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Im in Café Cottage, a coffee shop on St. Mary. Its morning; its dead and its Tuesday. Tuesday is only Monday coming back for a rematch. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday makes Monday the boogey man that just wont die, like Freddy and Jason sequels. Well, more like Friday the 13th, because Im being stalked by Monday, coming out of shadows and hiding inside of people. Less like Nightmare on Elm Street, I dont dream of Monday and neither should you.

Im drinking tea. The people that work here know me. When I walk in they drop one green and one white tea to steep in scalding water. I sweeten it with honey and have a seat on the couch by the windows. I look around trying to feel the place and absorb its existence with open pores. I plant my feet firmly on the old, dusty wood floors and plant myself. I imagine my feet turning into monstrous Live Oak roots, tearing through the boards. I can feel myself growing out beneath the floor with little feelers feeling the underground tunnels gently before proceeding, like the spinnerets of a tarantula.

Once I become a part of the coffee shop, feeling the vibrations of people walking beneath the floor and inhaling their cold caffeine, I allow myself to slowly exhale the second hand smoke I had gathered in my lungs. I let myself bleed with the scenery, through the windows, and smear across the sky.

This is my way, every day. This is where my concept of reality comes into play. I see life as sand dunes reaching outward to infinity. It was too much to focus on, too much to see, and too much to remember. It scared us humans at a young age and we had to downsize. Perhaps the fruit of knowledge in the Bible was a metaphor for this. Once they opened their eyes to see the entirety of life they couldnt bear it. Adam and Eve shut down their open world and grabbed the smaller one with restrictions and with clothing. Now Im trailing off, the entire Bible is a metaphor.

To downsize, we take a scoop of sand in our hand and focus on that, blocking out the rest of our surroundings. We picked up a smaller world inside the big one. Our handful of sand becomes our reality. We feel that it is something we can control and make a difference in. We feel like a bigger piece of the puzzle when life is in such a small box. We sort it into different minute piles and hold it under different illuminations. Everybody feels something missing in their lives, they inspect every grain of sand and some even call one of the miniature piles, God. Its overcompensation for the life they are missing.

That is the reason for this. Everyday I put a little more sand from the small world in my hand, back into the bigger world. The awareness spreads.

The roots that I grew beneath this coffee shop are real because I feel and see them in my mind. Which are the only reasons this coffee shop exists to me. I see it in my mind. All things exist in our minds or they would not exist at all.

I only exist in your mind. I only exist to me in mine. That is why the idea that this coffee shop and I are two different entities, is just not true. There is no self, there is only is. What is, is everything Im aware of.

April, the girl that works here just brought me another tea.

There you go, she said placing it on the sticky, honey covered table. She smiled sweetly with her hair covering part of her face. Her hair is beautiful; its the color of dark, Tupelo honey. Its thick and shiny, like the honey I had spilled all over the table.

I wondered why she said anything at all, like I needed confirmation that she was putting a mug directly in front of me because it was for me. I know, she said it to ease the discomfort of the action.

Thank you, I said. I dont know why I said that either. I was actually thinking, damnit woman! Give me back my goddamn credit card and close my tab. I didnt ask for this. Im already speeding, racing, and pacing with clenched teeth.

You know, my anger is like a tapeworm coiled in my guts. The lack of seeing things for what they truly are, feeds my worm. I told my psychologist how long its been since I had cried because I was concerned. I felt left out. He assured me that there is nothing wrong with that. The root of tears, he told me. Is confusion. All this means is that you know exactly why you feel the way you do, even when its unmerciful emotional pain. I understand this well. People who have suffered through some shit, its not that we dont have a heart, but that we know why our hearts hurt.

The angry worm is different. Ive watched this thing grow from the larva of madness like it was my only son. I nurtured it and fed it until it grew from maggot to dragon. The fucker rose up against me like the mutiny in Heaven and succeeded. The dragon swallowed me whole. I lived in the belly of the beast until I quit being so depressed, sad, and quietly hidden away, drowning in stomach acids. I wanted to live again. I wanted the magical, adventurous life I knew as a kid. I scraped and ripped the interior lining of the dragons stomach. I lit a fire in its bowels. I rode out of its mouth on a wave of vomit. I woke up on a hospital bed with I.V.s and a ventilator stuck in my throat. This hose was breathing for me like it was the first time Ive breathed and in this new world, it was.

Im alive again; its been a long time. But, I have another worm, this I know. It hasnt even begun to show its ugly face and I dont feed it. I fed the other one because when it showed its ugly face, I felt strong. For now, this one just lies there, docile, coiled in the pit of my stomach. Times, I can feel it squirm with hunger and I am touched with nausea.


The following comments are for "In My Head"

i just had to
get out of lonely post.

( Posted by: BAAL [Member] On: August 11, 2006 )

"i just had to"
if it makes you feel any better, I read this, a couple of times, but couldn't think of anything intelligent to say (that doesn't usually stop me but I'm experimenting with restraint). As usual your writing boils and simmers darkly with rich macabre language. I know that worm well, I think. The description is vivid, dramatic, but absolutely apt. … I prefer to think of “lonely” as alone, you know, enigmatic. But that probably doesn’t help either. ... I liked it. I usually like yours. Chaotic, creepy yet always intriguing and strangely thoughtful (or is that thoughtfully strange?)Interesting read.

( Posted by: AuldMiseryGuts [Member] On: August 11, 2006 )

Coffee Shop
A day in the life. This is some really good and original writing. It's as if one eye is looking inward, the other eye looking outward. As if you yourself are a Picasso painting.

Stay strong & vibrant. Starve that worm.

( Posted by: gomarsoap [Member] On: August 14, 2006 )

BAAL headed

This takes me right to an old overstuffed couch at a bookstore somewhere in Venice or Santa Monica, CA. Mary took me one night and we just let ourselves be there.

Warning: parking meters thereabouts are enforced 24 hours.

They had a journal/guestbook you could pick up and read at your leisure; then leave an entry of your own. Good coffee, tea, and such were available. The floor was as you describe.

It was a fine place for your Live Oak roots.

I like the "front porch" conversational style relating the striking images.

~ John

( Posted by: Flonigus [Member] On: August 14, 2006 )

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