Waking

The transition from sleep to wake is sometime so harsh. From one reality to another, my consciousness is dragged, and because the first is so foreign in light of the second, the second seems all the more so...strange...alien...I feel lost for that first minute or two of waking and adjusting myself back into our collective reality.

Dear Bart: A Letter to a Departed Soul

Dear Bart,

I remember my very first encounter with you. It was back in July 2010, during the first month of my employment at the cafe, and it peaked my interest enough that I put pen to paper and wrote about it later that night:

"You good?" 

"No...I think I'm wicked." 

So responded La Colombe's very own Picasso, a penniless artist who's been a patron of my workplace since its inception 16 years ago. He's a fixture now, the old whiskered face framed by long, scraggly gray hair hanging from a balding dome, never seen without his sketch pads cradled beneath his arm. He walked in today, approaching the bar with a lost, bewildered, half-crazed look in his eyes. After a minute, he ordered a granita, which I poured for him, though his entire appearance screamed "homeless". He just stood there with his sketchpads under his right arm and stared at the granita without taking it, as if he both feared it and was shocked by its existence. Which is why I asked after his well-being.

That was nearly two-and-a-half years ago. Since then, I have found out several things about you: you were not in fact homeless or penniless (you had a brother who loved and took care of you); perhaps you have not been around the cafe for nearly that long (but long enough to become a fixture); and that witty play on the word 'good' was a very characteristic response coming from you. Since then, I have only had a few real conversations with you aside from the usual exchange at the bar between barista and customer-- but those conversations were so unique that I can recall each and every one of them. Even an innocuous greeting could turn into a struggle for truth: I recall one time when I ran into you on the way into the cafe, and asked, "How's it going, Bart?" You stared at me with the most confused-- then tortured expression, and replied,

"How's it going? Uhhhh, I don't know! Uhhh huh huh...That's a difficult question! Uhhh huh huh!..."

I felt bad for having disturbed your mental peace, and tried to pass off the question as inconsequential. Eventually, I continued on my way and left you alone on the sidewalk, still struggling to find an answer. Most others would have given a programmed response, and you could have too. But instead, you struggled to find an honest answer to a meaningless query. It was unnecessary, but to this day, I admire your bizarre sincerity.

Aside from this brief but telling encounter, I had a few longer conversations with you-- all of them interesting and memorable, never boring, never of this world. What I have learned from these few but treasured dialogues was that you did not see the world as it was seen by most of us. Instead, you saw right through the veneer of banality that clouds the day-to-day interactions of your fellow humans, and what you saw underneath was sheer absurdity, or else a miracle of God. This is what I loved about you, Bart. For you, everything was painted in a divine light. For you, everything had meaning. I believe this way of seeing that you had was the greatest gift you gave to us at the cafe. Your presence was a constant reminder to your family at La Colombe that nothing was ordinary, if only we could see the absurdity, the humor, the tragedy, and the extraordinary beauty in life's situations.

In one encounter, as our brief meeting of hearts came to a close, I grasped your hands in mine for the first and only time, and thanked you for the conversation. At last, I understood. I understood why you would laugh so hysterically, or else weep in the most tragic, unabashed way, your heaving sobs echoing throughout the cafe. I understood why you stared speechless with wide, unbelieving eyes at the most commonplace scenarios. You saw the nonsense in the perfectly sensible act of working. You saw the reverence in the silly act of kissing a painting. You heard the voice of God in a Rolling Stones song. Everything you saw was touched with religious fervor, and therefore everything you saw was a miracle. Your special vision was both a blessing and a torment to you, and a mystery to the rest of us. Save for the few times you allowed me into your world through conversation, I could only guess as to what was going on in your soul whenever you broke down laughing or crying, or both.

I ended up covering an entire wall in my bedroom with your paintings. Then when I moved, I wanted to be more selective about what I put up on my walls, and so chose only the most vibrant pieces to light up my room. The days after you passed away, I spent many hours meditating on your death and your life, while staring up at these colorful paintings on my wall. The one at the very left looks like a dancer to me. But that is because I am a dancer and always have dancing on my brain. One in the middle bears full frontal nudity and angels. The piece to the right shows several human figures simplistically scratched out in black sharpie, floating along the interior of an enclosed, tentacled shape. In my current mood of mournful contemplation, they appear to me like trapped souls being flung about in space, tossed around in the maelstrom of life without a point of reference to "make sense of it all" and be found. Even your artwork, Bart, is not immune to the viewer's interpretation.

