Bushwick and Swallow Cafe

This is where I do a lot of writing. I watch Gio flirt with Sam(antha), who clearly likes him. She is pretty popular in the community, being a barista and all. But there's something about the way she smiles when she talks to him that makes it clear.

I once saw her at the Post bike shop. Her wheel was badly out of true, and the dredded dudes rejected her; to fix the wheel wouldn't be worth it.

This is my bohemia, where they will remember the seedlings of post postmodernism, or metamodernism, sprouted. Out of the nine laptop users in the badly named Swallow Cafe (Sam said that there's no chance they'll change the name), seven have Macs; there is some throbbing-beated lo-fi jangly female singing music playing; and the dishwasher whirs soothingly.

If the Halsey stop is the newest edge of gentrification, then Morgantown will soon be Bedford. Once they build those condos that are slated to go up, just north of McKibbin on Bogart, this place is going to be prime real estate. It would be nice to be able to afford to live there by the time they're built.

Bushwick rats. I should get back to reading some classic literature.

Swallow Cafe

The beloved Archive closed, I saw a glow of activity behind the mesh-grilled windows. Can it be, I thought? It has reopened? Yes, it had indeed. A rather tall, baby-faced, dark eyed man with curly pomaded hair - the owner - told me that it is called the Swallow. "Now, don't be dirty," he cautioned. "No way, I love to swallow a big shot of espresso," I said, noting the rise in my voice's volume. Everyone paused, unsure of my sanity. "Alright, well I look forward to seeing you." We shook hands and I walked next door to have a chicken shawarma.

I went to this party where a cat sat on the bed, and I, loving cats joined it. It sat up, its legs spread-eagled, and bobbing it's head, began to peck at my hand to smell me. what the fuck is wrong with this cat. Its black fur was thick and soft and silky and he was affectionate, letting me stroke his thick neck. I asked a dude named Orion who had funky braids what was wrong with the cat. "He has cerebral palsy." I looked at the cat, its limbs tucked underneath itself. "See how he's doing that? We say that he's baking a loaf."


Tonight is Halloween. I'm going to be a lion. I am sitting at the Swallow, after being satisfied with their macchiato. The decor is more spartan, rustic, European. I am sitting at the back of the cafe in an old movie theatre seat next to an exposed bulb floor lamp. Hanging light bulbs provide industrial light. It is a better fit for us than the Archive, which was old and dirty with worn seats and cushions and baristas who were of a more underground ilk. These baristas are better at making coffee and the red Marzocco machine has white ovular lights that glow like a spaceship. Yes, Daniel Adler likes the Swallow.