Today is already perfect. The stars are aligned. What I mean
by that, is that I am sitting in my favorite spot at Nina’s Coffee Café, and
between the All-Star morning cast. To my right is a woman who makes amazing
drawings with nothing more than a few pencils, some of which have been seen on
the walls of this very establishment, and undoubtedly art shows throughout the
area. To my left is the man of mystery. His computer is fancy, and he wears
headphones when he generates his magic. I can see that he is writing music, and
on occasion, I see him rocking back and forth, and I wish I could be the first
to hear the symphony he has formed for the world.
And then there’s me. I probably smell like last night’s
fire, my hair appears to have been pressed against an immovable object for a
solid few hours, and I had some issues inserting my contacts this morning,
leaving my eyes with a rouge that would normally betray a stoner’s buzz. I
wonder if they have ideas about what I’m in here writing at 7am. It must be important. Like the
songsmith, I rock back and forth when I type, as if I were hearing the rhythm
in my keying, and keeping the beat with a quiet nod. It comforts me, and
although not probable, I think it helps unlock my mind. I used to think that I
was swaying to the music until I realized I only moved when I was typing, and
that my rocking did not match the beat. I like to think that I am somehow in
the same league as these two morning rivals, but I undoubtedly have half a
lifetime to catch up.
Writing has been my therapist for over two years now. I have
been able to tell you people anything and everything that has come to mind, and
all the while I’ve been healing inside. I don’t do this to entertain you, gain
popularity, or showboat my criminal career. I do this to help me, and others
like me, get through the daily grind that is life after devastation. I find
that it has been so therapeutic, that I want to impart on others the benefits
of writing our wrongs, and telling the world our story. In the rooms of
recovery are thousands, no, millions of stories just like mine or better
(worse). Not everybody can write, and my early work was spotty at best, but I
would like to help others get their message heard. A few in recovery have
stated that they would like to try their hand at writing, but only one has
followed through, with a little encouragement. You know who you are, and I can’t
wait to see what you’re capable of.
On a completely unrelated note, last night we threw a little
bonfire to celebrate, uh, Saturday. We don’t just burn wood at our fires, we burn all sorts
of shit from the basement that has been collecting mold and mildew, all
possibly from previous tenants, and some likely from the deceased home owner.
The house is now owned by the brother of the departed, we aren’t squatting.
Anywho, we burned several hundred glow sticks which are absolutely amazing when
heat-activated, along with half a dozen chairs, a box-spring, and several bags
of clothing. I went into the dungeon-like basement one time to see if I could
find anything to burn and I found a bag that looked quite flammable. I
announced to the crowd that I had found a mystery bag, and promptly threw it in
the fire. At that same moment, my roommate cocked his curious head in the
direction of said fire-bag and announced that it was actually a part of his
winter wardrobe, then frantically kicked it out of the flames and began pulling
smoldering sweaters from the seared, and smoldering bag. There was a cashmere
sweater that did not make it out alive. Everybody but him seemed to think the
situation rather humorous, but he lightened up in the end and we enjoyed the
rest of the night. Lesson learned. What lesson? Don’t let me into your basement
if there’s a fire nearby.
