It’s The Parking, Always The Parking

Solitude like a warm blanket cocoons the moist thoughts licking away Monday’s first cup of coffee. I drive down Broadway Street. Nick Cave on the radio. The road feels foreign, uninviting, blank dull industrial buildings lining both sides, and yet it’s like my backyard, fenced in. I travel down a river. The feeling a child has running mazes of imagination through the yard. I am as free as the confinements of my mind. The coffee helps liberate that. I used to hate Mondays.

It’s the parking, always the damn parking, this city and its cars. It’s the colony that allows us to fly away. I can never find a parking spot. I told him 10:30. I’ll meet you at 10:30am. The clock on the dash clicks 10:39. I hate being late, but it’s my nature. I know the clock is five minutes fast. That never helped.

Flipping through the channels NPR discusses the Presidential Debate. The headache begins throbbing behind the eyes or was that last night’s one to many whiskeys? I find a spot far down the road, some business district, employee parking. I park there anyway and finish my travel mug. I always drink coffee before drinking more coffee. I’m twelve minutes late and yet, there is this long stroll where I drop pistachio shells on the sidewalk, listening to their little exoskeleton shells clink on the cement.

It has been announced in the trees, or in the breeze, yes, summer officially over, fall colors, cool wind, and in hipster’s faces, jackets, she walks by with a smile. We pass each other street side. Her legs slice through the air, the type of legs that could wrap endlessly around the hips. I pause to watch her turn around the corner then enter the over crowded café. Low vibration of conversation muffles together. It’s impossible to pick apart one person’s voice from another. The café is a damp corner nestled in the growing NE Minneapolis neighborhood. I order an overpriced medium dark roast. Am I inclined to tip for this?

“Room for cream?” She asks.

“A pinch,” and I show her exactly the amount of room I would like using my index finger and thumb. They never get it right and I wonder how many times a day she will ask this question.

I spot him @kommienezuspadt over in the corner, at a single dark stained wooden tabletop, two chairs, isolated from the crowd, he’s dodging one huge sword beam of sunlight slicing vertical along the wall next to his head. I approach weaving around tables of young twenty some individuals clicking madly on laptops with manic importance accomplishing all the tasks. We shake hands, I take a seat, and he tells me about something strange, something unbelievable, something called Steemit.

I say, “tell me more.”

And here I am. Hello, I’m Charles, ghostfish, Twin Cities based artist, painter, writer, ranter, rock climber, adventurer, handy man, jack of all, do it yourself kind of guy.

Through the wonderful Steemit avenue I hope to share my works of visual art and stories of adventure and fiction. My writing cross-streams multiple genres from the Sci Fi-horror, to the non-fiction mountaineering tales.

Enjoy.