Bygone Beauty
Laying down roots at the local cafe, befriending fascinating people, and musing over the lost art of the paperboy
Written by Angie Stevens | October 02
There’s the canopy of leaves and sun filtering through them; the rippled reflection of a small koi pond dancing on the spine-straight bamboo; the brick-lined path that baristas shuttle drinks along, and old rickety chairs that we––the collective of this cafe–– are all seated in; the sparrows (sometimes missing limbs) that occasionally visit our tile tables, and the ivy snaking up the walls giving this coffee shop’s back patio a sense that nature is upholding us as much as we take care (or should take care) of nature itself. For many locals I’ve conversed with, inside the confines of this place or out beyond its perimeter, this cafe is the place where ideas are born. For others, where connections are born. And I can attest, I come here to dip into the mind and meet up with new realizations or new avenues in my work more than any other spot in town. But oh the hours spent twiddling my thumbs, bobbing my knee up and down, in hopes an idea may actualize…
For as much work completed, there are the combined hours of conversation with perfect strangers. One particular afternoon, I was more fixated on others work than my own, and out of my own unabashful curiosity, I peered over to the man next to me, and asked:
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help watching what you were doing on the computer, can you tell me about it.”
A gladness came across his face, as if he was relieved I lulled him out of the work and into a chat. Turns out he was a website builder. And recently divorced, and lonely and lost and homebound for Sacramento, my hometown, and the city his parents live. I urged him like I would a close friend to recognize that he was unmoored, and in a perfect place to see the foreign sites he dreamed of. And to befriend unfamiliarity; I mean, he had already befriended and confided in me, an unknown girl half his age, just out of college. The occasions I saw him following this perfect conversation, I smiled knowing bits and pieces of who he was, and what he was working on.
As I write this, a silver-haired man with a thick beard, piercing eyes, and an impressive stature for nearing 70, is situated in front of his computer. I know he is chipping away at his 400-page manuscript. He is writing a book, he told me in a conversation a few months back.
He had stood at the wooden table I was at, balancing his weathered hand on it, which was adorned with a thick black and silver ring that caught the eye. We spoke of our families, our passions, and how to wake each day with a burning desire to write. He scrolled past a series of iPhone images snapped in the senior living apartment he recently moved into. Particular excitement was shown towards his desk and how the sun hits it mid-afternoon.
“So what are you working on anyway,” he finally questioned.
“Oh you know, a passion project of mine,” I said gingerly, skating the surface of what was actually gleaming from my computer screen (a more than 200-page InDesign file, chock full of writing, photography, and inner musings of people from around the world).
We had already been going at it for 30 minutes, and I craved real forward movement with this project that was lagging. Sometimes, the days, coffees, and mindless hours of tip tapping on the computer charged me with some sort of warped guilt or dissatisfaction at myself and my design abilities. This day was one of them, and I felt it deep in the body. A silly feeling, I would learn to remember, as it was a project no one was urging me to make other than myself. But that was the very reason it felt so energetically charged and important.
I’ve always lurched towards urgency, in work and even in play. It’s something I’ve struggled with: with so many damn ideas, I am always wanting to jump from one to the next, and only later realize in doing so I trade organic growth and sanity for minutes saved (for what, I don’t know).. But I wasn’t about to let this precious creation of mine be tarnished by that fast-paced assumption. To create something that emphasizes slowing down, I told myself, it must practice what it preaches.
Months had rushed through my project, and hundreds of people had passed by my computer screen in the process. A select few moved by curiosity stopped and asked about it. In one particular instance, a barista of the cafe tapped me on my shoulder,
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said softly. “But I’ve seen you working on whatever this is for so long, and I just have to ask, what are you doing?”
Her question took me out of myself. I really had been there, in that cafe, for months on end in between long hours devoted to school, various part-time gigs, and my climbing. I showed up like it was a devoted practice. And I’m damn glad I did, for returning time and time again to this magazine meant I was returning back to my deepest and widest passions. And I have just ordered my second batch of Issue 001, so if you are still keen on snagging a copy, find your way here.
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In lieu of taking time to craft something tangible, more everlasting, Owen over at OSLAR California—a lifestyle brand crafting high quality, California-made products inspired by the timeless spirit of vintage culture and design—and I created a silly, one-minute film titled Paperboy. We walked the neighborhood streets of Shell Beach one warm afternoon, gawking at any old van or truck we could find, waving at the real postman as he made his rounds, and getting told off by ornery homeowners for lingering suspiciously about!
Paperboy’s message is equally thought through and chockfull of off-the-cuff randomness. But it was shot with my own two shaky hands, propelled by Owen’s two legs on the bike’s pedals, and the spinning wheels of our creative brains. Perhaps it’ll remind you of the bygone days of newspaper routes and the signature smell of newsprint.
Onwards,
Angie
