Hey babies. Besides writing awesome articles about radical stuff for a bitchin’ magazine, I’m also a barista at Salt Lake’s best coffee shop. Follow my cafe on Twitter: @TheRoseEstb. You won’t regret it. Unless you don’t live in SLC and rarely visit. Then you’ll probably regret it.
Yesterday a bag-lady came in to the coffee shop. She walked up to the counter and asked me if I was the manager. I accidentally affirmed that I was, in fact, the manager. It is usually a bad idea to do this because then people ask you for money or complain about something. Well, after I accidentally affirmed that I was, in fact, the manager, the bag-lady asked me if I would buy a handmade rug or pot holder. I responded in the negative, saying something like, “No, sorry, we don’t really need any rugs or pot holders right now.” About two-thirds of the floor in the coffee shop is already covered in rugs so we really didn’t need any more. the bag-lady frowned and said, “Oh, that’s ok.” Then she said something unexpected: “You’re cute.” I stared for a few seconds and said, “Uh….Thanks…” Then the bag-lady told me, “I really like your hair. It’s really cute.” I laughed nervously and thanked her. This was getting to be too much. “Who does your hair?” the bag-lady asked. “Um… I do. I just chop it with scissors,” was my response. Bag-lady said, “Really?? Are you a stylist?” I laughed genuinely, non-nervously and said, “No, I’m not a stylist. I just hack at my hair with scissors until it looks short enough.” “Oh, well it’s really cool. I like how it is asymmetrical. It’s really cool! Well, have a nice day,” said bag-lady, and started walking around the shop exclaiming how cool the shop was.
So, girls…. I need a stylist.
Espresso stains the cracks of my dry purocaff hands
Espresso is ground into the thigh of my right pant leg, forever
Espresso dust settles into the bed of my shoes
Deep brown on black on black
My wrist shakes out rosettas as I sleep
When pressed to my ear, a seashell hisses steam thru phantom milk.
Case of The Mondays.
This right here is my brother. He’s the real deal. Good stuff, even with typos.
This is the first of many writings I did while incarcerated. Hope you enjoy and that my terrible writing and punctuation isn’t too terrible.
Asleep, awake, conscious, unconscious. Slowly the lines start to blur. Dreaming of trying to go to leep. Periodically checking the clock painfully aware of your sleepless night.
Awaken to darkness, moments later the morning lights switch on. Six o’clock, eyes blurry, head poinding, hoping that this part was the dream. Dehydrated coffee. Stay awake, if you fall asleep, no sleep tonight. Or was there sleep?
Food nicely divided in five sections. Strange things become appealling. The TV only plays five music videos, yet they still watch. Dehydrated coffee. Watch the watchers, it makes them nervous. Peer suspiciously over reading material as they walk by. Make jokes behind backs. Hope they realize that they are truely you employee. Feel institutionalized.
Heasitantly pushed through the door room service. Food nicely divided into five sections. Feel slightly impowereed, nowhere else will anyone cater to you as your supposed jailers do. Don’t thank them. Wait till they leave, more jokes. Trade swine for more appealling nutrition. Try to write more for blog. Unsure of failure or success, write. Dehydrated coffee.
Card games, card sharks, shark bite, spider bite, spider tatttoo, everything connects. Someone remembers you. Use drugs as excuse, you don’t remember anyone. Make cards for others signifigant others. Feel slightly vindictive. Don’t do as good as you know you can do. Feel slightly better. Dehydrated coffee.
Small blue rubber ball. Slap at wall with hand, repeat. Realize that you hate what your writing, continue. Excuses, rationalization, scavengers, whiners, billy bad asses, thank about how nice solitary was. Silly juggalos. Departure of respected “Pod Father.” Courtesy flushes. Misspell too many words. Gain access to dictionary. Receive no help, you must be fucking up real bad. Stop this supposed creative writing because you don’t like how it is to write on the other side without removing from notebook. Relieve bladder. Attempt sleep.
Lengthy Emails I Write to People, Part 1
I don’t know the Frenchman enough to bring him with me. 10 lives: i want to do many things with my life so i’m going to do them all. (and disregard capitalization in the process). I think i am different than i used to be a year ago or 2 years ago or 4 years ago. last year weird stuff happened and i had an emotional breakdown in portland/seattle. but now i feel more outgoing and optimistic and loving and creative. i really don’t have any contact with anyone who may think badly of me. i think i am much more… “open.”
i never considered talking to you at all, i mean why would i? i’m not one to live in the past. at all. but for some reason it seems like we would have more in common now. i have no reason to think that but i thought it. gawd, that sounds real heavy but it isn’t, i’m just typing my brain.
