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Sitting now in Grounds for Coffee, at what had been the last free table in the place, with a chai latte. It’s five o’clock, and I’m here largely because I wasn’t in the mood to just collapse and be tired in my pyjamas having done all that I needed to do today.

 

Or, most of what I needed to do. The minimum I could tolerate having gotten done.

 

I sound silly; I am silly. It’s prep for Christmas, plus some more work on my website. It has an “About Me” page now, and a couple more backlogged posts are up. The Christmas prep was a bunch of cards to family members in California, that it was important for me to write. That was most of today.

 

I didn’t finish cleaning, which I ought to have done. I did take my broken suitcase out of my bedroom and leave it by the back door. That, at least.

 

The website is starting to feel complete: I just need to add the videos, add some links in the “links” page. As for the Christmas cards: I’m strangely raw about them, but I’m sure they’re fine. I’ll print the text out, fold them in the cards, and mail them tomorrow.

 

Grounds for Coffee is a favourite place to come at about this time of day. It’s at 10th and Alma, not too far, and I’m usually able to get a table. I like looking out the window at the world going by there, the buzzes coming and going and stopping (The B-Line stop is just out the window; the world seems to come there and wait for it), the illuminated sign of the 7/11 in the little mall that probably won’t exist in another few years. I can usually get some work done, or at least decompress at the end of the day. Read, or think, or something. It’s a bit of a further walk than Perchance, and sometimes a longer walk is the time. I like a bit of a commute: it gives me the sense of going out into the world.

 

I like the atmosphere. Tones of wood. I think that’s what I liked about Olimpico, too—although the wood’s now so dark here, which makes sense—the quality of the light is much heavier with dark to begin with, out on the West Coast.

 

And the cinnamon buns—this place does amazing cinnamon buns. They will add special toppings on holidays. One would gain a great deal of weight if they came here every day. And it would be worth it.

 

I am sipping my tea latte and writing this. What I actually came down here to is read some of Ulfhildr, the Anglo-Saxon inspired poem written by Mary Thaler, my expozine buddy. The slim volume is sitting there in front of me, on the table. I think I’ll do that now—I read the first part, and enjoyed what I read. I would like to finish it before it slips away from me, as poetry often does.