What Colors the Steel Sky Blue

I have been a coffee house addict since college. I am addicted to the buzz I get from the smell of stale coffee on concrete floors, smoke wafting over from the smoking section and the electrically charged air just like before a thunderstorm as strangers exchange glances between sips.

I spent a fair share of my days in spring 2002 in Starbucks at Astor place. No not that one on 3^rd Avenue, I am talking about the one on Lafayette. It was a few blocks from the Crunch Gym.

After lunch I would check into Starbucks like a dutiful worker clocks in at their workplace. This was a very busy location so the first thing I would do after I passed through the double doors was to go to walk around and find the best spot. Certain tables were more desirable over others mostly because they were near electrical outlets and had better views. I needed the outlet for my laptop that ran out of juice faster than I did on most afternoons.

After I picked the table I would sit at, I would run over and get a cup of coffee. Through the years I lived in New York City I have learned to love the bitterness of Starbucks coffee. Starbucks coffee to me tastes like a coffee roasting accident --always bitter, always verging on burnt; there's something endearing about coffee that's seen more heat than it should. My coffee soon changed color with a deluge of cream and sugar. I would pause a couple of seconds and watch the clouds of cream do their dance in my coffee every now and then. It truly is one of those experiences we skip out on due to our busy schedules. Everyone should set a couple of minutes a day to watch the cream dissolve in their coffee. Take my word for it, like a good Broadway show, this little dance is delightful to watch each time.

I spent most of the summer working on my book of Turkish poems. The book is still not finished. After years of writing Turkish poetry I have come to realize that this whole poetry writing business is really a difficult and draining experience. I must have written only ten poems all summer.

My poetry writing process has evolved through the years to become what it is right now. I used to write pretty out there stuff that usually meant little or nothing to others. I have since moved away from all that obscurity to more familiar ground. I most write about things I have experienced in my life these days. Most of my current poems have strong roots in my childhood experiences. The writing itself is rewarding but I also have found that the process of writing actually helps one's memory stay in shape. Even the process of writing these New York stories has helped me remember, sort out, cope with the two years I spent in the city.

Starbucks usually got busier after lunch and then quieted down for a few hours only to get worse after five. The busy commuters usually poured into to get themselves fancy caffeine fixes before their long commute. The New York University students came here to study for their classes and work on their group projects. The group projects were always the most fun to listen to. I would sit there working on my laptop while eavesdropping on the academic drama unfolding at the table next to mine. People in college just like others are very good at arguing over the darnest things.

There were always a healthy dose of first dates in the house. I could always tell these people apart from the body language. If things were going well, the two of them would be leaning in towards the table; if things were going down the tubes, there was much nervous smiling, looking around at people in the coffee house.

Occasionally a guy would walk in get a drink and sit at a table directly across mine, and stare me down all the way to the bottom of his drink. Some days I would glance back, some days I would ignore them completely. Some days interest from other people can be so overwhelming --much like a burden. Strange how something good can become an annoyance given a certain set of circumstances. If I were single, if my spirits were higher, if my work situation was looking up I probably would have been delighted to see someone interested in me. But I was none of these things, I was busy trying to keep a relationship going while looking for a job in a beyond hope economy.

At this point, I had delved so deep and dwelled so long in the have-nots in my life that I was unable to look at anything positively. Most people complain about seeing the glass half-empty. My complaint was the complete absence of the glass.

Trapped in my head, I just think and re-think things to the point that I can not even think of a way out of it all. In a way, the problems become the maze, and I willingly and eagerly throw away the map and convince myself that the maze is my home, and my endless wanderings in it is my life.

This was the routine of my life in the spring of 2002. I hated the way it all felt but it surrounded me so gently, slightly squeezing me in its embrace. It felt warm, and heavy like a comforter and I must have feared the cold outside because I stayed wrapped in my misery for far too long.