Untitled

Too many thoughts swirling around in me. Bobbing on a whirlpool of coffee and green tea. The day’s gone by so fast, and I did nothing to make it memorable. I wandered a bit, to remind myself I still know how. But soon, I was searching for a destination again. Bombay has started to change me. It screams at me to find a direction. But I enjoy stumbling through the woods.
Friends don’t call anymore. They wait for you to call them. This is how the world is. Everyone’s waiting for someone to call them. They stare at the phone staring back at them.
I went out for some coffee and watched people. I like doing that. I like coming with entire conversations as I watch them laugh, and joke, and whisper, and cry. It connects me to them, somehow, that I can imagine what they’re saying to each other.
There’s a serious lack of good coffee shops in the Juhu area. The Baristas, and the Coffee Days all serve this mutated soup that they dare call coffee. Met with a director I have recently worked with. Sweet man. Full of warmth and kindness. Likes to make tea for everyone. Gets slightly offended if you don’t have tea with him. I try to have extra cups.
He wanted to know my thoughts on some ideas he had for how we could improve some of the scenes we shot. But soon we were talking about the people we knew, and whether I was meeting any nice people in Bombay. He meant had I met any nice girls. I smiled and said yes. He smiled, but I knew he didn’t believe me either. I feel there are no nice girls in Bombay. There are those that used to be nice. And there are those that are nice, but know they can never reveal it.
And so it goes. The waiting for my next project to begin. I’m most alive when I’m working. When I’m not, I hibernate like a bear in perpetual winter.
Writing for this blog has become a nice exercise for me. I’m stretching my literary muscles again. I had thought them atrophied a long time ago. Nice to know I still can find my way around a pen and paper. Planning to read Hemingway again. He always make me feel I should write more often. I wish I could have known him. Stood side by side with him on his five foot high desk, and wrote for four hours straight like he used to do everyday, before his wife and the dogs called us outside into the Cuban sunshine.