Some bitterness with nuttiness. A bit of smokey touch. Yes, I am a maniac, especially since I had vowed not to touch coffee, except on Mondays. Just as a consolation for the fact that the weekend is over.
The pain resulting from that British-like obstinacy, together with reason, eventually won over my chestpain-related hypochondria and I now allow myself one cup per day, Tuesday through Sunday. Monday is still that hog-wild escape into the addict's heaven.
Medium roast, just barely stimulating to the sides of the tongue. Dark roast, without sugar, just to show my taste pores that the drink means business. With milk and sugar. With sugar and without milk. Hiding under the two-inch foamy mound of cappuccino. Sometimes with dark chocolate. Sometimes without water, a single roasted bean ground up between my teeth. ``I think, therefore I am,'' somebody said. Once that roasty, refreshing aroma is reaching my nostrils together with the heat wave of the fresh-brewed cup, I know with greatest certainty that I am.
Floating through every day like a scuba diver in murky water.
Some sunlight reaches from the surface, but not much. Half my brain,
one of the hemispheres, permanently in some dreamy realm, as if I were
a fish. There is no mental presence in the moment, it's fucking impossible.
I remember that state when I first went to an American hight school,
back in late 80's. Having to get up early together with the long bus ride accross
half of San Francisco achieved that effect as reliably as of some dangerous,
illicit drug. After school, I had to go deliver newspapers, half asleep
the whole time.
Today I finally got around to blogging. And to answering dad's email, he was trying to
figure out which tablet to buy for mom and grandma. One would think,
a software engineer, even at his age, would not sound like ``all dat
tukhnologah stuff is too complicated,'' but there you have it. Sent
me a list of four trivial requirements which, pretty much, amounted to that
toy being good enough to read a book. How can I give him a specific answer
recommendation to what describes the whole damn market?
I don't make New Year resolutions. Just resolutions, yes, but not for New Year. If a decision is right, the best day for it is today. It doesn't make sense to associate it with your average date whose demarcation happens to stand out on some random calendar. Gregorian calendar in this case, but if it hadn't been for pope Gregory, the same day would have been thirteen days later. And if I were a practicing Jew, it'd be end of September.
Postponing things until that special date means succumbing to laziness, but without the disgrace of admitting it. Anyway, just now, tired after two days at a software conference, and having made yet another short story submission, with incredible strain of my willpower muscle I have forced myself to sit down and write. Instead of watching Pulp Fiction yet again, a treat I've been promising myself for weeks. I think, I'll get a beer, go to the bathroom mirror, and silently praise myself for the former and call myself a lying, procrastinating bitch for the latter.
You don't delay a present to yourself like that! Excessive restraint is as bad for your soul as any other excess.
Not rushing through a scene. Pausing, imagining finest visual or contextual detail. Tatoos on characters. Their entire biographies. Maybe, I'm just saying this because I am at the editing stage. Damn it, it takes LONG to finish something.
The man to kick-start the acting career of Danny Trejo (Desperado, the guy with the knives, also appears in From Dusk Till Dawn) is the Russian director Andrey Konchalovsky. The brother of Nikita Mikhalkov. Go figure.
Separate names with a comma.