Happy Friday!

the apple of my eye

I am terribly sad. I have been trying for over an hour now to make sentences about how inspirational Steve Jobs was and about how I feel, but I have not been successful. I think it's mostly this way for me when someone passes away because I can seem to say anything that feels significant enough.

Raptus: a fit of intense emotion

All poetry should have birds.

"Safekeeping", by Joanna Klink

My beloved, if it has come to this,

I will try to understand.

From the house we once lived in, from the room

that was yours, I hold my arms around myself

and hear you pacing, your thoughts stall and flee,

cold snow in your lungs.

After so many years, if no change appears

there is either speech or action,

and you had never said always and I had never said

completely. Only I knew.

In my dreams there are geese pulling sound,

burdened with cargo. I keep the radio close

and turn off the voices when I sense something near.

I no longer know whom to speak to.

I no longer know what to call you.

Lost-to-me, nested one, night owl.

Inspired by Marshall Hodgson

We live in a society where the strength of dreams is constantly in question. Our innovation is institutionalized, and our selves are comfortable only with the distant alienation of specialization. We struggle with closeness in a way that is unnatural. Our proximity to love is decreasing; our coldness is increasing.

Yes, our innovation is institutionalized, but why? Have we technicalized to such a degree that we have lost our basic human dignity? All we think about is faster, more, better. We have become engrossed in consumption. When will we consume ourselves?

Anxiety Attack Attack

If the lyrics to this song don't cure your worry-warts, then find comfort in imagining the making of this video. (Please watch till end).

Anxiety Attack

Why try to explain how I feel right now when this guy does it so much better...

Today's image...a coffee-loving dog

So I must out myself--both to the (future) readership, and to my fellow bloggers. You cannot call me serious about coffee in the way that coffee lovin' fools might call themselves. Although I have admitted my deep love for coffee and especially the culture around it, I have not nearly invested the time into coffee that I have into tea. Trips halfway around the globe where I could appreciate tea (Japan, China, India), a deep commitment to a family of Tea purveyors stateside (Harney & Sons from Millerton, NY), an appreciation for tea brewed with leaves, respecting the needs of each brew. But today, I have crossed over to a higher-level of coffee appreciation. I finally, finally grind my own beans at home. A trip to the post office a couple days ago revealed not one package, as expected, but two. I first discovered my Amazon order of a coffee grinder that I could control the settings on. But unexpectedly, I also received a package from a friend, with a brand new Bialetti stove-top percolator, not unlike the one my landlord, Mr. Para used in Paris. Not that I didn't have one before. But I had the $11 East Harlem Hardware Store kind...the kind that is kind-less, the kind whose seal isn't great, and that rarely expels all of the water through the percolator. Now, thanks to my friend (who noticed my p.o.s. on a recent visit), I can enjoy my La Colombe beans, freshly-ground, in style. Here's a snapshot of my pup Wile sitting loyally by, as I enjoy the brew. All to say, I hope, dear coffee-loving aficionados, that you will accept my meager beginnings...