I am a connoisseur of silence. On my back porch the birds sing above the crouch of quiet cats. The Bubo Virginianus that lives in the woods behind my house is back. I hear him. I know silence not for its aural qualities, but merely as a condition in which I recognize the opacity of things, of the air. Airplanes from Hartsfield bring thunder invisibly from the low cloud ceiling all at once. It has been a silent afternoon.

University classes start tomorrow but today Emory was mine. At one PM I stepped through the marble gates which were at the time being rebuilt by two laborers chatting and stepped through a planter to fork on the right side of a long wooded gulley toward the again marble Carlos Museum’s back entrance which I had entered alone probably seven years ago for a lecture about Huysmans and color whose title alone, if I closed my eyes, would be more evocative than the words which drained out of it in an upstairs room with a lingering slide of Moreau’s John the Baptist in radiant decapitated stillness.

At the bridge that crossed the gulley a woman in a black cloak talked on her phone opposite me and I stopped for a moment to allow her to walk ahead. Below me almost disappearing into the leaves a rusted diamond plate landing with very narrow steps led into the woods and down the slope. A small sign indicated the path to be a work of environmental sculpture by George Trakas. Intrigued I followed the path which turned into a single wood plank inches above the leaves. A tree had fallen across the path and I stepped on it and over as it led down to the creekbed and stopped three feet above the wet stones and flowing water. I sat on it like the end of a diving board in the woods beneath the city and heard traffic noise pass above me, able to grasp only edges of it. I crossed the loose stones to another steel stair on the opposite side of the creek and climbed up to the back door of the Carlos Museum. It was open. An empty coat room was lit to my right and I boarded the elevator contemplating spending a half of an hour looking at photos of the discovery of Tutankhamen’s tomb. On the first floor the elevator opened facing a gift shop. It, like the rest of the campus save the departed woman in her cloak, was empty, but open, and Billie Holiday sang “them there eyes” in tinny distance from behind the shelves. To my left the front door let out onto the quadrangle and the Cannon Chapel in the distance. After the Huysmans lecture I had gone to the chapel and recalled nothing of it. It being a work of a canonical mid-century architect I felt like I should have an impression. It was closed this Sunday.

I felt the dilemma in the emptiness of the campus of selecting just the right spot to sit. This task is usually sorted out for me by the distribution of people in a public place, but here today I was overwhelmed by the freedom of the benches surrounding the quadrangle and leading down into sub-quads and tributaries. I followed the path down below the ramp to the chapel and beneath the barrel vaults overlooking the campus central plant where three giant chillers whirred. Once out from under the building I was in a courtyard with a smooth concrete and glass building ahead of me. It looked flat and dead. I made the decision not to retrace my steps and sat in a raised circular brick patio next to the back entrance of the chapel. Although it had rained for the last three days and the air was still thick with cloud the smooth bricks were dry. Rudolph at least succeeded in designing a plaza that could drain. I sat leaned against the high end of a brick wall that spiraled down around the perimeter of the circle to a zero point where I had entered it from the third step up off of the courtyard. I edited the first half of a story and listened to the cooling towers. Two couples walked through the courtyard to the back door of the chapel which was locked. As quickly as they passed out of the courtyard I felt as if they had never passed through it. An entire university campus empty under the full sky. I felt that the sky had come down into the spaces between the building and although I could see every surface with shadowless clarity far into the distance I was within its humid solidity. I had an impression of the chapel now.

At three PM I felt the pangs of urine tapping at my bladder and finding the doors to the concrete building at the far side of the courtyard locked I made my way back to the hydra of an intersection at the entrance to the campus to find a public toilet. I opted to play the urban game of paying for a hot beverage at a coffee shop in order to use its toilet. The cycle has been described in other tableaux I daresay. I floated into Method Coffee Bar and Tea Lounge through its covered patio and glimpsing the restroom to the far left approached the barista to order a tea. He spoke kindly to me, beyond the minimum of an exchange and put me at ease. I used the can while he put my tea together and then sat against a felt banquette to drink and do some additional editing. A booji couple on the turtleneck end of the spectrum of their ilk came in to inquire about the whole bean coffee for sale and asked whether the Yergecheffe could be used for espresso. The proprietor was polite and offered one of his espresso roasts as they went into a strained sounding reminiscence of the Ethiopian espresso they had subscribed to that was no longer available and longed for its smooth flavor. They ordered a tea and sat down.

