Literary Nonfiction.
Fiction.
Memoir.
Some time ago, I decided to drink a hundred cups of coffee and record them, with my thoughts and surroundings.
I was waiting for certain things to unfold, or even pass unrecorded.
Therefore, this is not a daily diary in the usual sense.
Over the course of two years, many things happened.
My mother died of dementia, I quit my job, and Donald Trump was elected president.
And some things remained constant--my house on Santa Fe's west side with my husband Rich, my daughter Isabel and son-in-law Tim living in the county.
Friendships ebbed and flowed as friendships will, weather turned as threat of drought persisted.
I did not grow younger.
I traveled many places, both near and far.
I remembered the dead who were mine.
Coffee soothed my worry, and helped me focus.
But this record is not about coffee, per se.
I drank iced tea and other things in the same spirit.
I just wanted something in my mouth, which is also the seat of expression, of words.
Full disclosure: I do not really care about coffee.
I love the bitterness, and the kick.
But I am no maven or aficionado.
Essentially, this writing is about the ephemeral, the momentary.
It is about states of mind--most notably the state of mind that gives rise to language and writing.
It is also about consciousness--that shape-shifting animal that can be tracked but never completely captured.
Sometimes I wrote poetry, mostly I wrote prose.
Rather without planning to, I also created a paean to my neighborhood, Santa Fe's west side, where a funky vibe mixes with occasional gentrification.
No doubt the blocks around my house are the only other thing in life I have ever observed as continually as my own mind.
I always say that my obituary will note that I divided my time between two neighborhood cafes--Counter Culture and Tune-Up.
This is a record of a woman in her early sixties, in a capital city in the arid west, in the second decade of the twenty-first century.
Who is sitting and writing.
Disclosure | I do not really care about coffee |
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