There’s another breakfast called Caroline’s? Counter (okay, I forget who’s counter it was—it wasn’t Caroline, it might have been Catherine or Dandelion or, I don’t know—I’ll record it here next time I go), in Columbia City. And—and this is a big ‘and’—they serve wild mushroom omelets, which is my favorite type of omelet since there is nothing better than wild mushrooms (i.e., any mushroom except the white button ones). The food was good and the service was excellent. It’s a longer walk to get there than Susan’s (my truly local weekend-breakfast place, but it creates options, and options are always good.

Lottie Motts in its new incarnation in Columbia City opened as well. If you remember, I wrote about Lottie Motts before, an artsy coffee house with terrible décor, loud music, bad coffee, but incredible ambiance. The new place, renamed Lottie’s Lounge, serves alcohol, and the owners exchanged its artsy decor for, well, I’m not sure. I was a bit disappointed when I walked in, as a large bar (the alcoholic type) replaced a large section of the store. There was no coffee menu, which made me wonder if they even served coffee (there was a large wet bar behind the bar, and a chalkboard with a few sandwich offerings). I ordered coffee, sat down in one of the leather backed chairs, and drank my mocha. The coffee was better (it didn’t taste like dirty water as it did when Lottie ran the place), but I’m still not sold. There’s a large area for music in the corner now, but the place was eerily silent and a bit subdued and crowded (the tables, not the patrons; except for a man doing a crossword puzzle, and a kindly old woman typing away on her computer with her nose almost touching the screen, there was nobody there). I’ll give it another chance before heading to the local bucks of stars. While I have nothing against any bucks, the one in Columbia City has terrible Feng Shui, and I’m always looking for an alternative.

He stared back at me through the mirror. Stacks of woodened brains waited for me through the cellar door. Try as he might, his words, first brushed onto the canvas years before, never found an outlet or an audience, and, this truth came to him many years later, he didn’t care one way or the other. It was not the audience or the money or the hours of staring and cracking fingers that caused him to put things together. There was something more there, something he had to say, maybe his gusto, maybe his anguish, that pushed him to say it. It’s the pot of gold in the cave, the rushing from the cave before it collapses, it’s all the silly analogies and syllogism and all the other words relating to logic and writing, that was what he searched for and hoped to find.

Moments of inspiration, two hours and the first draft was done. The caffeine raced through his veins and he pounded out the draft, never worrying much about what it said until after he had said it and had moments to digest it. Get back to that! Get back to the Clockman, forget the search for conflicts, the creation of characters, the obliteration of the pathetic. All of that is for later, for now throw it out there and watch it stick and climb down the wall, like the rubber purple octopus that you had to keep washing for it to start sticking again.

***

The package arrived on Saturday, packed in a yellow, cushioned envelope. Margo removed it from the mailbox and carried it inside. It must be a present for her, sent by who knows who for who knows what. She brought it inside and stared at it, trying to influence its contents. She opened it, and the glue came off easily and she peeked inside, and saw not what she was expecting. An envelope of memories mailed off by her family, probably after cleaning out her room to ready it for her absence.

She had moved out six months ago, and while her mother seemed...

***

I want to meet whomever put the monkeys in a barrel. I’m going slightly insane staying home this weekend, and the fun thing is that the weekend has just started. Yipee!

“I don’t understand it anymore.”

“What’s that?”

“This storytelling. I mean, I’m supposed to throw down all these words and tell a story. Why do I need so many words?”

“You’re introducing people into the subject matter, getting them to know the characters, introducing the scenes and the world—that’s what you need all those words. Stop trying to be so clever with everything, and just write. The story is more important than the words. The words are there as the substance, the air or water—remember the fish story? An elderly fish swims by two younger fish, and says, “How’s the water?” The two younger fish look at each other, and one of them says, “What the hell is water?” Now, tell a story and don’t worry so much about the words.”

Passion. Gusto. I need to find a love for the story and the characters. I keep forgetting that. I need to love everything about it—or hate it. I need strong emotions. And I’m not finding it. I’m attempting to replace real emotions with cheap antics. Enough already. Enough self-analysis, enough masturbation (although, really, what is any type of writing except masturbation?), and get to it. Do it. Throw the Nike swoosh a bone.