Ceramics on the TableFor a long time, I have been testing a rule. It is perhaps too far to call it a rule; it is more of a guide, or even a hypothesis. Simply stated: learn to relax while eating at restaurants. A couple of things have followed on from this, as I have attempted to live up to it. I find myself avoiding eating in places that do not allow customers to relax (mass fast food outlets, I find), but also places that expect one to relax (posher places, with airs of gentled excellence). I gravitate to eateries that just don't give a damn what I do. Service has become much more of a touch point, as I have continued to rediscover that a truly good server can elevate any food. I will also point to the food: it is best to find food worth relaxing over. Leisure can become a complicated thing.
The new rule, then, is this:
Never get coffee to go.
I am curious to see how this will affect things. So far, the prospect of coffee has become more calming, and the ritual of sitting has the charming qualities of contemplation that are sorely missed in the stumble and rush back to the desk. As with water in glass, coffee is better in a proper cup than a paper one. Interesting is the reinvestigation of the private islands one can make for oneself surrounded by a pedestrian crush.
We shall see how it goes.
The Trees Must Hate MeToday, I generated more paper than I do on most days.
Water Hot For TeaJuliet has told me the name of the Asian man living on the third floor. She was sitting across me on the big chair on the study when she closed her book around her finger to keep her place and leaned her lips close to my ear. I do not know if Juliet has been to the third floor, or even if she has met him. I do not think she has. More than me, though, she knows his name. Or: she has managed to name him.
The stairs to the third floor creak and strain with age and the effort of supporting hesitant feet. I have resigned myself to never going up there without broadcasting my approach. In turn, I do not feel that I am ever unannounced, and I do not knock on doors. The stairs are loud enough to hear anywhere in the house. I have never heard him come down from there.
The only thing strange about that is that sometimes he is not there. I likely imagine the difference, but I can sometimes tell. The walls feel closer, and the smells hold more age, and the air becomes softer to better swallow my foot falls. On those days, I cannot find him. It may be that he hides from me, up there in the boxes and all of the jumble and pile, but I do not think so.
His name is Mr. Shen.
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