third street day

third street café, a warm coffee shop up limestone from the hotel, painted like something right out of timothy leary’s deepest acid trips. the big dreddie behind the counter called everyone sweetness, the roasted vegetable soup and veggie sandwich were right on for today’s freezing rain and snowy weather, especially after i marched around for 20 minutes looking for a goddamned open restaurant, my sockless feet numb in green suede flats. i’d make a terrible homeless person. my plan is to return tomorrow and pick up some of the great eclectic jewelry they sold. plus their soy latte was pretty damn good.

i have half a mind to move back to Lexington and raise a family. this place is as great as i (half) remember it to be. downtown is gorgeous, the people are friendly, the arts culture is warm and pervasive; i really enjoy it here.

neighbors arguing about how they’re arguing about nothing. dropping eff bombs.

i visited my old school today. i felt really overjoyed to walk into the building and see the familiar low ceilings, the glass partition leading into the upper school, the same teachers in the same classrooms. the first thing ms stith said to me, though, was why aren’t you writing? my silent reply bled with guilt, shame, embarrassment. i tried to cover it by stammering how i write, a little bit, but “haven’t gotten around to the publishing piece,” tried to mitigate it with an explanation of my upcoming los angeles move, that sort of thing, but it does nothing to cover the feeling i have every day that i am not professionally doing what i want to do and what i am talented at doing. i guess this is what compels me to blog like i do. and then this afternoon walking into third street, a big glittery sign announced a welcome for all local writers to submit their work. a few shelves held the creativity of other lexingtonians, and my heart pulled. i can do that is the common lament. i can write a few pieces, put it on a table or a shelf somewhere, distribute some leaflets. and i guess i can, i know i can. there’s a lot of i know’s and etc’s involved, and i hark back to my artist’s way days. it’s bullshit for me not to go for it. period.

bangs fall piecey into my eyes walking back from the café, clutching container of coffee and local writer’s booklet. thinking all the while. toes numb. it’s snowing in Indianapolis, i remind myself, stepping over discarded cigarette butts circling the steps behind the French restaurant on the corner. every time we pass that door, a bandanna-ed guy in chef whites is huddled with a collared shirted waiter, discussing the finer points of their recent video games or the plight of their roommate and his whore girlfriend. typical foodie smoke break fare, and i don’t miss a word of it.

my roomie kicked me this website: http://www.nataliedee.com/index.php. he thinks it’s cracked, i kinda dig it, really.

oh, and last night i finally signed up for photobucket and downloaded picasa. photobucket allows my to post stupid pictures on my friends’ myspaces, and picasa lets me organize said stupid pictures.

i think this is enough for now.