Note:I just started writing and something came out. It had been quite awhile. Maybe I found something. So we are calling this Volume One.
I’m sitting here at Coffee Buddha on Perry Highway taking in the scene wondering why it has been so hard to write anything for the past year and a half. In the end it comes down to a simple fact… I have been in a permanent state of ‘everything sucks” for far too long and I really have nothing all that positive to add to anything, and perhaps more importantly even if I did it would get shot down quickly by the internet masses and I do not have it in me to take them on again.
For 4 years I wrote for We Party Patriots. They were the prime writing years of my career, and it was all for nothing. Worst of all it was all a lie. I was told what to write and it was heavily edited. I viewed it as practice, honing my trade, but in the end it killed all my energy for writing. I wish I took everyones advice and never taken that gig.
Now I sit here with about 8 years of short stories and journal entries detailing my life in New York and absolutely no desire to share them. I have no passion for any subject worth writing about, if I have passion for any subject at all. Even my beloved Buccos are somehow a hot button topic trending toward negative. I seriously can’t even say that I like a baseball team without people siding with a fake internet boycott that will do nothing.
Out the window here at the Coffee Buddha is a backyard with two trucks lined by a picket fence. There are patches of snow on the ground, it is cold. People come in and order their daily drinks. Some stay, but most go. It’s interesting to be a bystander in people’s routine.
It is the part of March where all though the days are made artificially longer by daylight savings time there are few signs of spring. It will snow for the next few days.
Winter in Pennsylvania is particularly dark and it makes me wonder how one lives in a place like Nova Scotia without becoming an alcoholic or a psychopath.
I wanted to be Hunter S Thompson and I’ve become Orson Welles, but not the amazing Orson Welles, the obese Orson Welles who cursed the sunlight and lost the will to groom himself. Work is the only place I feel comfortable and I don’t like talking to a majority of the people who come in.
Coffee Buddha is a slight refuge but the clientele is amusing, but not in a joyful way. Since I’ve sat down I’ve overheard conversations about movies, but jumping in seems useless because anytime anything comes up that I am interested in it gets shot down. I guess this is a group that is down on anything to do with James Franco, but is very pro original Planet of the Apes.
Briefly it was brought up that Rex Tillerson was fired and it was greeted with a slight joke that Hillary Clinton should get the job. Therefore the conversation was over.
Chris Paul Stelling is coming to town and I would love to sit with him here and have a conversation. I miss the coffee shops in Brooklyn. I miss Bedford Hill (what? did I say this?), I miss Coffee Mob (huh?), I miss Daily Press ( actually I was wrong about Daily Press and didn’t take it all in until the end), I miss Blue Oven and wish I didn’t embarrass myself there. I was so broke. I never had the extra scratch to truly enjoy their pie.
Here is the problem with writing on the internet knowing it will be responded to by the masses. Up there, when I used the word scratch I wanted to use the word scrilla, but I knew that would lead to me being made fun of, or people would love it and just focus on the word scrilla and miss the point.
However there is no point, because I have nothing to say. This is just a rambling vent and it adds nothing to society, but that is fine. Society is shit and i don’t even feel like I am part of it. Adding a small piece of positivity to a roomful of shit doesn’t make it a room that is NOT filled with shit.
It’s like smoking out a state school dorm room and spraying some axe to cover it up. We all know what really happened.
Brooklyn was a rough period in my life because it was a constant struggle and the memories I hold most dearly to my heart are indescribable. Moments when the heat became so overwhelming I worried about survival, only to have the skies open up and pour rain upon me, drenching me to the core and reviving my soul for another day. Walking the streets of Bed Stuy on a 100+ degree day and seeing kids finding refuge at a fire hydrant that had been busted open, only to jump in for a few seconds and rethink my life as I cooled my core.
Water is the basis of my writing. My fear of floods is the basis of my music. Yet I cannot become the water, even here at the Coffee Buddha, a place you would think would be my personal refuge. There is a buddha statue above a stack of books about wrestling topped by “They call me Bubba Booey: the Gary Delabate story.” Howard Stern makes sense, society does not.
Iced Coffee cannot be the fuel of a successful and sustained life, but I will let it fuel me for another day. If I make it through today I may make it through another. Just like in Brooklyn I am missing it all because I am trying to survive. However at least when I was there I was part of something, all though I guess I felt like I never belonged.
Looking back I realize that I was not the only one, we were all trying to survive, and I guess here is the same. Maybe someday I will look back at my days writing at the Coffee Buddha the same was as I view my days in Bed Stuy.
I’ve just lost the childlike wonder I pretended to have in the big city.