Wednesday 06/08

Saw a cafe in the town of San Luis, CO (the oldest town in the state, according to a sign) so mistakenly decided it was a good time to stop on my way north to Frisco. The espresso machine is a beautiful, lever actuated, single-group, copper and brass piece, with an eagle perched on top. The espresso itself, however, is very bad—much too long for a single basket, thin, watery and bitter. Who knows how old the coffee is.

Driving is proving to be strange, and slightly unsettling. Obviously it feels like less of an adventure, but I’m a bit worried that the engine is going to blow up or something. I shouldn’t, of course, but the car is nearly twenty years old, even though it does seem to be really well cared for and the man I bought it from was enormously cool and, I felt, trustworthy. Anyway, I’m really eager to get to Frisco, which I think, along with my concern for the $1500 car, is part of the foundation for my general feelings of unease. That a mutual friend of ours is going to be in town this evening is also encouraging me to slow down and stop for little (not that one notices much to slow down for when zooming passed everything at such speed).

San Luis seems a rather dismal town. Nothing happening. Couple cars parked. Barber shop and a market across the street. Gas station on the opposite corner. The owner/employee here at the cafe seems utterly bored, and was absolutely disinterested in helping me. The abundance of grey sky overhead is not encouraging of any sort of joyfulness either.

The oldest town in Colorado. It evokes the sentiments of an old, a very old man or woman, decrepit, miserable, misanthropic, who’s lived too long and is really quite ready and willing to pass on. “Let me die already!” it seems to be saying. That’s how it feels sitting in this potentially cozy cafe. Potentially cozy. Maybe with a barista who cared, who wanted to be here, and with smiling people to serve instead of just the vacant air and the dull throb of a heart tired and worn out wanting to give up for the pointlessness of it all. The couch looks comfortable, the tables and chairs are okay, there’s art on the walls and shelves full of books. There’s just no LIFE. No music. Dead quiet. It doesn’t matter how many books you have on a shelf, or how comfortable the couch looks, or how good (or bad) the art hanging on your walls is, if there’s no heartbeat there’s no life. It’s like trying to dress up a cadaver. No matter how fine the clothes the cadaver’s still a cadaver. There’s no reanimating that. And that’s exactly what this experience is like: it’s like having a cup of coffee in a morgue, only less sterile. Deadman’s Reach Coffee. Fitting.