"This is not the most poetic and venting vile extremity, or even an interesting piece I've written, but it's important to me to write it, as if to close this period of my social development. Hopefully, you'll find something worthwhile in it."
(Coffee House Confessions 1) When I was in San Francisco earlier this month at the rehab institution, as soon as I was able to go out on my own and walk around the city I started hanging out at this local coffee house on Polk Street called the Royal Ground Coffee. I really liked the atmosphere, mostly a gay and lesbian crowd, especially attracted older lesbian woman who sort of had an informal offical (or a formal unoffical) dress code: heavy black or blue long woolen coats with oversized collars, or fur/fake fur preferred with a portion of unkept burly stringy hair like a scouring pad jutting out from their head and down around their face pushed down even further by varities of large hats worn like a crown of royalty, usually wearing a pair of jeans, dark discolored slippers or ratty sandles, no socks. I photographed several women there who looked eactly the same. (CHC 2)
(CHC 3) The women like to sit outside usually on the round wooden sidewalk tables and hard-back chairs that never sat level, drink their coffee -- the cheaper "regular" brand that came in a bigger cup, lasted longer, stayed hot longer and let them talk more. They smoked as many cigarettes as they could in the period of time I was there with them, sometimes passing around almost barely burning butts to share the light so the other's could get their smoke burning; I guess they were out of matches. It was always windy and so they did that thing where they shield the wind from the cigarette, distort their face and body to block the wind and puff and blow to get a little lightning happening, and then you see the puff of white smoke rising from their cupped hands.. (CHC 4)
(CHC 5) These women always seemed to know everybody and everything that was going on within a small but enlarging network of locals. They knew who was in town, who left, who got divorced, married, hooked up, busted, sick, pregnant; who was doing a tour, a show, or who was selling a car. Their information and the flurries of their little anecdotes were the center of attention and daily attraction for the Russian owner of the store for whom it was almost like free entertainment to pull in the older balding, salt and pepper haired, crisp, clipped mustached, semi-fit-with-a-slight-protruding-gut on the gay men. (CHC 6)
(CHC 7) I would sit indoors near the open window by the front door and drink a cup or two of espresso and take photos. I must've look like I belonged there; I felt like it did, as far as nuance is concerned. It was comfortable, had that dissenting student intellectual artist feel to it; quiet, with lots of wood floors, tables and chairs, the smell of rich coffee, classical music or jazz in the background, people against the walls lined up with their laptops, WiFi's and classroom curriculum literature. And the best thing - it was never crowded. A double cup of espresso was only $2.00 served in a white porcelain cup. There was never any pressue to buy more, or to leave after you finished. I sat there for a long time, almost every day and listened to the conversations, the gossiping, the political specualtion, philosophy, and store-front-pull-up-a-table-and-chair free psychoanalysis sessions. When I had to go eat dinner, I went back to the madhouse institution for another night of sweaty hell, bed chills, and lonliness. (CHC 8)
(Coffee House Confessions 1) When I was in San Francisco earlier this month at the rehab institution, as soon as I was able to go out on my own and walk around the city I started hanging out at this local coffee house on Polk Street called the Royal Ground Coffee. I really liked the atmosphere, mostly a gay and lesbian crowd, especially attracted older lesbian woman who sort of had an informal offical (or a formal unoffical) dress code: heavy black or blue long woolen coats with oversized collars, or fur/fake fur preferred with a portion of unkept burly stringy hair like a scouring pad jutting out from their head and down around their face pushed down even further by varities of large hats worn like a crown of royalty, usually wearing a pair of jeans, dark discolored slippers or ratty sandles, no socks. I photographed several women there who looked eactly the same. (CHC 2)
(CHC 3) The women like to sit outside usually on the round wooden sidewalk tables and hard-back chairs that never sat level, drink their coffee -- the cheaper "regular" brand that came in a bigger cup, lasted longer, stayed hot longer and let them talk more. They smoked as many cigarettes as they could in the period of time I was there with them, sometimes passing around almost barely burning butts to share the light so the other's could get their smoke burning; I guess they were out of matches. It was always windy and so they did that thing where they shield the wind from the cigarette, distort their face and body to block the wind and puff and blow to get a little lightning happening, and then you see the puff of white smoke rising from their cupped hands.. (CHC 4)
(CHC 5) These women always seemed to know everybody and everything that was going on within a small but enlarging network of locals. They knew who was in town, who left, who got divorced, married, hooked up, busted, sick, pregnant; who was doing a tour, a show, or who was selling a car. Their information and the flurries of their little anecdotes were the center of attention and daily attraction for the Russian owner of the store for whom it was almost like free entertainment to pull in the older balding, salt and pepper haired, crisp, clipped mustached, semi-fit-with-a-slight-protruding-gut on the gay men. (CHC 6)
(CHC 7) I would sit indoors near the open window by the front door and drink a cup or two of espresso and take photos. I must've look like I belonged there; I felt like it did, as far as nuance is concerned. It was comfortable, had that dissenting student intellectual artist feel to it; quiet, with lots of wood floors, tables and chairs, the smell of rich coffee, classical music or jazz in the background, people against the walls lined up with their laptops, WiFi's and classroom curriculum literature. And the best thing - it was never crowded. A double cup of espresso was only $2.00 served in a white porcelain cup. There was never any pressue to buy more, or to leave after you finished. I sat there for a long time, almost every day and listened to the conversations, the gossiping, the political specualtion, philosophy, and store-front-pull-up-a-table-and-chair free psychoanalysis sessions. When I had to go eat dinner, I went back to the madhouse institution for another night of sweaty hell, bed chills, and lonliness. (CHC 8)
