Mornings are where I gather myself: a cup of bitter coffee that takes its own sweet time, a twenty-minute walk where I tell myself I’m paying attention to everything and then only notice one thing — my untied sneakers laces! The way a stray dog always curls up the same way on a particular doorstep, or how a street vendor’s sign has a typo that makes me laugh every single time. I like that twenty-minute pause. It’s hard to wake up early, but it feels like an appointment with the day before the day starts arguing back!
I keep buying books without reading them until they are attacked by moss. This is a small, absurd confession. New books have the exact energy of possibility for me! New pages, that ink smell (I searched Webster- it’s called bibliosma), the sensible lie that this time you’ll read it right away. In practice, I pile them up in my libraries (read showcases). They live on those shelves like small, quiet trophies.
Coffee is something I treat like a science experiment and a superstition at once. I measure the steam with more ceremony than I probably should; the kettle’s whistle is my version of a drum roll. If you ever want to ruin my day, tell me my coffee is “fine” when clearly it needs another minute. It’s not a hill I will die on, but I will defend that extra thirty seconds with a disturbing level of conviction.
Music is the weather in my life. I’m always making playlists—tiny soundtracks for whatever mood I’m in. Some days I wander off with Bob Dylan, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley or Pink Floyd, letting their songs carry me somewhere far away. Other days it’s Coldplay, bright and hopeful, keeping me company on the street or in my head. Jason Mraz show up when I just need something light, fun, and a little ridiculous, while Bruno Mars sneaks in for those bursts of energy I didn’t know I needed. Now and then, I drift into French Baroque or Spanish melodies, because sometimes you just want a little drama or elegance in the mix. I’ll admit it: I walk down the street singing way too loudly sometimes while I am all alone (because my friends always have some urgency when I sing among them). If you hear that, it’s probably me, slightly off-key, completely into it.
Cooking for me is like a lab experiment. Although most of the time I end up making rice, lentils, and a curry that smells like home. But I have ambitions in the kitchen that the kitchen does not always share. There have been disasters. Several. I will tell you that a pan can be both an instrument and a crime scene. Still, the attempt is half the fun: the small flourish of fresh cilantro (which, full disclosure, I keep failing to grow) is a victory that feels disproportionately good.
Weekends are for aimless wandering and the shattered camera in my phone. I like walking without a destination (sometimes I get lost), taking pictures of things most people don’t notice: the way rain makes corrugated metal sing, an old shop’s flaking paint, a child’s scrawl on a wall that looks like poetry if you squint. The camera is an excuse to slow down and to say “this mattered” even when it didn’t matter to anyone else. Sometimes I never look at the photos again; sometimes one line in a photo will rearrange how I remember a whole afternoon.
I value friendships that are long and messy. The kind you can call at midnight and say something ridiculous and then, two days later, sit like nothing much happened. I believe good friendships are necessary because they allow for small cruelties and greater kindnesses: forgotten birthdays forgiven, terrible advice accepted, improvised repairs to broken things. I prefer conversation that wanders and then, somehow, arrives somewhere unexpectedly true.
Small walks in the morning keep me steady: a twenty-minute walk most mornings, a playlist for every mood, the stubborn pursuit of the perfect cup of coffee, the shameful hoarding of books. I am clumsy about some things and almost obsessively precise about others. I like things lined up in a row on my desk, but I will happily leave a pile of half-read books inside my shelves.
If I have a vague life goal, it is this: to gather a small collection of ordinary days that feel full when I think of them later. To be the kind of person who notices the tiny details, who makes a ruined cup of coffee on a rainy afternoon, who remembers to call back the friend whose call I missed, who laughs at my jokes sometimes, even when no one else does. I like wandering around woods, rain, and any food that feels handmade rather than perfectly polished.
If you want something specific — a ridiculous cooking disaster, the song that opens the floodgates, or the precise shape of my coffee ritual — ask and I will tell you the story. I like telling stories almost as much as I like living them. If you’re around, bring a cup of coffee; if you’re not, drop a message in my mailbox, and I’ll pretend we’re sharing a kettle.
Playing Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe
