Wednesday, October 6, 2010
As I sit to write at my computer I must admit two things; first, is that my feet are cold but the feeling is unique to the season and so I resist an unnatural desire for wool protection, secondly the tie-dye T I sport is not my own design yet I have been known to claim its splendor as my handiwork.
I yearn today to paint a picture of an hour of my day that took place at the “lazy daze” coffee shop in Irvington, Indiana. My media will be mixed so I hope, with a full heart, that words, rhymes and imagery will produce justice of atmosphere and the regality of its spirit.
Outside, sit patrons whose inviting nods, lend part ownership and part comfort to the unknown. Beards are in season as well as conversations drowning amidst binding worn novels whose pages turn as quick, if not with more pace than the protagonist’s sword and the lyrist’s quill that dreamt them up. This is a haven where leaves fall and are given the proper attention, kids roam in exploration of the familiar, and the concept of name tags seems to be as foreign as it is unnecessary. Rust takes on a new role of chic and tables, whose legs have been unleveled in wake of coffee dates, eager pooches enslaved to the spot and an uncanny attention to people and not details, promote connections of shape. Circles to be exact.
Enter the rectangle, not square, door and your eyes go on vacation to a place that is the norm to so many of those who walk amongst us with 4 rather than 2. Art can be described as a new answer to an old question. I am not sure what the question originally was but I know the answer was found somewhere between life and creativity. Couches hug the right angle to the left of the entrance and appear to be molting. The vision of the original hue has long since shed, denim and corduroy being the catalyst of change. To sit is to give into temptation. I indulged. The wrapper, in which this comfort is judged by, is perfect in its interpretation. Here, time moves at a different pace. Here, books have been finished and ideas different than most, have been thought. Here, I am.
And there Joanie is. Behind a booth, antiqued with flavor and history, stands a overtly jovial female toting what appears to be the softest shirt ever made and hair thrown together in her style not yours. A smile that plays with your optimism ensures that customer service is not clearly followed or defined. A quick attempt for my order and my wallet escapes without acknowledgement. Banter begins and the verbal jousting that ensued between my roomy and Joanie was beautifully simple. Man. Woman. Joke. Laughter. Smile. Smile.
Orders morph into friendly requests as interaction glues three hearts to the moment. Art tickles the properly aged walls with jokes of paint and lines of poetry. Machines are just that, machines; glistening is not what they do best. This statement of truth is appreciated and materialized into twelve ounces of blissful relief. Grab the flimsy yet effective foam like cup of liquid joy and hold off on reverting back to making the tough life choices that are now surrounding the shop.