Starbucks journal

John Steinbeck says that time doesn't change all at once; different towns live in different times. I live halfway between Redmond, Microsoft's capital, in 2004; and Carnation, a rural town in 1952. Carnation has one blinker between the farms and the river. The light marks the center, with a gas station, grocery store, pizza, chinese, Hong Kong variety shop, and Starbucks.

"I want to have a Starbucks journal," said the boy barista. "Would you write in it?" He handed me a black speckle-covered class notebook with lined paper. On the cover he had plastered Starbucks coffee labels, the mermaid in the center.

"Yes," I said. I went next door to the Hong Kong store and bought crayons. I got cut-up books and magazines from my car. I pasted and colored till they closed. My goal was, "Get as much art into this book as possible." Speed and quantity counted. The only other parameter was, I wanted the book to be enticing.

Three weeks passed.

I went back two days ago and asked to see the journal. "Oh, the journal," said the girl. "It's over there." The journal and crayons now lived on the end of the window counter, by the chess board and games.

I was blown away. The journal was over half full. EVERYONE had been writing in it. Several entries from two girls who had a crush on the boy barista. A baby's scribble. A child's "M O L L Y" in scraggly writing. Some children's drawings. Three visitors from Switzerland. A confident jock guy. A brooding poet in tiny black ink, sometimes illustrated, signed, "The Zen Guy." A flourished purple-crayon professional drawing of a unicorn. A couple poems. A big page saying, "I love Jesus," signed Craig H.

I spent another hour and a half pasting in pictures, mostly in response to the entries. "I love Jesus" got on it's facing page a beautiful, Quaker-peaceful, Tibetan carpet -- bars of maroon, mustard, turquoise, green. The poet got a quote from his poem, illuminated. I didn't touch the babies' pages. And, I sprinkled more art throughout.

This feels just like rehearsal -- create the SPACE, and the humans will tiptoe in. And like rehearsal -- the art is the result of a dialogue between unconsciouses.

What surprised me is that both times I had such a crude goal -- "Make a lot of art fast" -- and both times felt completely deep and immersive. It felt just like making a play. When I was done, I didn't want to let it go. The journal sang.

WHY? Why is it so effortless and the art so good there? Yet at home, I can't find the right book... I can't think of the right topic... nothing flows.

Maybe it's like that artist said -- don't try to throw one perfect pot. Throw a hundred pots. Throw a thousand. Perfection will take care of itself.

I'm off to Starbucks. Have a good day, y'all.