a cool Instagram photo of me working, looking so picturesque, with an Alfred coffee and a Compartés chocolate on a dark wooden table, my Moleskin notebooks splayed out around me.
As for my complex:
1. Cafés are usually too hot. I get uncomfortable. I get self-conscious. Am I sweating? Can’t they turn the air conditioning on? Is the only table available the one in direct sunlight?
2. I drink caffeine and cups and cups of the free water, and then I need to use the restroom, and I have to pack up all my stuff. A pain.
3. Soft music is great, but loud music… It’s hard to conjure up a horrifying adventure when Sam Smith is crooning a heartsick song.
4. Parking is a nightmare in Los Angeles. So is the traffic.
There is my café complex. Now pubs or bars or rooms, I am much more into pursuing. I’ve seen a few souls working on manuscripts at Oldfield’s Liquor Room. Perhaps that would be a nice option. But maybe I’m looking at the wrong cafés. Where do you like to work? Are you a coffee-and-write person or a tea drinker or an imbiber or a strictly orthodox, nothing-but-pen-and-paper writer?
Now the streets are damp and black and the air is fresh, all the Los Angeles smells having been sifted through and away, and tonight, I will write more.