I espied a group of four glass carafe cum funnel vessels on the counter and noticed next to the list of coffees available a chalk sketch of the same vessel. Feeling let into a conversation with the proprietor after his initial offering I ventured out of myself and walked to the counter to ask about the vessels and whether he served coffee from them. Indeed they did. I asked if I could photograph them. I could. He suggested that he was about to make a cup for himself and I could photograph one in action and as it brewed we talked about the origins of the brewing method, his shop, his name was Don, its proximity to Starbucks and the fact that college undergraduates don’t drink coffee they drink Starbucks, the coffee ‘cupping’ similar to wine tastings that his shop hosts, Costa Rican Tico coffee preparation, the fact that his shop was in the former home of the Emory branch of Inman Perk, which was in the former local outpost of Caribou, and breaking my cover as I never have before, the existence of this website. He gave me the cup of coffee he had just brewed on the house, it was the Nicaraguan, and I packed my things, and, thanking him, promised to come back. I felt like the translucent ‘I’ in a Sebald novel, sometimes myself, sometimes not, slipping through a barely grey luminous world and limping into faint sketches of conversations with familiar strangers. Don had looked, in certain poses, like my college mentor and as much as we spoke, I still had the peaceful feeling of having been silent throughout.

On the patio a man sat against the window with a book of Chekov criticism and I fancied the scorn I would garner in some forums of feeling a certain satisfaction at being alone on the patio with that man for a moment. Other than him the metal mesh tables were all empty and the same shadowless light from the courtyard filled the plastic enclosure with the calm abandonment one finds on the French coast out of season with white skies and empty cold beach patios, or the vision of the resort patio where the protagonist from “Souvenirs du Triangle d’Or” sat and was apprehended from, and I thought about the chance events spilling forth from my full bladder which allowed me to reflect back on the events of those three hours and make them concrete.

I took my Sebald novel to one of three benches across the street in front of a drug store and did not read it. A booji beturtlenecked man in his late thirties came out to a Landrover parked in front of me with a girl dressed in black tights and a cloak with bright red lipstick and straight dark hair, she felt too old to fit comfortably as a daughter, yet too young to not look oddly suspicious kissing his grey temples, which she did not do but in my mind’s eye, but too similar in costume and mien to have not been selected out of society by the man. Both were as disinterested in each other as a father and daughter would be, or as Delores and Humbert were rolling down the highway after the release of their first tryst. As they pulled away she leafed through a stack of long register receipts held up against the light through the windshield. The automatic bifold front door flapped like a mechanized screen door hitting its dryrotten jambs and a parked car filled with children that had been there for thirty minutes already still sat with its left turn signal flashing. Everything felt slow, as if the coffee had sped me up enough to document the intersection’s tableau vivant in minute detail as it moved at regular speed. At four PM blue ribbons threaded across the sky like Escher’s unraveling head.

Although it appears to be a pasttime of mine, I do not so frequently get the opportunity to hang out in coffee shops. So when the perhaps weekly chance for me to go sit in a shop alone and do some writing comes up, I usually gravitate toward the more established (at least in my own repertory) shop, with a trustworthy atmosphere that I know will soothe and motivate me because the slightest shift outside of my predilection for atmosphere will corrupt my chances to get any work done. I am absolutely certain that it is an entirely personal construct, because there were enough people ‘working’ (laptop on lap does not a worker make) in Indie. So this writing should be taken with the unguent that you too could work and soak in Indie. I could not.

It really is all about atmosphere in the coffeeshop, and since I have been chastised for objectively cataloging the architectural details of places in place of describing their atmospheres, I will refrain from describing the single-colour faux scraped walls and motley-but-not-motley-enough furnishings. I will describe the atmosphere as dissociative suburban identity disorder, and it is brought to the fore by the name of the shop, ‘Indie.’ The last thing that name would have conjured to me was a funky but mature shop that might lie in the historical district of a demi-suburban town that your mom might think is ‘cute’ replete with wicker chairs and distressed wood. Again I degenerate into minutiae. This strange affiliation with that ilk of shop then meets the ‘& Books’ of the name. This is not a Dr. Bombay’s book assortment shown with the haphazardness that makes you feel like you are in a packrat bibliophile’s basement apartment getting ready to chat about Gautier, this is acrylic wall shelves with face-outs and bestseller list references (I don’t care whose bestseller list Bill O’Reilly’s new tome is on, his sweaty face doesn’t need to be out). The shop was actually divided so that the faux painting on the wall ended where the bookshelves began, as though I was looking into a Barnes & Noble.

