rocking the garden!

last saturday marked one of the most glorious music festivals in my memory: rock the garden. the street between the walker art center and its famed sculpture garden was blocked off, and a huge stage constructed, and carts of happiness arrived: beer, corndogs, chipotle, merchandise. it was incredible. i arrived with my roommate, lindsay, and another friend emily, all enthusiasts of the lineup: bon iver, cloud cult, the new pornographers, and andrew bird! ....!!!!!! (trust me, the extra !s are completely worth mentioning). this day was like lutefest with a drinking permit and lack of corndog shortage. when i mention the corndogs, i am not exaggerating--i fit 12 inches of breaded dog into my belly, along with a summit brewery extra pale ale (times 3). combine food-induced elation with thousands of other passionate concert-goers, in the middle of a grassed-in setting, an you've got pure paradise. the music was the cherry on top of what was already a fantastic setting.

my roommate, lindsay, and i both work at the coffeehouse together. our supervisor and the owner, dan, is extremely passionate about music. our collection at the shop is composed of upwards of 800 CDs. so, needless to say, he knows his stuff. lindsay and i decided, along with two other coworkers who also went, that it was imperative to pay tribute to our workplace by sporting (the same) coffeehouse t-shirt. in the same color. so, three of us graced the grounds with green t-shirts boasting of our workplace. this elicited comments along the lines of, "where is this place? northfield? is northfield north of here? well if it's not north, why is it called northfield...?" and so on. it's interesting how random conversations start with people who are just willing to talk to anyone about anything, especially with a few ales and the jubilance of the atmosphere pushing their confidence.

we listened to bon iver, my roomate with a good 18 inches of corndog in her belly (i could only handle one, and laughed as lindsay threw her monthlong vegetarianism out the door with great flourish). his mellow, beautiful guitar strums and airy vocals created a lazy, beautiful feeling of joy. we took a break to lounge on the grassy hill during cloud cult, though we could still hear them and see them perfectly. the new pornographers were incredible, and we worked our way to almost the front row as the sun began to set and andrew bird came out to play. i can't completely describe my elation. he can play a million instruments, sing, and whistle at the same time and it sounds amazing. what gives, andrew?

the walk through the sculpture garden at night, the cherry on the spoon illuminated, marked the end of the lovely evening in minneapolis. dear walker: please bring this back next year, at least for me.

pt. 1

today marks the first humid day of summer, june 25th. a nice, round number, sitting right on a wednesday, poised to introduce me to the true minnesotan summer. my first thought upon exiting my house at 5.45 am to go to work: "holy hell. it is HOT, ALREADY? sweaty." 

but "hot", i mean, it's chokingly muggy. i don't think i hate it, yet. this is something i will become used to, of course, yet something else entirely when it contrasts to my arid hometown in the west. while i'm at work, i'm in a temperature controlled environment--i can only gauge the weather based on customers' perspiration or a quick glance towards the front, to see the sun or clouds. it's funny, that i am getting used to this new environment one month later.

i didn't mean to start this post with a discussion on weather, as i usually save those talks for conversations with strangers or with my grandparents, who endearingly take it as the biggest news, the most relatable points. i need to call them, badly. but in the past month of transition and re-adjustment, i have cut off a lot of communication with the outside world. when it's my family, it's wildly inappropriate, especially because my family is particularly nurturing and giving. ah, i need a corndog.

skillz

if you are new to a small town, get a job in the local coffeehouse. work mornings, preferably weekdays. more than anything, be prepared to get a taste of the local flavor unlike anywhere else in town. 

last summer, i wrote of a fascinating little place in my college town in southern minnesota. goodbye blue monday coffeehouse, its name borrowed from a kurt vonnegut story, sits at the heart of division street. its blue awning and conspicuous sign declare it the place to escape life and enter a caffeinated heaven of funky furniture, eclectic music, and a notoriously bustling crew of baristas.

now that i'm on the other side of the counter, serving instead of being served, i have discovered that coffeehouses are the ultimate in interpersonal communication skills. when i make eye contact with a customer from behind the counter, i am allowed into a few minutes of their daily life. when i finally memorize a regular's order (two caramel lattes, large to go, one half caramel, the other half decaf), i get a glimpse into an even more personal side: wants and needs. i am so fascinated by the variety of preferences that come through the door everyday. 

just an observation.

well, hello.

The other morning, as I washed dishes in preparation for a busy morning in the coffeehouse, my boss asked me if I consider myself a writer. She read a piece I wrote awhile back about my now-workplace, so in effect, she was making conversation. But I guess the question threw me off, just a little. It is such a simple answer, yet hard to define. For me, writing has been the time filler, the constant companion, the go-to when I lay in bed struggling to fall asleep. I have journals that date from grade school through college, and this is pretty amazing: I can crawl inside any time in my past and read what I felt at the time, just by opening one of the dozens of journals at home, and the few I have with me. You'd think that by now, I would have a good idea of what I've learned--what has worked out, what has crashed and burned. And, in a way, I do. However, for me, putting those words on a page or typing them into a computer has proven to be a cathartic experience, almost out-of-body, and such a part of my life that it comes mindlessly to my almost-daily life.

So: Hi, my name is Maggie, and I'm a writer. Take this particular space how you will. I will take it as yet another outlet for story-telling and thought-percolating. But this time, I save a few trees in the process.