Oral foreplay upon waking. Stand up, make some coffee, back to bed. Fuck like rabbits, the scent of good roast hanging thick in the air. Beans grown in the colder places – those not hit by this Godawful drought. Coffee plantations on acres of land hiding patches of marijuana and dumpsites of the corpses of dead government allies. The simple life stories of the farmer rebels, who only ever wanted to be left alone.
Terrible place, this country. Adrift at sea, all alone. Striving for civilization and structure over a people whose very nature is to neither serve, nor be ruled by, others. I walk the streets of the city every day, and look with disdain upon every bus stop, pedestrian bridge, turnstile and depot. I wish to protect the common citizen from the terrorist he knows not about – the one who giftwraps his corrupt motives in his latest box office hit, only to buy a taiwanese orgy with everyone’s tithes and breathing life to the so called voice of the self-righteous-but-inadequately-educated tax evader (who is promptly locked away in a prison cell covered in bacteria and disease). At the same time I wish to spit in that common citizen’s idiot face for electing these swindling bastards into a position to spoon their brains right through scalp and skull then fucking the recess.
I do my business, finding ways to make life easier at least for somebody whose gratitude may or may not be made known to me. And it takes my mind away from the coffee beans. They say that to do good, there is no need to step out of your immediate community. That there is no good simpler and purer than to make of what you know, what you studied. And that that’s all there is to it, this life is for fuckall nothing.
And that is whyyyy… you should go to the mountains growing coffee and weed because the government will still be in your face if you choose rice or sugar or tobacco.
I think about tomorrow and the day after that – in fact, the days until the next weekend – on the way home. Some days the bus stops, pedestrian bridges, turnstiles and depots even look pretty, if I’m looking. The price of dinner is too high, the dishes stand in the way of any relaxation, and the coffee has become a habit impossible to enjoy in this place blanketed in heat and hopelessness. A cigarette for breaths that make me feel alive, but the threat of cancer becomes more real with every stick. And then it’s time for a bath, and at that moment it seems getting to bath time had been the most important goal, the central point of the day. Then I think some more about changing my world, shampoo lather epiphanies.
Bathrobe while drying out hair. Sit and write a meaningful piece someone might feel like reading – which might get them thinking. Couple shots vodka, three if I’m irate. Turn off the lights, undress and make love. Sleep of the forgetful.
And oh, how I hate it here – but not nearly by enough.