Sunday, October 29, 2017

Cafe Strange



Sitting in the Cafe Strange.  The Cafe Strange is not a clean, well-lighted place. It is grungy and dim and dirty and is filled with the loser class sitting with laptops and coffees or teas. They are a sad but arrogant lot. It is fun to sit there and be an irritant, for I know they hate me.  I am too old to be in such a place.

It probably isn't true, though, that they hate me.  It is only that I would were I them.  No, that is not true, either.  Truths are hard to come by these days.

The difficult thing about coming home is the absence of the cat.  The last time I lived here alone, it was the two of us.  There is an emptiness now without her that I hadn't realized before.  The first day I came home after Ili moved, I stood on the deck waiting for kit-kat to come running up with her daily complaint, but there was nothing but the new silence.  And it is new.  The cat had been here a very long time.

I go to bed feeling fine, and wake that way, too.  It is the other part that is difficult.  A lethargy and listlessness that I must battle.  I must find a devil to drive me.

Late in the afternoon, now, I go to the cafe for one St. Bernardus ale, to sit, to look, to write.  I go out into the world in a different way.  Something must come from it or I have become nothing.

From nothing comes only silence.

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