It’s Good for the Farmers

Stuffy, frozen, wet and blogging, my shoes soaked up to my hips and enough Chai to give me the caffeine jitters. One last cigarette, broken, sets in the pack left over from last weekend’s good times. The fellows here, our local coffee shop collaborators, always present, from about 9am in to the noon day sun – what little of it will show through the cloudy cover of our overcast – discuss their various plots, schemes and disgruntled dissatisfaction with the state of all things taxes, elections and the police state. One of them mentions how all of their old high school friends are drug addicts.

“Yeah, that seems to be the standard deviation here,” he retorts, proud that his only vice, seemingly, would be the cigarettes he rolls himself.

“All of Central Catholic,” comes a companion. They dabble in their alleged superiority and I think about the easiness of life after drugs and wonder what the difference between a casual user gone businessman and an addict are. But thoughts fade or take violent twists around corners and into hallways where various pictures hang reminiscing not a cat’s hair of a clue to what the last idea held.

Particularly, the tin ceiling above me and how it plays an offbeat tune, about as well as I can play the drums or hold a beat, all that’s between us and the falling sky is a rusting roof. I like the idea. I once read a book about some gypsy hippies who lived in a truckstop (read, roadside attraction) and they would walk through the rain without blinking because they were so in tune with nature. They also brushed their teeth with strawberries and invaded the Vatican, so I don’t relate to them all that much.

Personally, I like splashing in puddles and running for cover. Why act like everything’s normal and waste the illusion of life?

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