Cambodian coffee brewing. The New Yorker fiction issue spread in pieces on my lap.
It’s July. Just the beginning of July, feeling like May, and time seems slippery. Fish-slippery — or tiny-crab slippery. Always running away from me.
(On the beach of the island where Kerpowski and I landed after our long boat ride into the sunset, tiny crabs burst up from the sand, one after the other. Dodging them made me think of heroes in the movies, the bullets always missed. I kept Not Stepping on Crabs but unsure of the physics.)
July. I wanted very much to start pie-making, because it’s summer and there’s fruit now, but I’m headed to Copenhagen for a SOMETHING I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO DO which is take a workshop at the Copenhagen Institute of Interaction Design.
So, pies have been delayed while I pack.
No, packing has been delayed for this coffee, which has a maple-y sweetness to it that no other coffee does. And the New Yorker fiction issue, which was a June thing. It’s the best way to spend a morning, sinking and rocking into a sheaf of pages that someone else wrote. Not even all the pages, just the hand-picked ones. The best ones.
I have lots that has not been written, and time keeps happening before I can write it. There’s a menace about that feeling. It floats lazily through, yellow-jacket menacing. Things will just keep happening, and I won’t be able to record them.
The island felt totally wild and completely inhabited at the same time. We stumbled over rocks, dodged crabs, and then walked under an archway of bent branches and down a dirt path until suddenly there was a circle of candelight, a thatched-roof hut and the slow murmur of traveler’s conversations. I guess we were at the front desk.