at the diner on the corner

I am sitting at Neil's Coffee Shop. A corner diner, really, with a big front window. I am at the bar writing, drinking hot chocolate, waiting for my 5pm eggs and I feel epic! My eggs - just arrived as I wrote this word - my eggs (will) have cheddar cheese on whole-wheat toast. My Grandma says I should fatten up for the winter. I have been realizing again the immense guilt I feel for my relative thinness. Borges is sitting by my side and though I've only read a page I feel smarter for his close proximity. There is a very handsome man sitting on my other side (was Borges handsome?). He looks like Scott Joplin, or at least an image of an image of Scott Joplin, clothes and all. My eggs took two minutes to make and ten to eat.

An old man just walked in. He is undoubtedly a regular but most of these patrons are not sure where they are. One asked, is this Columbus? And another, curse the thought, asked what pies they had. She ordered Cherry and I found myself day dreaming about Agent Dale Cooper. (Been watching 'Kingdom' and therefore thinking of Twin Peaks often.)

I am writing with this blog in mind - a strange thing for me to do. But the other day I finally articulated the thought that this bloggery is a finally blatant admittance to the idea that journaling is not for one's self (no writing is solely for one's self) but a stab at immortality i.e. 'someday my grandchildren will find this diary, locked and bound as I leave it now.' No writing is meant to go unread. Now the act of blogging acknowledges this. I am journaling knowing my friends will read it.

If Scott Joplin is beside me than Ted Joans just sat down behind me. Scott Joplin looks over my shoulder. What is she writing on the miniature pad, he thinks. One woman with scarlet lips has been waiting for someone since I arrived. She has a white scarf, important hair, tweed suite. She is the Upper East Side (seemingly lonely, wealthy and white) but she doesn't fit in this Upper East Side All-American diner with waiters from India.

For those who would like to know what I've been doing, not just my wide-eyed reflections: I have officially moved to the upper east side and live in the maid's quarters on the tenth floor of a ridiculous apartment building in a room that most resembles your mother's walk-in closet. But everything has a place. My loft bed sways to and fro on it..s sad little legs but now I have gotten quite used to falling asleep to imaginings of oceans and masts and treasure islands in the distance. Though land sickness the following day will not do. There is a roof garden and I am the only one who uses it. I am now a part of the lights and city I watched for hours from Justin's Lower East Side time-robbing window. The family I nanny for lives a few floors below me and no longer has any shame in my presence. I've also been doing admin work at a sun-lit yoga studio.

I think it's time to go. Joplin left, Che (who came a little after) is almost done with his eggs and Ted Joans is deep in his book and hat. Many great (dead) people eat alone in New York. It has gotten very crowded in my Nighthawk café and the woman with important hair has found her friend. I am very much in love with today.