What made it all the stranger was the name of the place. I had been hypothesizing and preparing myself to be assaulted with the self-consciousness of an ‘indie’ culture that is no longer independent or new, that is a parody of itself and a commodity, a demographic. Maybe a slacker would serve me a drink, or two girls would be talking ironically about how great Boyz II Men are. It would be more about identity than atmosphere, but it would be painful.

Wait!!! Wait!!! Holy shit. I understand it all now. Yeah, this place was so ‘indie’ that it wasn’t even ‘indie’! It knew that even the shit I was into, which I think is different and more cool than everyone else’s shit is actually already passe too. They have gone straight to the next level, to subversive assimilation. Watch out those of you ironic indie types, you might find yourself in your Sunday sweatpants, you might find yourself buying that Jane Fonda autobiography in earnest, you might not even realize it. To corrupt a phrase about LA: you can become banal without even noticing it.

Perhaps I should start with the scenery, which really wasn’t too bad. This coffee shop is positioned in an old strip-mall, next to a health food store, record store, and various ethnic restaurants. I guess overall it’s a pretty standard looking coffee shop–not too great, not too terrible looking either. Just an eclectic mix of couches, tables, and chairs. Baristas all looked like either “princess punks” or adolescent hippy girls that used to ride horses in their girlhood.

The awkwardness began upon entry, in which I saw one of my old bosses that I used to work with at the abortion clinic. I will give her the name Pat as a pseudonym, just in case she happens to look at this. Well, ol’ Pat, geez oh man, what a fucking thorn in my side she was. She was always talking down to me, or catastrophizing a very minor situation. One day I was walking a patient into the procedure room, and she stopped me to ask me why the volume on the t.v. in the waiting room was so loud. So I’m standing with this patient, who is all drugged up on Xanax, as well as practically butt-ass naked, and she wants to ask me about the volume? I asked her if we could talk about this matter later, and she proceeded to get in my face and ask me why she had offended me–wanted to “process” this matter immediately. She wouldn’t get out of my face, so eventually I just told her that I thought she was passive-aggressive. She took the opportunity to tell me that I really didn’t know what that meant, and that I had a deficient vocabulary. Well, maybe I do, but I know a crazy bitch when I see one–whatever you want to call it. Anyhow, on with the story. . .she was sitting right there when I walked in. Neither one of us acknowledged the other, although I’m sure she saw me. My significant other conveniently requested that we sit on a couch opposite of her. I kept trying occasionally to just catch her eye and put an end to the awkwardness, but she was taking the game of avoidance more seriously than I. Finally she left. . .

So we sat and drank our lattes, which were terrible by the way, enjoying the chit-chat of two lovers in love. After 15 minutes my old boss comes back in to pop a squat and leaves again. Suddenly, punk barista girl shouts across the cafe condescendingly, “hi guys, we’re closed”–out of no where, just like that. Everyone just stops in the middle of whatever they are doing, without any kind of warning, and are booted out the door. They hadn’t even begun cleaning the place, and it was only 9 p.m. I really just don’t know what to say about this. . .I’m just so baffled that a place of business would treat it’s consumers that way. Don’t get me wrong, I realize this girl probably just likes the power trip and everything–probably the only way she feels in control of her life or some psycho-babble like that, but come on. . .9 p.m. and that rude! This is an ongoing thing with Atlanta. I’m just continually disappointed with the ‘tude and the fact that coffee shops close so early here. What the fuck is wrong with Atlanta.

