Post rush hour rains soak the busy causeway outside the third level flat I occupy at 13th & Marshall, Northeast Minneapolis. As most are performing their daily efficiency exercises, acquiring monies and prestige for attainments of attempted happiness, I on the contrary, sit content most days scribing, painting or just creating; surviving off an inheritence wisely invested.
Fortunatly the demise of winter approaches but the spring rains make no hint of closure nor do my seasonal desire for coffee. Dressed in typical drobe, jeans and lambs wool, dawning a scarf and rain coat, I drift down the stairs of this old stone building in which I reside. Stopping to check my box, I query, “No mail, that’s peculiar”, and speculate that yesterday must of been some sort of holiday. After all, these days it is a rarity when the mail box is empty given that the post office has been allowing extremely good deals to those advertising in bulk; no doubt an attempt to stave the threatening effects of the Internet invasion. Regardless, all profile propaganda are immediately discarded in the nearby rubbish receptacle. I lock the empty box, withdraw the key, and walk out into the wet tuesday morning.
Ambling across the lawn, I jump across a partially pitted and marshy sidewalk, and splash into a murky leaf laden orifice but rebound quickly, avoiding slipping in a wet slime, and land firmly on a large protuberance at the base of a tall oak tree that extends from between the sidewalk and the rue. A cabbie nestled nearby queries. Ignoring his gesture, I continue, as the rains continue to quench and moan.
I enjoy the freedoms of minimal ownership, in particular a void in owning an automobile and suppose ridding of my last was unnecessary but it needed more attention than could be mustered; relationships can benefit if maintenance can be minimized, but when interruptions or divergence of normal operation become frequent, one must consider the inevitable. Although the tires and brakes were in very good shape, the engine ran marginally, the body was completely rusted and only one door was reliable; and it happened to be the rear hatch. Besides, the public transporation system in this town was friendly enough and in a pinch, an offer by a neighbor to use her car prevailed, but a bicycle remains the preferred choice of navigation. Yet despite the rain, today, I do not mind walking.
The coffee salon I frequent is selectively urban filled by night, but conveniently, during the pre-lunch hours, it remains casually pleasant. The waif of espressos and fresh baguettes seem to continue to stir memories of a fabulous visit in the alps of France, near Grenoble, my first, some years earlier when traveling on “official” business while in graduate school at Minnesota. It was early in 1994 when pork barrel politics were blamed for the abrupt demise of the Texas super collider, an action that no doubt changed the complexion of Particle Physics, and assuredly the technological potentials of this society, and most directly the job market for young PhD’d physicists. But now, rather than fill my brain with the whir of particle interactions, I instead rely on the salon’s supply of Christian Science Monitors, all of which are speared by a long wooden dowels, presumably inhibiting theft, to occupy my morning rituals. On occasion I seek other sources for news but often find them to be distractingly tainted by the corporate worlds regenerative need to propagate biased attitudes, and whose advertising monies, no doubt by requisite, restrict any potential for an objective viewpoint.
The rain continues to sizzle on the galvanized metal flue that projects out of the red multi-coloured brick wall, extending from a cast iron wood stove sporting a chipped white porcelain pot filled with humidifying water. As the grinding of coffee beans and the associated aroma fill the air, the large window facing the street streaks with condensation, partially from the porcelain humidifier, and partially from the naturally humid environment offered by the saturating rains. Needless to say, the many hanging plants, ferns and fig trees thrived with exuberance as evidenced by the potency of the colour they possess. Winters are excruciatingly long in the northland, but this coffee salon, known as Twice Told, has manifested into an essential ingredient of my life’s recipes.
DMD, 1995
Posted November 11, 1996 at The Electric Pen
