Reading Books in Bars

My boots are propped up on the edge of the table.   Leaning back in my chair, I gently slide my fingers along the thick pages of my leather journal.  In my left hand, my pen hangs loosely, working up the nerve to speak.    The red flannel shirt I'm wearing is unbuttoned, my skin feels hot underneath its rusty softness.  My hair is a managed mess, my face unshaven..   any bohemian, drifter or a vagrant would feel at home in my company.   Regardless of my appearance, an elegant, blonde haired girl sitting at the bar keeps looking my direction and smiling invitingly -  but I am disinterested.    My eyes wander to one of the large windows next to me..  I stare out into the night and I admire the streetlights casting shadows on the people passing by.   
 I'm sipping on a cold glass of Avondale Ipa, quietly at a table in the corner.   My head is spinning; somewhat from the beer, and somewhat from the currents of intense thought rippling beneath my relaxed exterior.   I come here to read, to write, to ponder my most pressing questions.    Its a very solitary experience..  which is ironic.   The bar is loud and engaging, there are voices chattering, glasses clinking together as drinks are poured,  music meshing everything into one glistening, visceral distraction.     But for some reason, its easy in a place like this to "uncover" my inner thoughts -  writing seems to flow carelessly and potently.    There is nothing cautious or respectful here..  the people and interactions are open-ended and emboldened.        I enjoy discovering myself in this atmosphere.. among the rowdiness and cliché purposes.     A place like this is about "feeling" yourself at a deep and unfiltered level... stripping off niceties and getting vulnerable.      When I catch glimpses of conversations about sex, the frustrations of work, or the complexity of relationships -  these are all catalysts for my own sensation.  
Sometimes I feel as if the path towards arriving at my best self must be controlled and organized and intentional.    Some part of my practical side scoffs at the idea of writing poetry at a corner table in a dark bar.    But often its the release of those boundaries that elicits the full potential of my muchness.       And so I'm here.  



Andrew Tipton