I hate this place–very much, and I would recommend that no one visit it ever again. You are only wasting your hard-earned money so that some stay-at-home graphic designer can wake up at 11 a.m., stroll in and enjoy a cup of Sumatra. It serves no purpose for the rest of us, and is simply taking up space for hair-braiding shops and Mrs. Winners–something that has true value to our society.

there is precious little i can walk to in my ‘neighbourhood.’ although i am honored to visit the candler discount mall (as seen in ‘cannibal apocalypse’) on a biweekly basis, the commercial strip from glenwood to memorial on candler has no less than 6 hairbraiding shops, 3 pawn/title loan shops, and one new place called “crabby d’s.” so much for my plans of opening a blackmetal cattery and coffeebar there.

on my route to the eastlake marta station is the oakhurst business district, a small revamped commercial intersection in the intown tradition of east atlanta village, which contains jupiter coffee. it is a delight, of a weekend morning, to walk the 25 minutes up east lake drive, after bypassing the abominable east lake country club golf course (golf courses being the second biggest land waster in east atlanta after the baptist faith), to take a coffee on foot.

in all honesty, all the place needs for me to appreciate it is warm coffee and some soy milk, its most vital superlative being the proximity to my home. on my earliest visit it was not up to much more than this bare bones qualification, although in the proper spirit with its collection of scavanged furniture and hand painted/written signs, but over the 30 months that i have lived in the area it has grown into someplace that i would be proud to travel outside my peripatetic radius to visit if the occasion arose.

i have only two suggestions:
1. ask the video store you are connected with next door to look into some quality eurohorror.
2. hire the guy outside who was looking for a cup of ‘blackjo’ and said he used to be a ‘muffin taster’ for georgia tech.

It is strange being at Java Monkey in the middle of the day. I usually frequent this coffee shop in the evenings, where the sounds of live music and poetry slams resonate through the cafe. Instead, Interpol or some other band is playing on the stereo system overhead. Java Monkey is by far my favorite coffee shop. The atmosphere is cozy, and it is decorated with second-hand furniture. The dim lighting and style of furniture gives this place the feel of a library/study. They sell wine and many different kinds of micro-brewery beer, so if you don’t want to get jacked up on caffeine in the evenings, or at all, you can choose among various depressant substances. For those who are interested, Java Monkey participates in fair trade, and prides itself on this code of ethics, indicated by the standards of fair trade listed on a wall. There are several different rooms in this cafe. The room in which you enter is occupied by tables, chairs, couches, as well as the registers. Turning left into the other room you will find yourself in the bar. There are two different patios, one which is covered and has a wood burning stove for those cool evenings, and the other is an uncovered, gated patio.

In the evenings you see great diversity in the clientele. . .students, professors, church goers, and others who are just trying to find enjoyable ways to occupy their time. There are only a few people here right now and they are scattered throughout the building. Today, I have the torn, red vinyl couch by the window all to myself. I don’t have to worry aobut sharing the space, or people looking over my shoulder to see what I am writing.

I guess what I’m most concerned about is how this cafe is making me feel presently. Like I said, in the evenings there is a high volume of cafe-goers, but today the scarcity just makes me feel like something is off, and being here is a surreal experience. Perhaps it is the dim lighting on a sunny day combined with a melodious droning noise coming from the speakers. Hanging out in coffee shops in the middle of the day just brings me back to my college years, smoking cigarettes and sipping espresso in the basement of some coffee shop while studying. It gives me a sort of eerie nostalgia. At this point in my life, coffee just feels like more of a night time thing.

I think part of what I’m feeling is the awkwardness of being here alone in the middle of the day. I usually don’t hang out by myself in coffee shops. I always have coffee at home, and I just think what’s the point unless you are using the cafe as a place to socialize. Funny how we feel the need to go somewhere with others, rather than just inviting someone over to drink coffee. Do people ever do that I wonder?

There is the faint smell of puke or some soured substance wafting from a corner. Ugh. So much for me not having to share my space with anyone. Just now this friend of a friend sat down across from me. This makes me feel awkward. I only met him once, and I really don’t feel like chit-chatting. I hate these situations. Do I keep my head down and avoid eye-contact, or do I just bite the bullet and say hello to just get the whole thing out of the way. He’s distracted me and now I can’t figure where I’m going with this.

The friend of a friend just reintroduced himself and we chatted for a few minutes about experimental poetry and Gertrude Stein. He means well, but sometimes these discussions just make me want to roll my eyes. Now there is this strange reverb music playing overhead and now I’m ready to leave. I love java monkey, but it just doesn’t do it for me during the day.