Nor is it immune to the whimsical, veering pattern of value placed on artwork. Countless times have you come up to the bar with sketchpad in hand, saying "I have something for you." At which you would proceed to barter a painting for a coffee. What often happened to these paintings used as bartering objects was that they were placed on a shelf in the back kitchen and forgotten, then thrown out. Some were rolled up and taken home to be pinned up or stashed on a shelf. On the other end of this spectrum of value, your artwork has been sold for two, three hundred dollars. As well, I have seen them professionally framed and exhibited at a local gallery. I know of a man who owns two suitcases full of your paintings collected over the decade or more of your friendship with him. He clearly values them highly. As for myself, I have thrown away several of your paintings, kept several more, and even on one occasion ran into (slowly-moving) traffic to save a painting that had been picked up and carried off by a strong gust of wind. The varied fate of your artwork is a veritable, organic, real-life demonstration that art has no intrinsic monetary value.

But what of value of the other type? Artistic value is finicky: it may exist for one person and not for another. I like your paintings because they are the most accessible inroad into your mind, which-- as sincere and honest as you are-- is still veiled in mystery. Your paintings, to me, speak to your love of your fellow men and women and to your love of God. They can be filled with vibrant colors, conveying a childlike exuberance; or else they convey a visual hell: dark and gloomy. They are confessions of your soul, or to speak less emotively, they are representations of your inner state of mind, and that is the reason why I like them.

What would you think of having a proper exhibition of your visual confessions at the cafe that became your second home? There are a few people in this world-- from the cafe you left behind-- that would take these more practical matters of business into their own hands, who would put in the time and the effort to ensure that your works are appreciated by the public one last time. There are a few people here who would wish to have your paintings hung up on a wall, to be viewed, internalized, and judged by the anonymous public. And what better place to display the works of Bart Brooks than on the walls of the cafe that you blessed with your creative presence for over a decade?

With this posthumous exhibition of your works, Bart, we wish to honor our resident artist, our dear, "Penniless Picasso". We want to ensure that you are deservedly appreciated and never forgotten despite your sudden departure from our cafe walls. The new customer who begins to frequent our shop will never know it as it was; only as it is, without your presence. However, for those of us who were around when you were still alive and drinking coffee, we will see the cafe in a different, more aged and colorful light: we will see the cafe as it was, with you sitting at your table with your sketchpad and cheap pastels, either accompanied by friends or else alone, every once in awhile laughing hysterically-- or is it weeping tormentedly?-- at things that the rest of us cannot see.

Goodbye, Bart! And thank you for this last conversation.

Angie

Bart Under a Tree

Note: A version of this letter appeared in Paradigm Magazine on November 29, 2012. Select "Bartwork" on flickr.

Contentment is snuggling under a heavy blanket and drinking hot liquids for the remainder of a frigid day.

Espresso is the eye of the hurricane.

Cappuccino Art

Cappuccino pouring has great potential for creating amazing art. The different designs that can be produced with its more heavily foamed ink is not quite limitless. Unfortunately, cappuccino art is generally undervalued; all the recognition and efforts toward perfection are bestowed upon the more exact and uniform art of pouring lattes.

Cappuccino art-- at least the way we make it at La Colombe with a nice head of foam quite distinct from wet latte milk, and with a wider surface to draw on-- is more abstract and freewheeling, and less strict than the standard designs that baristas aim to perfect with their latte milk (the heart, rosetta, tulip, and variations of these). Your imagination comes into play much more than in latte art. In this respect, it's rather like reading tea leaves or the sludge from Turkish coffee.

That said, one of my favorite cappuccino designs is the turtle with its heart visible in the middle of its shell, which is relatively easy to repeat compared to say, the pi symbol.

The Right to Marry

It is interesting that gay marriage is being sought more ardently than ever before by a nation that is becoming less and less inclined to marry in general, our marriage rate hitting a record low of 51%. Nevertheless! Let everyone have the right to become a divorcee. God bless America.

