- Summer day writing
- Patio beer garden
- The midday crowd
- I wrote this piece a few weeks into my new push to write on a serious level after having just left the corporate world behind. I have several writers who I admire and on this day found myself imagining myself alongside them, observing the world.
Another day out to write. These days became a mecca for me, something I pine for each day (be in the moment Scott). Just a little bit past the noon hour and I find myself seated outside at a patio bar in Wheaton, Illinois. Chair and table, while comfortable and a perfect location to see the entirety of the patio and have the rays of the sun kiss my skin, are amusing to me. A rather cheap plastic (maybe not plastic- but I call everything plastic that is not metal) with a sublimated inlay to give the visual illusion of wicker furniture. Who knew wicker furniture was so sheik and something to be cheaply imitated for the masses. My drinks have arrived. The sun hits my neck in a way that I know my skin will be altered by it- the days of summer. I mention the furniture not as a knock on the establishment (although I am sure that is how it reads- do not pass judgment Scott), but simply as a unique observation (thank you Jack- the observation machine). Life is different now in this career transition, living the life of a writer on these days, the freedom, the art, the craft, the adventure. The world is different now on a Thursday afternoon, Chicago suburbs, at a local ale house. the people I see are different- a wonderful concoction of office workers out for lunch, stay-at-home parents (like me) meandering through the afternoon, latte in hand, clad in hidden mystery sunglasses, the random wanders who neither appear to be office workers escaping the day, nor stay-at-home moms and dads, but rather nondescript (to the casual observer) in their societally chosen lot (and here I am, wanting to escape that, yet I perpetuate)- entrepreneurs, like myself…or maybe they are just wanderers, wanderers in life’s infinite mystery. We’d all be so lucky. As I turn the page, the sun continues its rotation and is now absorbing not just my outer facing arm, but my entire body. Summer days. The patio at Warren’s has quickly gone from my own little slice of solitude to a near bustling party. A table of suburbanite family, followed closely by a young duo of early twenty-something girls (tea pleased, unsweetened, with a lemon). This is merely the start to my evening. Later tonight I meet brother and friends for drinks and dinner in Schaumburg.
I often wonder how the great writers (in my mind) enjoyed their days how did they spend them, in pursuit of inspiration and their art? Would they be out on a veranda, on a warm(ing) summer afternoon enjoying a few drinks, pen and paper in hand? I like to believe they did exactly that. Kerouac, Thompson, Bukowski, how were your days? Thoreau, how was your old-timey day?- Brilliant and simple? My jealously runs deep. The sun is reaching an apex on me, taunting me with its beautiful dazzlement, while scorching my flesh. Oh cruel bringer of ruin and joy- that is life.
- The artist exist amongst society, while experiencing the everyday happenings through a different lens