(adrian is still snarky but is actually much happier and nicer lately, i can tell)
i don’t own the coffee shop. i am the manager and after the owner left to do other stuff, he turned the place over to his sister and me. it is my baby. i was planning on opening my own shop downtown by now but i’m dealing with this one for a while. it is my baby. it is slowly turing into the shop i palnned on opening. planned. we are changing the name to 23rd street coffee. my coffee roaster is in portland. they are called water avenue coffee. they have a shop at the roastery. it is at 1028 SE Water Avenue.
i am not familiar with small black. i love snickers though, i became addicted to them (as well as cigarettes) last summer. not the summer we just had, the one before.
i have been single for over a year. it is weird. although i feel lonely at times, it has been neat. i hang out with my self a lot, which i enjoy very much. me head always feels like a swirling ball of energy and ideas that are about to jump out and that makes me happy and excited.
this is a very long email. i like typing.
what do you want to do with your life? what music are you into lately?
‘“Do you serve normal coffee here?” No ma’am, all our coffee is mutated. (Oh the things that pass through your head)’
I am holding a meeting at my coffee shop tomorrow. I wrote an outline of notes for the meeting. I scanned the notes so I could email a copy to the owner of the shop. I scanned the written notes as a “document” and this is what my computer translated my handwriting as.
*Note the variety of typefaces and sizes
I saw something alive in the midst of hell, a tactile top-of-my-head vision of god, perhaps catalyzed by the pizza shop p-i-z-z-a gimme pizza, a combined eerie childhood-adult subconscious drug moment,
A holy half-tear eye, a smashing of head on the wall of the cosmos, a few hours of broken-mirror clarity,
consuming retarded amounts of caffeine, howling for the past and present, for Carl Solomon and for Allen’s mother and Jacob’s mother and for Jacob himself,
smoking retarded amounts of cigarettes to mark the start of new walking streetside conversations without a second thought,
driving while staring through streetlights at rising drifting smoke beneath crying muted trumpets, not wanting to reach home,
rejecting retarded amounts of apathy or rather
consuming the apathy and shitting out complete double rainbows
oh my god,
my god, the antithesis of apathy which is caring too much, loving too much, wanting too much, and needing nothing,
despising the rejection of happiness, the rejection of love, the rejection of closeness and truth, despising the reading of status updates and compulsive checking of dormant cellphones,
the anticlimactic arrival at home, real home,
thinking of dropping the 16th cigarette butt into stoop ashtray but throwing it into the street and saying to no one, “Please start a fire,”
feeling a twinge in the stomach when anticipating the ritual hope for hints of love within Facebook messages,
lying facedown atop closed laptop to warm it to a suitable temperature while shirtbuttons knowingly scratch the metal top,
staring at the Sonic Youth album cover into the sad strung-out spectacled eyes of a fucked-up god, cat pacing atop my back,
prepared to blow my brains all over someone, something, everyone, everything, anything,
trying to stretch time, prolong lucidity, massage dull hard brain into rubber, waiting to be physically massaged into an orgasmic coma,
deciding whether to text girls, proclaiming ecstatic actual rooftop shouting intentions of real-life grandeur, letting them come with me
or letting them come to me, passively cultivating my own compulsive psychosis into one gigantic mass of tactless uninhibited mutual “FUCK YES!” of thought and energy,
swelling like the Big Bang, like a muted Miles Davis high-note
while the rest of the quartet keeps playing in awe, mouths agape, the shrill smile penetrating every fold of the brain until it rattles windows, bursts up above the smoggy midnight lamp-lit streets and then peaks, resting at the tip of the Walker Tower,
the city below turning to dust,
and forgetting that
was even there.
(Nov. 4 2010)
This treat. A donut. Coffee, bitch. Catwhine. Too much jangle. Gargle with wine and coffee, one after another. I’m never gonna drown that way. It goes right to yer head, make a coffee/wine 0-face. Who needs a Cadillac when you get an o-face. Stupid-ass trumpet. Not even real. Lick that glaze off yer fingers, yeah, sure. What the fuck is that
Adrien is about to walk in the door.
I hear her
There she goes. Hi Adrian.