Notes from an evening in 2019
From my cozy nook at the cafe, I spy a woman writing hurriedly on what seems to be loose paper. Her brows are furrowed and I wonder if her writing is academic, creative, or an amalgamation of the two. She seems oblivious of the old man next to her, nursing his bright pink smoothie, all the while observing the baristas. It is not too late in the evening but the night cloaks the windows and only the Christmas lights are visible from inside. The thick panes are cool to touch and I watch people blur by and just like that, I am gripped by the sudden urge to write myself. I think of pulling out the napkins and scribbling all the sentences that seem to have formed in my head — a very Patti Smith-esque habit but before I can make any decisions, the waitress serves me my drink. “Stir well before you drink”, she says but instead of an instruction, it comes out as a dire warning. I am taken aback and so is she but without comment or pause, she hurries away. Just as quickly as she had come by.
What an incredible luxury it is, I think, to take oneself out on a date. We are always taught to foster connections with colleagues, and ‘network’ with others but yet so very rarely does one get a chance to cultivate a relationship with oneself. As the years go by and life’s rhythm enters the chorus section, I find myself forgetting to tend to this particularly wild garden. Malicious weeds fester unnoticed and the roots of good practices go unwatered. Gardening one’s heart and mind is a tedious and never-ending task with a checklist that will never really be complete. Yet, as I returned to observe its (my mind & heart’s) state, I am presented with the sad realization that there is a lot of work I need to do.
My journals in the past year or two are filled with thoughts about the future, about others, and about questions and conundrums. Not once have I asked myself to pause, to sink in the moment, and to not put off “living” as a thing I must do sometime in the near future or after I finish crossing out some to-do list.
However, today feels different. I sit here with the awareness that in a week my life will be entirely different. As I stand at the precipice of change, each second feels pregnant with expectation — a feeling akin to waiting for the stage curtains to be drawn before a play.
I had asked the cafe owner to pick a flavor for my drink and he seemed to quite readily take up the task. Secretly, I was hoping that he would read my mind — I had been eyeing the sumptuous chocolate cube of salted caramel (quite discreetly, I promise) — and to my undisguised delight, he offered me a warm mug of salted caramel hot cocoa. I felt flush with the excitement that accompanies serendipity. Salted caramel was my best friend’s favorite flavor. I reminisced about eating ice cream with her nearly two and a half years ago — at a small ice cream shop after a long day’s work. The delight on her face was unparalleled. It was a much simpler time.
I spent the rest of my evening swimming in Patti Smith’s words. She lives as she dreams — abundantly carefree, her only possessions are allegorical and all the while watching the world swirl around her. At an inflection point between dreams and reality, I put the book down and realize it is closing time. As I step out into the chilly evening, I realize I have forgotten entirely what I had just read — Smith’s words had evaporated, just like a dream.
This city is filled with haunts — both physical and metaphorical. As I walk by a pizza place, my heart swells with affection. Why? I have never set foot in the place, never have even tasted their pizza. Yet, on my first day in this city, the owner offered me and my then-roommate a ride back home. It was sometime past midnight and we were walking along the road, cold, still learning our ways about and utterly naive. We accepted his offer after much hesitation (at this point in the story whenever I do a re-telling in a crowd, I hear audible gasps or disapproving tongue clicking) but he turned out to be just a kindly stranger filling his good karma bucket at the end of a long work day. Ever since I have felt a sense of kinship with the place — an act of kindness that remains eternally fresh in my memory.
I nearly miss my tram — my nostalgia consumes me as it always will. As someone who writes to understand her world, I have resigned myself to the fact that I will forever experience my life looking backward; in retrospect, — placing the cards next to each other and only then noticing the patterns, the missteps, the light, the love, the laughter — all of it well after it is all gone. Well, after it is all gone in the dimension of a forever-forward-hurtling time. In a way, it still exists I suppose — in my words, in my recollections — timeless and framed. All of life remembered, dissected, evaluated, and put back together. A blessing to be able to relive it, a curse because I lose out on the most precious gift of all — the present moment.
When I return home, my housemate and I exchange notes about our day. As I begin to tell him about my evening layover at the coffee shop, he excitedly asks about the location and the name. I answer and his suspicions are confirmed. I was there! I found it just today, he adds excitedly. I stare back in amazement. How funny, I say. A few hours before mine was his visit — perhaps at the same table even being served by the same people. A remarkable coincidence like puppets in a play. Who knows what shadows we occupy and what pieces we leave behind? I suddenly feel like I am at the confluence between a river of reality and a stream of dreams; slipping from one to another without being aware, on a boat called coincidence that allows me to sail between the two.