The Moon Rising

The moon is full of romance and mystery. It always gives me pause, expands my vision, and puts me in my place. The way in which it glitters ceaselessly upon moving waters its brilliant Morse code leaves me mesmerized on the docks. The sky changes gradually: from a strata of cotton candy hues blended seamlessly into a uniform navy blue. City dwellers wander in, in twos and threes, to watch the spectacle of the moon rising. It hovers a discontinuous jump above the endpoint of the bridge overhead that seems to demonstrate some ideal calculus curve. The higher it rises, the wider it casts its charmed net, of a hushed and tranquil feeling, a soundless lullaby.

...I am forever waxing on about the moon.

Wednesday night dance marathon: ballet and tango from 6:30pm-midnight!

This evening was pointe night. What makes pointe difficult in the beginning is that there is an added dimension: to the usual flat and demi-pointe positions of the foot is added a third possible position called 'pointe', which we must now take into consideration in the combinations. In the old world of ballet, we hopped from plie to pointe. In the modern world, we draw in, or roll through to pointe. From plie to soutenu, the trick is to slightly lift the tendu foot, hit it against the floor, and drag the floor, which draws your body into sus-sous. This motion of the tendu foot ensures that you are not hoisting yourself up solely from your supporting leg, rendering your working leg lifeless. It also ensures correct alignment and pull-up. In general, draw-- or better yet, skim feet lightly and smoothly over the floor rather than hopping from point to discontinuous point.

From ballet, I walked through the beautiful night air, and down into the underground, where the train took me to Fishtown for tango. I am drawn to tango by the core group that attends the practica every Wednesday night. Very strong (in character) and beautiful Russian ladies, and my sister and her man. As fun as some of the guys are to dance with (and others, horrendous!), my favorite part of the night was being led by my sister on the dance floor. When twins dance tango, it's called "twango".

Must Be the Heat

Sunflowers droop heavily
Giant seeded faces ill with defeat
Leaves hang limply
Must be the heat
Brown sugar spoons all clumpy
Like wet sand or concrete
"Everyone looks slightly crazy"--r'marks a bar bystander--,
"Must be the heat"

Are You A Morning Person?

I am a morning person and I am a night person (may I say that I am temporally ambidexterous?).

What I am not is a midday person. The morning is fresh and full of possibilities of accomplishments and adventures. The evening is veiled and mysterious and spurs my imagination. I feel enlivened by both of these times.

In between morning and evening, however, I am at a loss. What was my purpose again? And how heavily my eyelids droop. I want nothing more than to give in to this weighty somnolence. Life appears lackluster and interminable.

In the afternoon, when the sun is high, it is best for me to sit on a park bench and watch the world go by. Perhaps with a book in my hand whose pages may or may not get turned.

Rug: That Most Precious Household Commodity.

Reading on my rug. How I love the smell of new carpet!

After living for 11 months in a house with nails growing out of the floors, my new rug has brought me infinite pleasure. It is my precious commodity, and brightens the entire living room with its light beige hue and soft spirit. $50 well spent. In its previous life, having been rolled up, bound in plastic, and stood vertically propped against a stack of other similar area rugs like one of a forest of woven tree trunks, it now lies 8x6 feet over the old musty and hazardous planks of my dying house, the central figure of the living space.

How I love my new rug. I love to lie on it and stare up at the ceiling at nothing, simply enjoying the visceral feeling of homeyness that it induces with its plush, knotted texture and sawdust aroma. I love to stretch on it for hours to increase my turnout and extension in ballet; the sheer activity of stretching has transformed from a pain to a pleasure now that I do not fear sitting on my living room floor.

Best of all, I love that I can pirouette on my floor without the danger of a nail or splinter piercing my foot. I never asked to be crucified for my love of ballet, and now my new rug allows me to love without sacrifice, to practice pirouetting as much I want! whenever I want! inside my dying house.

This freedom to spin gives me infinite pleasure. I shall spin day and night on my lovely new rug.

Summer Spectacle

Sundown, June 10th 2012...

