Odilia Rivera Santos
Last night, I watched part I of Ken Burns's Prohibition and part of a PBS mystery with an actor whose name escapes me but he is incredibly talented. It was a mystery that remains a mystery, because I fell asleep before the end to wonder who the killer was. It was early when I awoke, too early for anything but undocumented workers headed for construction sites, restaurant kitchens, hotels and illegal factories.
Despite this earlyness, I had my cup of coffee and began my visualization exercises accompanied by Samba Triste performed by Baden Powell and slipped into the train station at 5:45 a.m. to watch NYC from another angle. We have trees and silence and people who greet you with smiles not wanting or lacking anything.
I discovered another all-night diner; the Mexican busboy wears a crisply ironed white shirt and burgundy apron, his slicked back hair makes him look like a country boy who's making first trip to the big city and I expect him to start dancing and singing of the virtues of his village in Mexico and his love for our gritty little cityworld. I am sitting in a big booth by myself, but it doesn't matter because it's too early for booth people -- it's counter people time. Everyone is congregated around the counter with the TV blaring some morning news and tips on how to become more utilitarian.
The coffee tastes like instant with ground up cardboard. I am writing some new poems for reading on October 29th with Charlie Vázquez and sending out writing to different journals. Writing and editing and submitting and overusing the gerund.
I am working on a collection of essays about work entitled Work Chronicles to be published as an e-book on Smashwords in November; in the meantime, you can check out my creative nonfiction essays Latinalogue Puerto Rican Nonfiction Part I and Latinalogue Puerto Rican Nonfiction Part II: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/69697
Writers, be careful not to die of exposure.