my name is ra.

stream of coffeeness

I fell in love with stream of conscious writing when Albert Camus barely paused in pace to posit to me that an addiction to silk underwear did not necessarily imply dirty feet.  It may have been a character, in his book, uttering a thought that millions would read, but in the moment– in a relentless flood of thought, it felt personal.  Others may have read it, but I heard it, with my own two ears.  (Non-literal ears.)  I fell in love with Camus that day, and again years later, and again years later.  If a year has passed where I didn’t fall in love with my favorite authors all over again, I don’t remember it.

My non-literal ears are blowing off metaphorical steam right now, like a cartoon character who accidentally poured Sriarcha over her fries instead of ketchup.  I don’t write when I’m steaming because it passes so quickly that I wouldn’t even understand myself by the time I re-read.

Sometimes I spin, and sometimes that spinning goes too quickly for anyone to make sense of it at all.

I wish I had headphones in.  When they’re not in my ears, I am tense. Someone will interrupt.  A sound will interrupt.  A color or light always interrupts.  The world is clinging to my face, pulling at my coattails, pinching my arms.  It is commotion, noise, clatter, and jazz.  Life is a cacophony of sound and motion and it makes me sick, like a rollercoaster ride that’s gone on a bit too long.

It’s gone on a bit too long.

I had a dream that Perdita died, and it made perfect sense.  That’s what happens to people when their heart is broken, when the other half of it is burned to ash.  People and cats, and other things that get more second chances than they deserve.  It’s just another second chance all over again. Their love died, and they get to stop.

I don’t get to stop, or pause, or breathe, or think.  Continue on, continue on, says the noise, says the jazz, says the clatter and commotion.  This too will pass, everything passes, nothing lasts forever, not the good or the bad, or the years that started with slaps and never stopped pummeling you into the ground. Does it stop if you give up? Does it ever stop, or does everything keep rolling into the next thing?

We drag our dirty feet from one room to the next, but there’s pebbles between my toes that no one sees, that no one should see, that no one wants to see.  Even I only notice them when they break my stride.

Broken is a word I’ve worked fully into my vocabulary over the last year.  It’s like safety, something I never thought about before, that I can’t stop thinking about now.  It’s part of the new world.  My phone is still broken, so I am afraid to go out.

Luckily, I can stay in.  I have a working computer now, thanks to AntoniusRex, so I’ve been online for an hour without anything crashing.  I blogged through NanoPoblano on phones and 15 minute bursts of computer time, and though I am proud I made it through, being able to actually stay online makes me feel connected again, and connections make me feel safer.

I put a UFO sticker on the computer, a gift from my girls Behind the Willows, because it fit perfectly over the brand and it struck me as fate.  I give way to fate because I trust her.  I object when someone says I didn’t look before I crossed a street or jumped off a cliff, because of course I did– I looked her straight in the eye.  Fate is like the pebble in my shoe, like the sound outside my window that I can’t block out with headphones.  She is a fixture of reality that I am not intended to shake.

And everything is good.  It is.  I am lucky.  I hear some people don’t even know what it is to walk without pebbles in their shoes.  Some people have had their silk underwear judged by all the world, all their life.   The world is connected now, and a little cramped.  No one walks around without a wire anymore and the wires all plug into the electricity born of stories shared.

It’s important to share stories, and to write them, though I wonder if I would undertake anything else so lightly knowing the impact it could have.  Maybe, in the future, a father will press my words into the hands of his Little Foot, telling her that everything she needs to know about human redemption can be found there– and maybe when she tastes a sentence, she’ll feel what I felt, reading Camus.  Maybe the one sentence that I didn’t mean anything by will cement itself into her head and she’ll explain it for years and years.  Maybe one day, she’ll pick up a pen or a keyboard or a thought-translating robot and write a thought rooted in my thoughts.

Or maybe no one will read it at all.

Dave sold about 10,000 copies of his memoir-turned-novel.  I read it over and over again, and fell in love with him– as the author– over and over again.  He wanted to be an author, and so he was one.  I only ever wanted to be a reader, but that was the one thing I could never make into a living. I never wanted to be an author, and yet, here I am, surrounded by notes and sheets of typed pages…

though I am well aware an aversion to becoming an author does not necessarily imply one’s feet are clean.

My own are evidence of that.  There’s pebbles pressed into my calluses, stuck between my toes, and I clank everywhere I go.  I’m part of the noise, the clanks, the clatters, the commotions, and the jazz.

I’m part of life.

I am alive, and today– for the first time since I heard Dave died– I became a reader once again. I picked up a book, lived through its pages,

and fell in love.

I’ve tucked away my notes, and brewed some more coffee.  Tomorrow sounds like a wonderful day to become an author, but today…

Today is a good day to read.


    1. Happy New Year, lovely Diana. I was going to link this up to the WCS, but I wasn’t sure what the rules were. It started as a response to the prompt, but ended up being a monologue. 😀

      And yes, books have seen me through every mountain I’ve ever had to climb– the glorious and the terrifying. I was so afraid I had lost the strength to hear them. I am glad to be reading once again. ❤

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I though it might’ve! I think it would’ve been fine to link it up. I don’t worry about it, so long as posts aren’t something way-far-away from the coffee conversational style. 🙂


  1. I remember reading Homer and being quite astounded, suddenly, that the emotion I was feeling for the characters was (presumably) a response intentionally elicited by the author as he wrote…but that the feeling I was experiencing at the hands of his storytelling would have been experienced in similar manner by all his readers – from kings to emperors to paupers to prisoners – for the past 2000+ years, suddenly threw me back on my (metaphorical) heels for one of the biggest WOW moments I’ve had whilst reading.

    Keep spinning, dear one.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Exactly! It’s mind-blowing, but doesn’t stop me from feeling as if it’s a personal message, each and every time. I am a reader, through and through, and I am glad to be back at it again. (Also, Homer. I love Homer. ) ❤

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Well it is, and that’s the wonderful thing – something about how we’re all more the same than different, allows that messages from the author can nonetheless speak specifically into our worlds and our mindsets and the place we’re in at that *precise* moment.

        I’m glad you’re reading again. I remember when my ex couldn’t read for a while because of depression and it got him SO down, because he loved reading before. He just couldn’t find a way to engage with a book and he used to get so pissed off.

        Homer is awesome. I want to read more.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Happy for you that you’re reading, I love it, too. Today I’m excited about reading some NY Sunday Times and doing the crossword puzzle.

    I am equally happy that you write, I always feel uplifted after appreciating your clever way with words, a true word artist!

    Thank you, Rara. Happy New Year!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Crossword puzzles, yay! I love those. I am grateful that you are here reading– truly– I am constantly humbled and surprised and heart-filled that anyone takes the time to do so in such a busy world. Happy New Year!! ❤


  3. Another wonderful post, dear Rara. I love the way your mind goes, wanders, picks up steam, relaxes, asks your readers to think. I have often had pebbles between my toes, but never owned any silk underwear. Color me a New England pragmatist…

    Liked by 1 person

  4. I’ve always felt that if a pebble manages to find its way into my shoe somehow, that it deserved to be there. I will let it alone there until it decides to take leave and find someone else to go say hello to.
    Love this post. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  5. For some reason, your last words of this post made me think of the book Ecclesiastes, where it has a section which lists some of the things in the world for which there is a time for. I think “a time to read, and a time to write” should be added to that list.

    Liked by 1 person


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