I was listening to the theme song from Up, and saw a balloon floating high into the sky. It was the most beautiful coincidence to mark the end of a day spent outside in 100-degree heat. Philadelphians and some out-of-towners gathered around the fountain of Love Park like theatre-goers at an amphitheatre. Some sat higher, some sat lower, some sat with their legs dangling right in the water. One girl sat with her legs wrapped around another. She leaned in to her right to hear better what a third girl in the group was saying to her. They seemed as close as sisters. A fat man lay stretched out on his side right on the ledge of the fountain in the pose of an idyllic Greek god. He wore only a pair of shorts, showing off his golden tan and numerous stomach folds. Teenage girls hung about showing off equally their near-naked bodies and summer outfits: bikini tops and short shorts, brightly colored sundresses and floppy hats, and sheer or lacy-backed tops in sea green, hot pink, and creamsicle orange. Tattoos in black ink swirled and climbed like ivy up dark arms, legs, and backs in forms of arabesques, treble clefs, and other motifs; hopefully their symbolism will not wither with the summer's end. From my seat near the back of the amphitheatre, I saw before me the backs of everyone's heads, as they all sat facing the central spectacle, great jets of water that drew all these bodies together in this formidable heat. Above the sea of heads, above the tallest jet of water, and even above the tallest skyscraper, a tiny red balloon rose, flying solo into the clouds as the notes of that tune played merrily in my ear.

"What is your endgame?"

I would like to have an answer to this question.

At present, the future is hazy to me. I know what I like, but I don't know what I want.

Is this because I am not an Aries?

Moon on My Mind

Tonight, the moon hangs bright and full
So serene in its vantage point
Undisturbed by the size and scope
of it all

Mona Lisa of the skies
Witness to our cries and sighs
Speaks volumes in rotund silence
of the ages

A slow opening at the City Hall cafe gave me a chance to sit for a few minutes with one of my customers and write up some Valentine cards. Valentine's Day suddenly becomes really fun when you've stumbled upon really beautiful vintage cards that were designed nearly a century ago. Never mind that I had no one in mind to give them to at the time of purchase.

"Love heels", one of the cards was entitled-- the one that was cut into the shape of a ladies high heel shoe--, but love also wounds. Take that. I've been classically unlucky in love so far. I could go out of my way and actually try to find someone special, but I don't have the heart to put in such effort presently-- whether this lack of motivation stems from suspicion, defensiveness, fear, or some other deep, dark psychoanalytic well,...it is what it is. I will stumble upon the various threads of my fate just as I stumbled upon these beautiful cards.

And just as I purchased these ephemera greeting cards with no particular receiver in mind, I also purchased a bottle of sparkling cider with no one in mind to drink it with. I bought the cider because I tasted a sample of it at the grocery, and as it fizzled down my throat, it threw me back to summer days, to warmth and tranquility. And so I threw down 10% of my day's tips and purchased a bottle of this liquid summer, which now sits in my fridge awaiting to relieve a soul parched by a long winter.

Stats: Today, my coworker and I served more than 500 drip coffees in 6 hours. Including espresso drinks, this means we saw more than 100 faces per hour. That's a lot of faces! That's more than 100 "Hello how are you"'s per hour. That's about 50 "Happy Groundhog Day"'s per hour and 25 mentions of Bill Murray per hour. You're welcome, Bill Murray. And Happy Groundhog Day, everyone.

The irony: Today, I feel like retreating from humanity. Sometimes, it seems there is entirely too much cattiness and judgmental attitudes in every corner of my world, and it makes me want to eschew humanity. Yet, today I have also encountered kindness, funniness, and empathy from many (many!) folks, and these positive encounters are usually enough to draw me back into the fold. However today, I am feeling rather misanthropic. On the other hand, I had some really beautiful encounters...I go back and forth. The past few days have been tough on my psyche...I feel bruised and battered-- yet healing-- yet still sensitive.

The past two days have been unnaturally beautiful. The sudden spring air in the midst of winter has awakened my spirit, which feels like it has been in hibernation for many months. I brought my camera out of hibernation and followed the light. Beautiful flowers, beautiful building walls, beautiful streets and beautiful throngs of people and the homeless...one of my favorite streets in Philadelphia is along Juniper, between Sansom and Chestnut Streets: old walls that attest to a more refined, ornate past; on the wall upon entering, a poignant quotation by some philosopher or another about how knowing that there is an end is what gives the present its meaning. At the end of the walk, upon the sewer giving off heat lies a homeless man wrapped up in his anorak. I see him in this very spot every single morning that I walk through this alley on the way to work. He has made himself a home-- that is, if "home" is defined by the place where you sleep every night. He has become a meaningful node in my line of vision-- something that I look for as I wend my way through the streets of Philadelphia in the twilight hour.

