There is just something about writing in the day that I just can’t do. I’m sitting here in The Java Man here at Hermosa Beach, CA waiting for the writing group to arrive, and yet, I am at a lost for words on what to write. Sure I’m writing right now, but it just doesn’t have that flow that I always have when I am there on the bridge at night. It just doesn’t feel the same.

Maybe it is just too bright out, or maybe there is just that there are too many people around. They are distracting me. The traffic, the two blondes over to the right or the two guys behind me. There are just so many factors and distractions that I just can’t focus on anything pertinent.

The Java Man seems to be a nice chill place to just come and write. If only there were better places in LA like this, maybe I would be there more often. Maybe not. I wonder how late do they open.

I’m just at a lost for words. My fingers are dancing with the same ferocity as they are use to during the guise of night. Nothing flows, nothing streams. Just bits and pieces of staccato thoughts here and there to get me through.

There is nothing to write about at the moment, nothing at all.

Well, tomorrow will be my birthday. Tomorrow I’ll be 26 and either tomorrow or the day after, I may have my yearly birthday writing. I wrote one last year, dammit, I’m gonna write another one this year. I don’t have any idea of what I’m going to write yet, but I’m sure it will be something. It sure will be something.

I don’t even remember the last time I had a heart to heart with this journal anymore. It just seems that more and more, my postings here have become less and less about me and more and more about the stream of conscious writing that I’ve grown so accustomed too. No, that’s a lie. There are still bits and pieces here that is me. Everything here is me. Everything.

I wait silently like a lone reed, swaying in the cool breeze, just waiting, waiting for the time to come when we can get together and do our business. Just waiting for the time when we would all arrive and just sit down and write, share our valued works and to share our selves with the group. I’m just waiting for the time.

In the mean time, I will just type, type my little diddy of whatever comes to mind. This is the most “stream of conscious” writing I’ve ever done. This is the one that has no purpose, no forethought. I’ve never done this before. Never.

I’m sure my other ramblings here have some forethought in it. It has some focus as to where I’m gonna go with it. The girl, time, life. This one is just pitting me against the elements of time, boredom, and just me trying to keep myself occupied until they are here.

I sit here, just typing away, typing away to the rhythmic staccatos of the keyboard. I’m looking at each pedestrian that pass by hoping that it is a member of the group. Just looking to see if it is a member of the group. Many pass, but none are them. None.

There is a haunting woman that hangs next to me. She seems naked but a tray of food that sits in front of her. Maybe it is food. It’s a yellow mass of shapes and swirls that sit in a red box. She gazes out at us all, ignoring the people in the background. She just gazes, ignoring all. She looks at us as we are the show and she is the audience. She voyeuristically sits there lifeless to us, thinking what strange people we are, just sitting here drinking coffee, writing, talking. We are wonders to her.

And I sit here, just thinking about her. Her long strands of sandy blonde. The crimson nature of her surroundings. What is it all about? What is it all about? The blue wall behind her, are they windows or are they hanging life that are doing what she’s doing, that is looking? What is it all about. Who are we to judge, who are we to know? We are not her creators. We are no one in particular. We are just who we are, sitting here, enjoying the atmosphere.

The people just lounge, talking enjoying themselves. Maybe they are looking at us too, observing her as she observes us, and they look at us to see what is so interesting that grasps her attention so much. What is it about us that is so fascinating? What is it?

They sit there all nameless and faceless. They seem to be having a great time, they same to be enjoying themselves. That is who they are, just nameless people with forgettable faces. They are like the pedestrians that walk by minute after minutes, and we try to find a face and a name to put to their swaying walk and bodies. But it never happens. We all are just passing strangers. Just passing strangers, walking by and ignoring everyone, as we should.

Such a happy demeanor she has as she runs her long fingers through her blonde strings. There she is, another nameless soul to me. She talks to the phone, leaving a message for someone. Who? Her boyfriend, friend, family, who? Who knows? It’s none of my business. There she goes……