I have two post cards I purchased in Madrid back in my Spanish Literature days. Back when I was studying the great poets and writers of Spain and the Americas who emerged to give shape to a new American independence after the end of Spanish colonialism, define a world view completely unique to their visions and voices and lead up to the fever pitch of intensity that came at the end of the 19th century all the way up until the Spanish Civil War.
I got drunk on those poets and writers, painters and collaborators imagining the world lead by intellectuals and creatives like I read about in the books. South America, where the thinkers and writers are elevated to the rank of statesmen and leaders in the 19th and 20th centuries. The artists who spoke louder than any politician with a microphone or any corporate tycoon.
Lorca, Encarnacion Lopez Julvez “La Argentinita” and Rafael Alberti. Madrid 1934
In my dreams I’ve always fantasized of the cafe in Paris or Prague or New York that brought them all together and they’d spend all afternoon deep in conversation in the thick of cigarette smoke and coffee, then liquor. Man, what I wouldn’t give to be able to see it for myself- Machado and Picasso, Lorca and Dali, Miro, Alberti, all those amazing artists working, influencing each other, deep into the pursuit of creation and living.
Back when I was working the lunch shift, back when the kids were little and I was fitting my writing into any free moment I could find, I would dream of living a life where I was just writing and listening and collaborating as an artist and nothing else.
Isn’t it curious that the world had to stop for me to have to figure out how to do that! Isn’t it curious that the cafe culture I’ve longed for feels more real now than ever talking and listening and sharing and working alongside inspiring individuals none of whom I see in person. No cafe, no long lazy summer afternoon yelling and passionate and laughing around a table about the human existence. Just images on a screen, messages in an inbox, voices on a telephone line.
It started with a picture of someone with a cup of coffee on the internet every morning. Shortly thereafter, appeared an invitation to be a part of a circle interested in the pursuit of creation. At every turn I was finding symbols and signs pointing to this moment in time begging for beauty and interpretation and higher things to resist the every day boiling of bubbles in a cauldron stewing resentment and frustration and a family size 16 oz. box of life marked ‘freedom’ with a price tag. Sorry. (That wasn’t me just now, that was the ghost of Picasso, I’m pretty sure).
Yada yada yada, I’m living it. Deep in thought, deep in creation, in thinking, in sharing new work, in helping others with their’s and I’m in love with it. I want to squeeze every last drop of this Royale coffee from its mug before it disappears forever.
I’m living it. I’m living what I came for. I might be so bold as to declare I’m living what I was meant to do (and still cooking dinner and loading the dishwasher). You have permission to poke practical sad logistical holes in this story all you wish. You have permission to roll your eyes and call it pointless. You have permission to wave around frustration and sadness and suffering. You do you. I’m going to honor the gift and keep living this for now.
Because I’m living this wondrous colorful, expansive existence in this fleeting delicate, priceless moment and it might be gone tomorrow. I know full well the workhouse is in my future so I’ll drink coffee and dream while it’s still today. Oh somewhere out there is a name tag and time card just waiting for me. I know that. In the meantime, the cafe is open. You’re invited.