Tag Archives: Roadtrips

I’m Still Learning About My Internal Queue


Coffee Queue








I’m realizing that as I write and blog my tiny stories through this process called Life, I have a queue of lifelong infatuations in my head and heart.

I’m crushing on: lichens, moss, barnacles, Spanish moss, flamingos, wisteria, colorfully painted small towns with diagonal parking, ghost towns, ruins, desolation, diners, cafes, coffeehouses, little white churches, Route 66, antique buttons/beads/lace, and yoga.



Such disparate passions. How do they all connect?

I thought I might learn by blundering my way through a blog. But, after nearly a year, I still have no idea.

And, yet, I do maintain this one stubborn fantasy: Stitching this seemingly unrelated queue together in the form of vignettes and poems, under the rubric of Diagonal Parking.

So, perhaps another year of clumsy musings and awkward rambling will bring a clearer vision of how I want to write down the bones and form the skeleton of my creative fancy.

Meanwhile, close on its heels is another reverie.

I’d ideally like to take a road trip of indefinite length, and spend time in the indulgence of small towns, explore ghost towns and ruins, ride the asphalt of the Mother Road over and over, dine in cafes, park diagonally, hike and meditate among the lichen/moss-splattered rocks, drive the “loneliest road in Nevada” and let desolation sink deeper into my soul, maybe even squawk with a flock of flamingos and dance the Fandango draped in Spanish moss beneath meandering vines of purple wisteria. And whenever I reach water with a pier, sit with the barnacles and study their formations.

At the moment, I have not a clue how to realize this two-part dream. But, I’m going to set up a matrix and release it. And see what unfolds.

And, if nothing does .  .  . well .  .  . I can always get behind the counter, gaze at the black-and-white checkered flooring, and serve the world its mocha java with a steaming smile.

Or, perhaps, do what I do best: sashay down the sidewalk of Main Street, braid myself into a yoga pose, and observe the world passing by .  . . meditating on all the contradictions and eccentricities it and I contain, while invisibly grinning at my self as I persistently search for the Truth, which I keep swearing to God exists and is accessible.

If only inside a rainbow queue of coffee cups.

Musings of a Morning-Shift Waitress:


Mocha Java and Tea CakesWhen I feel the urge for hot cocoa it generally means we’re nearing the Winter Solstice. There is some unconscious connection within me between molten chocolate and the beginning of winter.


I also crave bread. A good artisan-crafted rustic loaf that I can break off in chunks to dip into oil. This winter, I indulged in cranberry-walnut bread – the yeasted kind – more savory than sweet, and, dipped it in sesame oil – the cold-pressed, unrefined, organic oil that releases the natural sweetness of the seed. It’s scrumptious, but, on the cold, damp days when the sky is the color of mayonnaise, I tend to eat without paying attention to quantity. Before I know it, I’ve eaten half of a loaf. And although I don’t gain weight easily, this overconsumption may have future consequences.


I’m thinking of Grain Brain . . . the book in which the research connects wheat flour with the onset of Alzheimer’s. It’s almost sad that I know about this study because the simple joys of eating and hanging out in the kitchen on a wintry day have been tainted now. Nostalgia isn’t necessarily the healthiest indulgence either, but, sometimes the re-creation of one’s early hearth-and-home life helps to sooth the soul. Helps it to transition to the next moment of living. But, if I’m also fretting about its connection to physical ailments, then what joy is left for the present tense?


My conclusion: Too much science is unhealthy if it robs the heart of joy!


And speaking of hearts, I’ve noticed that I begin to crave a roadtrip when Valentine’s Day is just around the bend. I don’t pine for chocolate or hearts or roses (although a single yellow bud or a bouquet of whites would melt my heart at any moment). No, I have some internal compass that directs me toward the highway. Toward a bouquet of white lines that mysteriously soothes my soul and gifts me with a new perspective – a bit of mid-winter therapy.White-Line Bouquet


I’ve pondered this yearning over the years and really haven’t come to a conclusion, which I love because it allows mystery to reign.