I dropped Jasmine off at school and then went to my favorite local coffee shop. There were two locations, the main store, a light filled, busy little shop with lilting classical music, and a little whole-in-the wall cafe inside of a Mormon bookstore on State Street. I loved both, but today I was feeling the need for a more reclusive start to my morning. The Barista there greeted me with his usual goofy smile.

He was a lanky, golden retriever of a boy. With a Blonde mop and guileless blue eyes. He always carried a friendly smile and a slight aroma of weed. I deeply appreciated him for his incredible coffee designs, friendly outlook, and copious free coffee. “How ya doin’ today?” He asked, already preparing my usual drip – splash of creme in a for-here-mug. I shrugged, pulling a face. “Oh wait,  wasn’t your mom leaving today chika?” I nodded. He shimmied around the counter to give me one of his classic Spencer-hugs. I smooshed my face into his shoulder, grateful for his omnipresent friendship.

After a moment, I pulled away. “How are you doing? How’s life?” I asked, desperate to take the focus off of myself. 

“Oh, y’know. Same old, same old. The government might take away our pitchers to steam milk in, because they’re steel. The Ol’ Bossman’s been holding them off, but the rumor is they won’t last much longer.” He sighed over dramatically and flopped himself onto the counter.  I frowned, mulling this over in my head. The war must really be getting bad if they were going after businesses for their useful items. We chatted for a while, discussing trivialities interspersed with more serious discussion on current events.

When he started to get busy, I went and perused the bookstore. It was filled with used books and had an entrance to the old prohibition tunnels that ran under the city. Directly below the bookstore were the remains of an old speakeasy. Closer to the back of the store, they had a display case filled with old Books of Mormon. The covers were worn, in some cases they were faded past discernible text. The pages were brown and flakey. I loved looking at them. I loved their history. But most of all, I loved the juxtaposition of ancient religious texts with the depraved, glittering tunnels of alcohol lovers.

After a while I could no longer stomach the concept of confined spaces.  I picked out a book, grabbed another cup of coffee to go, and exit the bookshop.

The restaurant I worked in had been shut down. The owners, Being from Mexico, had returned home to avoid the perils of living in The United States. Our parents sent me money, so we were never in any financial jeopardy, but this left me with little to do during the day.

Today,  I wandered over to the foothills and walked along an old utility route that my parents, Jasmine, and I have been walking along my entire life. The path follows along a stream, winding through sparse, squat tree bushes and long, wild grasslands. In the spring and summer these rolling fields are filled with wildflowers.

Today, The crickets are roaring.Your entire soundscape is overwhelmed by their hum and I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of deafening crickets. At the end of the path, there is a little bridge over the stream and a bench built into the side of the embankment. I sit there and sip my (now slightly cold) coffee.

This creek is the homebase for my internal creative entity.  I have spent innumerable hours honing my passions: writing, drawing, drawing, writing. It’s a place that seems to demand solitude in order to fully contemplate its majesty. I have always been a social person, so in the last few months I struggled with a sudden need to experience this aloneness. There has always been a part of me that yearns to experience the group dynamic, but lately the majority of my being seems to require that I search out a solitary place. To sit and revel in that silence. Today I sit under the sun and write what I hear.

Rocks clatter like a burbling brook.

A lilting note of bird song, followed by equally melodious staccato, uplifting notes.

Squelsh. Sigh. rustle. I adust my position on my rocky seat.

People pass me. The thump thump of footsteps.

The heavy breathing of a dog.

A cough.

Chirp. Chirp. Sigh.

The rattling of dog tags against the metal loop of a collar.

More rhythmic stomping.

How I wish I could convey the language of birdsong.

The airplane thrum of some flying bug.

The hum of crickets, always, omnipresently overpowering.

Chirp.

Twitter.

Five staccato notes.

The mechanic song of a text message signals

a return to reality.

I check my phone and see a text from Jasmine: Come get me.