Yesterday evening, I gave myself a ballet class in a glass-enclosed space in the exact middle of the city; that is to say, at the cafe. This is one of the most magical, spiritual experience that I can offer to myself in the city. During the day, it is the place where I make money; it is alive with people and lights and conversation and coffee. But at night, after around 7:30pm, I unlock the glass door and let myself into a shadowy haven that is both secret and utterly revealing. I turn on two lights-- the track lights hanging over the large family table and the one in the back kitchen. The bathroom is my dressing room. After I change, I plug in my ipod; slow adagio music fills the air. I begin by facing the burr grinders filled with Nizza and Haitian beans. Slow tendus, the way I was taught during my 12 days in Russia. To this day, I still hear Ilya's slow, methodical counts: Raz, dva, tri, chetyre; raz, dva, tri, chetyre; raz, dva, tri, chetyre; plie...

From there, I sink into plies and the rest of the essential barre exercises, then center work. I use my reflection in the glass to correct my form. Outside, groups of people walk by. A few peer in; most pass by unaware of any activity on the other side of the glass. Cars whizz by around the bend; lights shine from the cars, street lamps, and surrounding office buildings; voices carry past the glass. I ponder briefly the things we would discover should all walls be made with transparent glass. What goes on behind those walls? Here, at the cafe, my activity is made utterly transparent. It is full of dichotomy: I feel naked, yet hidden; amongst people, yet alone. I am surrounded by people, yet I feel sheltered by the glass the keeps me at an impenetrable distance from them, no matter how transparent they may be. For those who catch sight of movement and peer in for a closer look, I welcome them into the world of ballet as I see it, as I love it: the repetition, the rigor, the sweat, the discipline-- the ritual of ballet class.

Friday afternoon, 1/20/12: First Cupping

-that is, coffee cupping...location: the Warehouse
-pregame with Primo hoagies
-first, a taste of Pure Black, sweetened and once-pressed: top taste is undesirable; bottom taste is wonderfully grainy and all coffee; sugar is consistent from top to bottom; SN likes a punch in the face
-the demise of Robinson, our Haitian coffee ambassador: mob politics with reactionary, old men; we will dig deep into Haiti
-Beasts Ride Bicycles: A children's book ft. Bird Rider & Robusta Dude
-pizza: Naples vs Rome; semolina vs no semolina; chef vs. the 8th generation Russian pizza connoisseur
-where was the coffee spoon? (a) not a coffee spoon-- a drug spoon (b) in Serge's tool box; (c) not a drug spoon-- a pooper scooper; (d) Bryan stole it to clean up after his new dog (e) Bryan has Flyers tickets
-pods: ever-widening screens from 54 to 58mm in diameter; they are evolving, and so must we; new packaging-- silver and sleek
-redefining "direct trade": buying directly from the children who stick the parchment around each bean

The cupping itself was a neat experience. We three baristas who had never been to such an event-- sat side by side on the bench across the table from JP, while he stood like an eccentric professor, waving around his hands until one of his unusually thick fingers got sliced by his own Pure Black twist-off cap and began bleeding profusely. As casual as his manner was, he had the air of knowledge about him as he spoke. He was in his element, talking about a subject that he had spent hundreds of thousands of hours of his life thinking about, studying, breathing, creating, tasting, drinking, dreaming and doing. Eventually, most of the office staff drifted in and joined the meeting, hanging around the perimeter of the gorgeous wooden conference table, but not quite sitting at it. Even Tobin, the accountant, popped his head in for a brief moment to say hello.

After the cupping of the first Panamanian bean, the cups-- rounded, white bowl types-- were washed, redosed with the second El Salvadorian beans, refilled with boiling water, and re-aligned in a straight line down the long bench table. We steeped and slurped. The surprise was that, as light as the El Sal was roasted (lighter than the Panamanian bean), it was much more pleasantly citrus-y and smooth than the sharply acidic Panamanian bean. Part of the reason for this seemingly paradoxical result may have been the inconsistent grind level of the two beans. JP suggested a darker roast for the sharply acidic Panamanian bean; Chris, the roaster, disagreed with an immediacy and certainty that impressed me.

