colector: [JournalWriting] Journal Entry - Monday, February 25

Note: I wrote most of this yesterday - the "Rest of the story" came this morning.

There is a young boy, sewing a patch like thing onto
stiff work pants. He is delibertately using big stitches.
Rather enormous stitches, actually. I sit, wearing one
of my many purple shirts, completely ensconced in a
purple chair in the corner of Starbucks where I could
watch people coming, going and being.

My pen floats across the page as the desire -or the need- to
write overrode my studying. I had earplugs in my ears, an
old school walkman rather than an I-Pod playing a recording
of "eleemosynary" directly into my subconscious.

Sunday morning at Starbucks. People worshpping at
the house of caffeine.

There is an abundance of family – children and parents, child
and parent, an occasional grandparent (or perhaps favored
great aunt) and child.

An adorably fresh faced girl with long, reddish dreadlocks
picks up a New York times in the rack next to me. She pauses
to read it. I notice she and her rather unclean companion have
their cell phones plugged into the wall, charging, as they read
and play cards, refreshing and regrouping with their
stuffed-to-the-brim backpacks waiting beside them.

Her smile was so cherubic. I wondered where her parents
were today. She and her beautifully scruffy friends carried
an assortment of accessories. My favorite: a trash-bag covered
guitar, a smallish guitar but still too big to be a ukulele.

The bag would protect the guitar from the threat of rain – it
had been a drizzly day.

This weekend I have been more willing to show my vulnerability
in its bitten-lip, eye-lid stinging clarity. I put it out there, on
my face. My chest. My hands. I look up and see the boy,
still bent over his sewing.

His sewing reminded me of one of my long-ago Mental Health
conservatees who wore similarly styled patches.

I can't remember his name.

It was time for me to leave, to continue my day outside
of the comforts of this fluffy purple chair and this
microcosm of life.

The rest of the story of this moment is this:

What I didn't realize until five minute later was I had left
my wallet tucked into the fluffy purple chair, and when
I came back to retrieve it, ten minutes later – the cash I
had in there was gone - the cash I had just gotten from
the bank in order to pay for the session I was due
to have that morning.

I didn't bother to get upset, it wasn't worth it.

Maybe the trash-bag covered guitar now has
a more conventional case.

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