It is cold in the cafe this morning. I had planned to go to the library, but it’s not open yet, so needed a place to chill for an hour, not assuming it would be literal. I still have my coat on because every time the door opens a firm January wind pokes me from comfort. Scanning the available seats, none are protected.
The Earl Grey is fine. I was going to go with an herbal blend, but it was hard to pass up my favorite flavor when I’m paying a stupid price for it. A little over-brewed, but that’s my own fault. They serve Teavana teas now. I wonder what Starbucks is planning. Will they be able to push the tea bandwagon into American pop culture the way they did with specialty coffee drinks? We shall see.
(Many worries are troubles to write about, seizing my heart throughout the day, but Steepings is not the venue. Private journaling is healthy. I both admire and cringe at people who blog about very personal and specific issues. Yes, I have certainly shared more than I ought over the years in different online places, but I hope I’ve become more discreet, especially when it involves other people. Yet, reading the intimate details of others’ struggles can help get through our own. Memoirs are published everyday with hearts bleeding through the pages. Is blogging any different? In a way.
A book tells a story with a beginning, middle, and end (the ones I enjoy, anyway), which means picking and choosing the details of “truth” to fit the narrative goal. Plus there’s editing, revising, another person editing, publisher’s input, until the final product is done. All this changes the raw, immediate emotional trials into a readable book. Blogs are in the moment, raw, and sharing an event before it is fully reflected on. The emotions are still there, not just the memory of them. Yet, being in the midst of emotional events can cloud our perception of what is happening. Does this mean blogs are less accurate than books written months or years later?
All I know is when I first started writing online years ago (Hello, LiveJournal!) my husband asked me not to share details about our family life. I did anyway, but nothing serious, trying to keep it to silly anecdotes in the midst of other stories to share. Instead of being limiting, this freed me to write all about myself. I’m not being self-centered, I’m respecting privacy! Heh.)
Three men in business suits have met up for a meeting near where I am sitting. One is so obviously better dressed than the other two: not more dressed up, but the style. I’m not fashionista, but even I can appreciate it. Down to the shoes!
Now I’m looking around at other outfits here: comfy jeans and cozy sweaters mostly. One guy is rockin’ slim-fitting blue corduroys. An elderly lady has a long, green plain skirt. She looks very Irish. I hope she is drinking tea.
And me? Um…baggy, boring brown pants with a perfectly placed peanut butter breakfast stain, pilling plaid purple sweater, and salted scuffed Dansko black boots. “D” for style, “A” for alliteration.
Well. I certainly said a lot without saying a thing. Nothing to read here, people, nothing to read. Let us simply sip some tea.
Rise untethered.
Move with intention.
Be grand.