We fell into discussions with our neighbors. From the right side of the room, I caught a tip from Chris: slurp a spoonful of the Panamanian, let it sit in your mouth, and the orange-iness will hit you like a bus. It hit me suddenly that "citrusy" did not necessarily entail "acidic". From the left side of the room, Patrick sat at the end of the table with a ph meter dipped into his cup of coffee, as focused as a doctor listening in on his stethoscope to the beating of a heart. He listed the following acidity levels for the sake of comparison: stomach juice-- 1; lemon juice-- 2 to 3; Panama-- 5.28; El Salvador-- ? A point emphasized and re-emphasized by the chef of the house was that the beans for the cupping were roasted lightly enough to expose the faults of the bean, but also dark enough to expose the beauty of the bean. He dipped his hand into the pile of roasted beans, lifted and let them run through his fingers as he spoke of their beauty.

How Many Cups?

This evening at the Rittenhouse cafe, I served three girls decked out in head scarves and bedazzling outfits from Forever 21. The one in pink was from Baghdad; the other two from Tunisia and Morocco.

The three bedazzling ladies sat down at a table in the corner in front of the bar and began giggling like schoolgirls as Bart fell yet again into his hysterical "tragic laughter" state-- the one in which you can't tell if he is laughing or weeping. I was sure he was actually weeping this time until he pointed at Pedro and said that he was "very funny".

I had to agree with Bart this evening: Pedro was very funny. Today, Pedro chose the wrong time to trash talk to me and ended up with cappuccino all over his jeans. That was very funny. Then later during clean-up, we started swinging between the bar counters for fun, and in the blink of an eye, he was on the ground. That was also very funny, but only because he was unhurt.

I introduced the Deaf Elephant to both him and John this evening. They threw cups at me in return. Then they gave an observing customer a cup to throw at me too. Hence, I had three cups thrown at me today total. Paper cups, not the ceramics from Italy.

Day 10 of the Year 2012

I followed the full-ish moon to work; orange lilies lit up my workspace.

-what are ram horns? handlebar moustache turned upside-down; equivalently: what is a handlebar moustache? ram horns turned upside-down
-at the espresso bar: a calligraphy session with the two young, bubbly doctors-to-be; a discussion on the science of baking cheez-its with a crossword puzzling pastry chef
-a word in the English language with three of the same letter in a row: (a) does not exist; (b) "oooh!"
-Day 2 of this week's challenge: go to a dance class every day for 7 days straight. Screw the healthy balance; I embrace my obsession.
-I saw the date "January 8, 2012" printed on an online article; it took me a couple seconds to realize that this date was not in the science fiction-y future. Woah...From now on, we're livin' in the future!

Day 6 of the Year 2012

-crashed a classics conference at the Marriott: in which I discovered chaîne opératoire and listened to a scholar talk about Planet of the Apes
-with Mini Millar, built a cuppyramid, and then an even bigger cuppyramid, and then an even bigger cuppyramid with an alligator moat which was then destroyed by the longest yell in history: in which I was all the while fascinated by the little engineer's obsession with the one particular form, which he built over and over again, utterly in the zone; in which the little engineer christened me "Crane-kay"
-inflamed by acer negundo, aka, box elder tree, whose wood turns brilliant streaks of red when attacked by borers like the ambrosia beetle
-took Juniper Street, the back alley route home; considered that calligraphy, flower arranging, and ornate sculpting of building facades require a similar mindset in their undertaking
-overdosed on darling clementines and put Mozart piano sonatas on repeat

"Russian?" said Bart, "That's the language of Hell."

"What's the language of heaven?" asked Osama.

"Hebrew," was the prompt reply of the Messianic Schizophrenic Jew.

"What about Arabic?" countered Osama, who is Palestinian.

"Uhhh huh huh..."

"Uhhh huh huh..." echoed Rad from behind the bar.

Day 2 of the Year 2012

A day off...

-watched Titanic at 6 in the morning
-tried not to weep over the fleeting nature of love and life
-broke my fast with nachos; ate grapes for dinner

Day 1 of the Year 2012:

-wake up, shower, and put on a tuxedo dress and black tie; but forget on purpose the creepy moustache
-serve coffee to dozens at the City Hall cafe; escape before the mummers get too obnoxious
-serve coffee to hundreds at the Rittenhouse cafe; chase them out at the closing hour with '90s techno hits
-take Broad Street path home and wonder at the chaos on the streets: trash everywhere, everywhere the stench of alcohol, drunken revelers on foot in droves; everywhere the flashing of blue and red cop lights
-come home, put food into stomach, decompress; consider watching Titanic; I cannot explain this sudden urge, nor shall I try to fight it