Opening Shots, or Visions of Coffee

He nursed the coffee like he was kissing it, holding it gently with both hands, taking small sips with his eyes closed. Watching him, one would have thought that the coffee reminded him of a special someone, a lover or mistress. If they would have asked him, he would have replied that in a way it did, but in another way it didn't. In one way, it was very good coffee, and deserved to be appreciated for that single fact alone. But that it also reminded him of times and places, the memories more powerful than the touch of any mistress.

I write, many times, with facets of myself. But, in a world populated by myself, I sometimes wonder about the conflicts. Is it the individual brought out aspects that are fighting, their extremity creating their dissonance? Or is there some more basic, root cause to this? Is the battle between Alandrus and the White Suit a battle for individual identity, or some challenge for salvation against one's will?
That is another question. Can someone be saved against their will. Do they have to allow the entry of whatever force, or can they refute it. Can they set themselves completely against it, and still in some manner have it forced upon them?

Should I rewrite the Suited Man into the later portions of the book, peering out at Alandrus from a television screen, or being noticed in the background by the readers. Would that bring back his words, his message? The "You fool. You know not what you've done. You have bound yourself even closer to those who would use you. Make sure that you remember what you have done this day."
Or am I merely rambling, spinning the wheels of my mind just to spin them. For the sake of warming up the writing cores, for getting that "cycle time" out of the way. Sometimes this rambling works. Perhaps I will be able to write today. Or at least revise.
I think that having mother send me the file for A Ways From Nowhere would be good. That way I could look over what she thinks changes should be. I probably will accept them, but I don't know. Sometimes there's a word or a feeling that needs to stay the same, or an entire segment that needs to change.
Then again, what am I doing dawdling. Perhaps I should ask the questions that I need to ask. I feel as if I have so much more time that is just spent at my own whim. Why can that whim not be satiated by nothing in particular. I know that sometimes we need nothing, but sometimes we need to create something. To be something, just for the sake of doing it and coming back to it later.

Remember the picture, the sketch of the amalgamation of bodies, how they are turned towards, turned away, looking directly at you with breasts bared, as a sort of challenge that has nothing to do with sexuality, or others that are stretched out as if laying down, waiting for something. Then the rise of a leg or the curve of a shoulder, captured solely for the sake of its being there. And then the whole thing overlaid by shades of color, some color suggesting outline, the silver crest of a head, or the red shaded thigh. And the expressions, the motherly, matronly care, the bewildered, open eyes stare, the passive glance away, or the bold eyed challenge, that stare directly into your eyes so powerful that you cannot help but treat it as a challenge.
An Alaryal glance, a Gloria glance, an Alice glance. I have seen all of them in writing A Ways From Nowhere. 
So many different people, all jumbled and pieced into a single piece of art. Perhaps someone could write that, the mishmash of feelings, emotions of a group. Here I am, why don't I,. But where would I begin. I could capture the people of a Coffee shop, their wants, their desires. And like some kind of voyeur to the soul I would be here, but be somewhere else.
Could I do that, even if I only pretend to violate the sanctity of their desires, could I? Would it be in some way a violation of who they are, a rape not of the body but of the Identity. Who am I to assign them their passions, their wants? It would be fun though. On this Sunday morning, or on the afternoon of sorts, pick a time and come here regularly.
Come to the Kofenya and become a part of it. I could do that, I think. Have a coffee a week. That would be nice, perhaps on a night, to come and read poetry, to become that sort of beatnik. And her I find myself writing without any real feeling.
Without direction or aim or goal, jut writing down my feelings. Why not put this on my blog as a sort of first entry. It would give people a mishmash of identity, random musings. My considerations, my thoughts, my feelings all copied down raw from my brain without any sort of intervening filter. No care as to what I am writing, no attempt to translate at all. Just a raw and unfettered flow from brain to page. Or in this case, brain to ordered set of electrons. This is what lets me write this way, this keyboard. I must thank Xuesan, my PDA, for my writing, the ability to keep some focus here , some focus there, and keep rewriting it all without having to worry abut where my hand is trending, about running off a line and not hitting return. This is how I write, when I write without direction this sort of stream of consciousness, and then I can shape that flow of consciousness, direct it and stream it in the right direction. That is how I write.