The Writing Moment

The writing center — known by everyone other than him as a cofffee shop — had a full parking lot. With past experience as a guide, he thought that getting a prime writing table* wouldn’t be possible. Head for number two, he ordered his brain, which delivered the message to his body, which set his car on the required course.

Coffee shop number two was packed. He selected a tertiary choice location with plans to move to a better spot when one opened, and joined the short line to acquire the necessary hot and dark magic water that helped stimulate his writing efforts. As he stood there, movement flickered in his eyes’ left periphery. Leaning a little, he confirmed, people were leaving a prime space. Hustling followed as he relocated his gear and thanked the coffee gods.

The place, he realized as he picked up his coffee, was packed. Every table, prime or not, was in use. Both conversation pits were filled, and almost all the window bar seats were engaged. Five baristas in black outfits worked in mechanical precision behind the wood-encased retail island to restock food and dishware, prepare orders, take, or deliver them. About fifty people filled the small business.

The place’s warm hum keyed his sentimental side. Such a friendly, happening scene. While a few patrons were like him, solitary animals focused on keyboards, staring at phones, or reading books, most people were chatting and laughing in twos and threes as they ate breakfast sandwiches and pastries and sipped coffee drinks, chai, or tea. The scene made his heart swell three times its normal size.

Then he sipped his coffee twice — once to sample it, the second time to more fully appreciate its warm, bitter flavor, put his head down and started typing. An hour later, he looked up and smiled as he gazed across the quiet, almost empty place. Music unheard over the previous rattle and hum was audible. The baristas were reduced to two, and plenty of seats and tables were available. Take your pick.

How quickly things could change.

*The prime writing space is a table or counter with space for a laptop, mouse, and coffee, a chair, and an outlet, and is located two to three feet away from others for privacy and isolation.

Thursday’s Wandering Thoughts

Rain showers the street and sidewalks outside the coffee shop windows. Between the clouds and rain, gray smothers the day like swaths of gray flannel.

The coffee shop is cold. It’s always cold when the sun ain’t cracking through to brighten and warm us. Despite wearing a fleece jacket, I’m shivering, and my hands are cold. My wife, who suffers Renaud’s disease, would be in misery.

And I had to pee again. I finally decided to seek the answer about why I pee more often when I’m cold and did a search.

“Cold-induced diuresis,” thenakedscientists.com on the net informed me, basically an increase in urine due to more blood being filtered due to vasoconstriction to conserve heat, more or less.

At least I know the reason now. At least my laptop’s keyboard warms my fingertips a little. How we artists must suffer.

Floofbbing

Floofbbing (floofinition) – Ignoring someone with you and and giving attention to animals instead. Origins: 2020, United Kingdom.

In Use: “As the pandemic took over 2020, many people forced to stay home became more interested in animals, especially housepets, and floofbbing, which was aready frequently a de facto issue in many homes with pets, began to rise, affecting relationships among people.”

Recent Use: “Reading about floofbbing and its impact on relationships, Michael realized he was also guilty of wriubbing (the i is silent), ignoring someone and giving attention to writing instead. But then, he rationalized, people were also guilty of gaubbing — ignoring others to play games — and reubbing: reading or paying attention to a book instead of another person with them. Hell, there were probably problems with coubbing (computers), chiubbing, too, which would be children, and even trumbbing, ignoring another to focus attention on former POTUS Donald Trump.”

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