Just your ordinary Monday at The Bean, with Fleetwood and a hangover. Foreigners on vacation exploring too-cool Williamsburg, eating cheesecake with strawberry. Unstressed freelancers on their computers. Soft rays of December sunlight pouring in these expansive windows. An old woman outside at the bus stop wrapped in her winter down coat and gloves. Men walking their dogs toward McCarren Park. Friends sharing stories across tables, but not gossiping. Me, with my head down on the table and a pen between my fingers, feeling the most like myself writing these words. Not reading anything about media but reading a lot about creative writing classes around the city. Finding out where all the non-fiction writers gather, yearning to be inspired anew by people who don't sit at computers during the day. Who write poetry in their spare time. Who dream in foreign languages. Who live in New York but hang out at places like the Bean on a Monday. I'll sit here til my 4:00pm movie at the nearby cinema on the corner of Berry and Metropolitan. A daytime film! To watch alone. Alone but not lonely.
On this particular Monday, I feel the red wine from last night. The extra glass I drank on purpose, knowing I wouldn't have to ride the subway to work today like I have the past two years. I think of last night, of all my friends around the table, or at least nine really special ones, talking about farming and the most challenging part of my year at 25 and briefly - as with most dinner parties these days - politics. Friends who walked in the front door and didn't know each other, but then quickly did. Friends who arrived with all of my favorite things: ingredients and wine and a new cookbook for my kitchen, a clean journal for my new beginnings, colorful flowers and hand-written cards. Friends who hug me so warmly at the end of the night that I feel more rich and ready for the week. I think of last night, when rather than fall quietly into bed, I leave with my guests and walk five blocks East and five blocks North to my favorite neighborhood bar for jazz where I love to go and close my eyes and sway my hips from side to side. Where instead of thinking that it's already midnight, already Monday, I simply let the music sweep through my body. Jazz has a glorious way about transporting me away from myself. Usually it takes me all the way home, to my bedroom in California, on any weekend afternoon when the sound of my Dad's horns sweep under my closed door while I read old travel magazines. Jazz takes me away to my favorite memories, to the places I feel most peaceful.
Waking up on Monday was rather enjoyable. At 10:00AM. To the sound of my housemate's footsteps on wood. The running faucet for a cup of water. The melodic hum of the coffee maker. The opening and closing of the bathroom door. Me in my nook, eyes still closed. Heavy head but feeling weightless. Stacks of notes piled high on the rug at the side of my bed that slipped from my fingers as I fell asleep. "Happy birthday my love, my perfectly imperfect friend, my daughter, my sweet niece, my inspiration...": words that give me life and make me feel whole. I am waking up just freshly 26 years old, in bed with a book and without emails. Thinking about anything I want and about nothing particularly important. Thinking that today is Monday, and I don't have a job but a kind-of plan, and that suddenly I feel a lot more sure of myself than I have in a long time.