Selections from the box
I enjoy me in a foreign country, even 10+ years ago, but seriously, go talk to the bartender...
3.14.00
Well, here I am, sitting in a café populated by a large-nosed Spaniard, his tall and somewhat attractive girlfriend, an an attractive bartender. I have no idea what to write about. I feel good. I like this place, it makes me comfortable. Mellow music, no Americans, light enough to see, dark enough to fade into, you know. Sweet taste of café con Bailey's only a buck and change...better than Starbucks. Damn Seattle folk.
The Spaniard and (I assume) his novia (because Spaniards can't be friends with girls) just left, leaving me alone in this place with the bartender. Maybe I should go talk to her. I guess the only issue left here is to decide whether I want to talk to her or not. Indeed (efectivamente), this is turning into more of a "slice of life" than any sort of argumentative attempt. Sometimes, though, these are the pieces that are the most valuable.
The atmosphere is lovely. I'm forced to write by social graces. What I mean is, I couldn't, in a socially acceptable manner, just sit here and stare at the bartender. A sort of indirect, but pleasant discipline. I don't like to take photos. Indeed, each photo is an abortion of a thousand words. What's happening here? Some guy just walked in and is speaking in a disagreeable tone. I never saw his face.
This piece seems to lack a certain interest, but perhaps the meaning will be realized later.
---
3.14.00
Well, here I am, sitting in a café populated by a large-nosed Spaniard, his tall and somewhat attractive girlfriend, an an attractive bartender. I have no idea what to write about. I feel good. I like this place, it makes me comfortable. Mellow music, no Americans, light enough to see, dark enough to fade into, you know. Sweet taste of café con Bailey's only a buck and change...better than Starbucks. Damn Seattle folk.
The Spaniard and (I assume) his novia (because Spaniards can't be friends with girls) just left, leaving me alone in this place with the bartender. Maybe I should go talk to her. I guess the only issue left here is to decide whether I want to talk to her or not. Indeed (efectivamente), this is turning into more of a "slice of life" than any sort of argumentative attempt. Sometimes, though, these are the pieces that are the most valuable.
The atmosphere is lovely. I'm forced to write by social graces. What I mean is, I couldn't, in a socially acceptable manner, just sit here and stare at the bartender. A sort of indirect, but pleasant discipline. I don't like to take photos. Indeed, each photo is an abortion of a thousand words. What's happening here? Some guy just walked in and is speaking in a disagreeable tone. I never saw his face.
This piece seems to lack a certain interest, but perhaps the meaning will be realized later.
---
Labels: from the box
posted by JMH | 12:32 AM
5 Comments:
I came here to talk about aborted words. Then I got into the shower and thought about it more in there. Now I have thought about it too much and shamed myself from saying what I came here to say.
So with that being said.
I like the idea of a photo being the abortion of a thousand words. I didn't have a shower about it, but still like it very much. That's probably why the pictures you post on your phlog or so wordless.
whisky - lesson: don't shower.
jorg - I lost my camera and I'm very frustrated about it because I know it's in my house, but I don't know where and I can't check the wolverine cage for obvious reasons.
Apparently I am very pro-choice with the fate of words vs photos :)
As you should be.
Post a Comment
<< Home