The Last Drop

Is it possible to pour out all your thoughts as though from a pitcher, dribbling the last vestige of liquid into the glass? That’s how writing feels today—as if there is nothing left, no place to go, nothing to write about. Except that I know, from the last eight months of experience, that if I keep on, something will come—like the break in the grey October clouds that scuttled across the sky during our walk this morning--the shaft of light that illuminated a spot on the ocean out where the sky blends into the horizon—

Maybe I should write about the graffiti on the yellow sign that caused us both to chuckle—although here, a proverbial picture is worth more than words,

so I'll move on—to the maple tree standing amid a puddle of leaves, yellow orange in front of the porch of the Dutch colonial at the corner of Grasshopper Lane—

or to that name—Grasshopper Lane—that segues me to the show I watched on Food Network last night, where the host ate fried grasshoppers (and which I turned off before witnessing him snack on live larvae).

Perhaps I should write about the word "segue" itself, which was printed on a manila folder in my old office. In a quest to save the earth, I reused my folders. Each time I pulled that one out of the drawer, it brought back a conversation with my former boss about ten years ago, in which we both questioned the spelling. Does anyone else get frustrated when you are so far off that you can’t find the word in the dictionary? Once I finally found "segue" I inked it on the folder at an angle, so that I’d always be able to find the correct letters.

I don't know-maybe the topic should be the earthy café where we treated ourselves for a post walk coffee this morning—a chalkboard covers the top half of a wall—it’s plastered with lists of sandwiches and salads lined up in Palmer method rows. The woman at the counter added my coffee, cream and sugar to a metallic thermos and shook it before pouring the brew into a cup—eliminating the sugary residue at the bottom and creating a strong and perfect blend.

Wrapping my cold hands around the mug while sitting at the lone wooden table, I commented to my walking partner that today my dream is to work right there. To arrive at 6:00 a.m. to heat the ovens, to mix batter for the lemon poppy seed bread and walnut muffins before filling and slicing the sweet roll dough that had been rising since the previous night. In between serving customers, I’d fry the bacon for lunchtime BLT’s and when the lunch rush waned I’d wipe down the counters, then drive the five minutes home to spend the rest of the afternoon writing.

Today’s post? A brain dump—one big segue—a dream and a couple of pictures. My pitcher remains awfully dry.