Word Prier on the Loose at Dagny's #CED2010 #postaday

 
It has been a long time since I spent any time on a Saturday morning at Dagny's.

In the past it has been a regular routine for me: to pack up my notebooks and leave my life at home behind. For the past few months, not so much. I was surprised that the barrista recognized me, saying she couldn't remember if I left room for cream or not.

Sometimes I sit outside and sometimes I sit inside but I usually order a sesame bagel and an ordinary coffee with, for the record, no cream. Plain, ordinary strong coffee.

I like to find a seat in the corner so I can watch people come and go. From this vantage point I am able to see out two large windows covering both sides of the entryway.

From here I get almost infinitely rich writing inspiration. I like to keep my writing covert.

I like to think I am anonymous and invisible here, scribing and reading and scribing and watching and softly smiling to myself and writing some more.

Today I found many groups of men scattered about the place: interesting, thoughtful looking men who appeared to be as taken by the thought of coffee and contemplative conversation as I am.

Somehow, that always surprises me. I must be more shallow than I know or more used to a different sort of man. My failing, this is, not appreciating there are many men who like to while away the time on a Saturday morning acting as if their only responsibility is self discovery and caffeine. Once I saw a young man reading Bukowski and drinking green tea. I liked him immediately. I secretly took his photo.

This morning I found a stack of word-books. Dictionaries with a thesaurus thrown in for good measure.

 

I found the word "prier" which means "one that pries. a busybody."

and I used it as a prompt, writing:

Should I wear a sign

"Word prier on the loose

at Dagny's!"?

I look on the other

side of the glass pane

and instigate meaning in

the soles of Max's Nikes,

propped elegantly on a

chair across from him

as he inhales on his pipe

and reads his well worn

yet simultaneously

pristine New International

Version. He may suspect

I have chosen to write of him

today, to fill these blank pages

but it isn't he who holds my attention

It is this man, here - with the black

hand crocheted beany with curling

hair hugging its edges.

He rocks in his pedastal chair and

has no idea of my word stalking

He leaves his perch to greet

another intellectual man and

I bury my nose in my book so he can

not see my blue-green eyes

glued to where he was sitting

= = =

At the very next moment, my friend Jennie walked through the front doors wearing snazzy new purple glasses.

I put my pen down and we chatted amiably. No more word-spying.

For now, anyway.