cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

good friday

My fingers will freeze off before this entry is posted. This is a FYI and not a cry for help. It will happen. That is the way of this coffee place. Its name rhymes with Jarsucks. I do not like hanging out here, but I have yet to find another place with free (to me) wifi that also serves coffee in a non-aggro style.

One reason why I do not like hanging out here is because it is frequented by a certain type of people. Let’s call them “molice dofficers”. They are loud and they have handguns strapped to their midsections, and also they do not sit on chairs but rather lean on them, like cowboys in movies, one leg up on the bottom rung. It gives them an air of readiness, and makes me queasy as I think of what they would be ready for.

Not that I am unfamiliar with molice dofficers. I have some in the family, even. I have seen these handguns often; I have touched one. I have held one. It doesn’t feel like power; it feels like a hard, dead thing. Like sadness, when you’ve forgotten the original reason for being sad but you won’t let it go. Like the finger of an embalmed corpse, pointing at you over and over.

When you shoot a gun, the world changes. It changes in a scurrilous way. Some people accept this change but I don’t. Some people think it makes them safer to know what it’s like. It doesn’t.

I spent an hour napping in the sunshine in a park on Gough. (Gough like cough, not like though or through. It took a while for me to remember.) Before I laid my head down, an English sheepdog ran up to me and licked my face. Amidst giggling, I asked what her name was. Her owner said, “Sophie.” I whispered, “Hello, Sophie,” and she rolled around in my lap and ate some grass by my leg.

I watched them walk home. And then I put my head down to the ground and listened for magic. The City is filled with it, you know. I saw it in the fog that obscured the Golden Gate Bridge and I saw it again in Sophie’s eyes. I don’t see it here, not in this cold little place with my fingers turning to frozen fishsticks. But I can see it out the window, and I’ll go out into it soon, and blow kisses to the waning light and try not to think about guns. Goodbye, fingers.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

∞