I owned a coffeehouse, in an area we playfully called “The Yale Grad School Ghetto.” A beautiful neighborhood, on the rim of Yale’s campus. It was a coffeehouse in the tradition of coffeehouses where people came in to drink great coffee but also sit and passionately discuss local and global issues, art, and politics. The very thing that drew people to coffeehouses throughout the centuries. I have always loved them.
My friend Margaret called to ask if I would be at the shop until 3:00. “I’m teaching a creative writing class, she said; I’d like to introduce you to my guest speaker.”
“Who is this speaker, I asked?”
“You’ll see, was her reply with a little background laugh.” Margaret is a creative writing professor at Yale, a gifted teacher, and artist, so I was intrigued.
The coffeehouse was bustling that day, and all the daily specials were gone by two that afternoon. As a result I had very little to offer Margaret and her guest. So I decided on something…
Thanks for writing this Ryan. I've been trying to decide how to store the tons of information I need for a TV Dramedy series I'm writing. This is a perfect solution. I write with a pen on paper then transcribe the bits I need to my computer.
I can also bring cards with me to jot down thoughts, quotes, and things that delight or inform when I'm away from home.
Love the tactile-ness of this system. It allows me to physically write, which I love, and store... to use as needed. I also use a Moleskine Cashier notebook for art-related notes. *Love the Ivory paper and sewn binding...
When you're single, friends will give you advice on likely places to meet someone single and interesting.
Some examples are the library, a museum, a bookstore, and walking a dog in the park... but I've found most single men are paired. Very few are alone.
So, I've decided to hang-out outside prisons and wait for politicians, white-collar executives, and wayward movie stars to get out on parole.
Letting The Homeless Congregate In The Lobby of The Public Library Is Not The Answer
I remember the warmth of my mother’s hand as she guided me up the marble steps leading to enormous metal doors. I was about five, on my way to the children’s reading room for story-time. I couldn’t wait, I was so excited.
I was enchanted as we entered the beautiful foyer leading to a large central lobby. The ceilings were at least twenty feet high with huge, brightly lit sconces, illuminating the space. There were books everywhere, in bookcases along the walls and on free-standing…
To Delight In Small Things
One Christmas when I was a child, my mother gave me a charming clip-on book light. As a voracious reader, the little lamp allowed me to read at night without putting on the bedside table lamp. With a 150 watt bulb it could guide planes in from JFK. The book light gave me a bright, but directed light, it was perfect.
The lamp was all metal, with a jaunty shade that resembled a helmet. It was adjustable to turn in all directions, putting the light where I needed it. It was a perfect light for…
The day gave no warning of the drama about to unfold.
Walking along Whitney Avenue to buy the Sunday paper was a ritual for my dog Bailey and me. We’d walk along beautiful Lake Whitney, crossing an old stone bridge, allowing water to flow underneath to its many tributaries.
Due to a violent thunderstorm the night before, the flora hung heavy with dew, causing the bright sun to cast an iridescent light on all it touched. It was a gloriously warm day, fragrant with flowers in early summer.
In the late 1960s Woolworth’s and Kresge’s were mecca to High School students. We’d take the city bus downtown after school to meet friends who’d be sitting on swivel stools along the lunch counter, talking a mile-a-minute. In front of them sat dishes of French fries, hot from the oil, along with an 8 ounce Coke a Cola. The air smelled of cheap make-up, aging waitresses wearing too much cologne, and the smell of grease from the fryer. We loved it.
My friends, Madeline, Gerry and I met there many afternoons. Gerry was boyish; we didn’t know the term Lesbian…
As I approached the washing machine, I saw something of considerable size sitting on the rug by the cellar door.
I walked over but kept a distance. It was a bug. Oh my god, it was a humongous bug. The largest bug I’d ever seen, and it’s in my house, but It looked like it belonged in the Amazon Rain Forrest.
All My Life I’ve Been Trying To Catch-Up With My Personality.
Some of us just aren’t ready to be fabulous until we’ve lived a little. Perhaps after marrying, having kids, or attending college. We flowed with life for a while. Later with some time to think, with all our “must-dos” done, it’s time to create.
Go in a different direction. A direction that comes naturally, based on our deep desires.
I am one of these people, but I am not alone. My greatest successes have developed later in life, and I’m still creating.
Some people bloom early and fizzle out…