Bakuta Lady (completed)

(continued from Bakuta Lady I)

The doormat is brown and ragged, stomped on by too many winters, somebody’s trying to save money, and look at the carpet ragged beneath the long oak table, scored from ten thousand cups, crying for a coaster. Ah, his name's Louis, that man, maybe he and Bakuta lady are going to the back for sweet sweet lovin’' hey you got to forgive a lonely guy, these sentences come back to the same theme always, a consequence of keeping this level of energy, it flows by itself, I wish I could unlock that rhythm every day. Those who are purest can make the world come to them with their minds; my mind moves these fingers, this conscious or unconscious rhythm, the Freudian the Jungian the psychobabble the motion in the room that reeks heavenly of empanadas. Where are the new recipes? Why no veggies or delicious salads to offer me? I could go for something with fibre, this coffee makes my skin yellow; this coughing makes my lungs blue. I will write for the next hour, I will stumble atop this keyboard, but I keep censoring myself I keep shutting out that light, the principle of growth is being strangled, the mirror on the wall reflect photos from some Central American nation’s art, eagles and horses and trees painted by the descendant of some massacred Aztec. The tables in here are the perfect size to lay a book, and you got to shift your feet or else they go numb, I’ve never had that feeling in my tongue, the buzzing and flapping so useless, and I don’t dare check the word count yet, I haven’t been on a roll like this in months, and I think about all the stuff on my blog that drags me down and is chained to me like some hunk of rotting meat, and I think maybe I stole that line from Dylan, but it didn’t bother him to rip off Woody Guthrie so why should it matter, bad poets borrow, good poets steal , and TS Eliot didn’t say much to impress me but that was one thing. Man, all you have to say ‘April is the cruelest month’ and then 40 pages of impenetrable screeding and they’ll quote you in newspapery superficialisms well nigh into the next century. I’m really working up to the big finish and it’s something I always forget how to do, to start from scratch to heal myself with this screen, the track lighting overhead is a bit too ‘high school’ and the pussy willow behind me makes me think of cold windy marshlands. Every line ought to be loaded with dynamite, just like Robert Johnson - I gotta make sure to buy his records - I got to make sure I’m still painting and I gotta refrain from typing too long, I have to recommence this plan, this project, I have to make it gel it will be responsible forever for feeding me, I need to make it clear that I too need to be fed, I refuse to perish like Tibor and the ‘Man Who Could Not Eat Himself.” What a ridiculous story, I wrote it when I was 19. I think it’s bloody brilliant, but now the fingers move to fast, but they are cramping up, and I need to stand up, yet fear loss of momentum, I still haven’t finished cataloguing this coffee shop, there are assorted glass cases housing the sweetest desserts my Bakuta beauty can bake; she is a firebrand, she possesses some kind of secret, I feel an aura of goodness around her, she’s one of those people who don’t need to be told how wonderful they are but you feel like it anyway. Why am I taking a break? I need to be slapped sometimes. I need to buy a plane ticket so I can live life as I read about in Lonely Planet because god knows I don’t want any surprises, this new philosophy of tourism, going only where others have gone before, with a decent internet connection too. She must think I’m some sort of writer, can you believe people actually get paid to write? What an atrocity, what a possibility only in the big city, where there is so much superfluity. Oh oh a rhyme I sneaked in, and the coffee decanters and cups inviting yet aloof in the middle of the room beside the main counter, I wonder how much that table underneath it cost? I wonder what the rent is in this place? I wonder who she gets her money from to cover what must be an obvious loss. It takes years of losses to make most entrepreneurships, this kind of operation leads to constant stress and headaches – are there any stress-free jobs at all? Maybe scuba-dive instructor. Have I ever even gotten this far into a thought before, I don’t think so. I used to write the most stunning exam answers you ever read, and when I was done writing it was as though the world crumbled into dust onto that page, and the tricks I had, I guess it was logic and reason I had, but nowadays my brain outraces itself, my thoughts are garbled and I cower in hesitation apprehension and all those other Latinate words equivalent to stress. Man is she ever a hard worker, she loves to clean up the place. I write in 100-word bursts, one fifth of what Hemingway was able to accomplish in a day, the man drank himself to death – well actually it was suicide - I don’t think decaf will have the same effect on me, I am not nearly so adventurous. You need to make people wonder and to make them cry. Do me wrong songs make money all the time, said Mary J Blige, she was a cool and adroit businesswoman, and so I guess is Britney. So much churned every day by all these keyboards, there is so much garbage, there is so much fighting for attention of the world I guess JP II had that charisma, he had the moments of total global attention, but when you think of all those stars and strugglers out there you realize even the tallest man on earth cannot get to Alpha Centauri without luck or is it grace (whatever religion you believe in). The cash register has been silent for minutes and I worry. I haven’t even mentioned the new guy, with rings and a jacket sitting in the corner with a halfhearted glance at his Globe and Mail, his coffee is a showpiece , he doesn’t look he’s enjoyed anything all week, maybe his wife doesn’t understand him, I understand that some people who come into this coffee shop are looking to escape, that the proliferation of these gourmet joints is a symptom of our pretension and our need to spend money on distractions, and the newspapers scream that in Third World countries there is so much poverty. We can help them, but is it with donations or democracy? Examples or expedients? The menu above the counter is written in chalk and Bakuta lady is so short, I wonder she doesn’t get frightened of toppling over every time she makes an addition. Her sandwiches are reliable, I have had the chicken breast on two non-consecutive occasions, it didn’t blow me away but I knew after the first time I could rely on it. Man, even her kitchen floors are shining, this is practically the woman of my dreams. I get tired of so much thinking, and the worse is the derivative intentions as John Searle told me today, ie the things that get written down are words, they are not original thoughts in themselves, once you write it down it become derivative. I didn’t do half the things I was supposed to today, there always seems to be an opportunity to push things back, and there is no longer anyone who will push me back. The jazz from the CBC is pointless and percussive, the closet in front of me probably leads somewhere downstairs, and Roy Orbison sings a beautiful song, that's man’s voice could jar a corpse said Bobby.

Some folk are desperate to make a mark, some are too talented for their own good. The editor should be the smartest man at the newspaper, there is a lot to be gained from the right experiences. I have to give this up, there is a woman in the kitchen who loves to make people warm, and why won’t she come here so I can show here how wonderful I think she is, she has allowed me into this shop to sit and think and make everything possible, yet I haven’t been able to separate myself from this process, the illusion was not sustained I was too honest with my readership, my point of view is disconcerting and dissolves all effect, suspension of disbelief never being my strong suit. I realize I think in a horrible number of clichés.

Think slower and type faster, then all kinds of interesting things get discovered, I’m more interested in editing than writing, I need to find something good to edit; it just so happens that I’m a better writer than most of what most other real editors get to fall across their desk. Where is Bakuta lady? I want another decaf no that’s not it, it more like I just want her to acknowledge what I have been doing for the past half-hour or so, my endurance is increasing and I wonder how much fun could be have just sitting with fingers moving.

There are curtains everywhere here, there are hidden secret in this café, and I don’t bother to look behind them, my curiosity is more about people than phenomenon, about the mind than anything else. I wonder how long it will take to fill up all the space I am filling.

Ah..she was sitting behind the counter in a chair!

I think all those jokes I am writing in my other brain, they will come back to bite me on the ass...

I found those old pieces of paper in my room again, even back then I would write like this sometimes.

And so good luck editing this piece patty old boy.

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