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...

Jonny Latte

Making someone's coffee is not only a skillful act. It is not only a balancing act of temperatures, pressures, times and tastes. It is also an act of service, an act of friendship, an act of community. Jonny Latte is that community at Para, and he continually invites others to author that community for themselves, to own the space, to take pride in the craftsmanship of their drink, to share their opinion of the day, to quote their favorite movie. Jonny, and many of the other baristas at Para (and elsewhere) are bearers of a long tradition of promoting public engagement in dialogue and discussion, a tradition that has its roots in many cultures around the world.

Above is an image of men "Discussing the War in a Paris Cafe," a scene from the brief interim between the Battle of Sedan and the Siege of Paris during the Franco-Prussian War (thanks, Wikipedia, for the image). We must ask ourselves, are we taking our lives, our freedoms, our beliefs, and our joys so seriously that we are sharing and debating them in our local coffee shop? If not, go see Jonny. He will initiate you into coffee culture and the long-standing history that accompanies it. 

Something to ponder...

...over your next cup of coffee.

“Not a leaf stirred, the grasshoppers chirruped, and the monotonous hollow roar of the sea came up to them, speaking of peace, of the eternal sleep lying in wait for us all.  The sea had roared like this long before there was any Yalta or Oreanda, it was roaring now, and it would go on roaring, just as indifferently and hollowly, when we had passed away.  And it may be that in this continuity, this utter indifference to the life and death of each of us lies hidden the pledge of our eternal salvation, of the continuous movement of life on earth, of the continuous movement toward perfection.”

-Anton Chekhov, in "The Lady with the Dog"

Does everything we do, in the end, balance out to perfect nothingness?

beautiful

is four friends

newly found

in the dim dirty

hollowed out attic

of a coffee shop

huddled around

pixelated portraits

of one another

stockings dusty

arms sweaty

fingers boney

and nibbled

all struggling i think

to figure out

how to be

happy

and good

overly caffeinated

learning between sips

and smiles

that the soul

is a bottomless

cup

Tuesday Lunch: Eric makes a sandwich

Sunday Coffee Project

Looking for something to do on a lazy Sunday? After drinking at least one cup of coffee (you will need energy for crafting), try making a festive fall wreath out of coffee filters! I love this project. It just screams "I love coffee" to all those entering your abode.

Blogs and Coffee

I’ve been on the internet a lot lately because I’ve come down with a cold, which was inevitable. I knew all the snot, and hugs, and breathing on me from those precious little boogers at school could only mean one thing. So here I am, in bed, on this rainy morning with my french press and I want to share my excitement over the Silt and the Siphon.

First of all, I love this blog. It was started by a dear girl who is a loyal customer at Para. Jonny befriended her during his big iced coffee project. She gave him a lot of cool advice on brewing iced coffee which he ended up using and I must say that the finished product is hands down the best iced coffee I’ve ever had. It’s totally Boston coffee shop worthy. Anyway, her name is Danielle and she came over with her bf for our recent poker night. She’s this tiny little red haired person with a lot to say and a bubbly smile. She’s great.

The iced coffee-themed title is brilliant. Who knew iced coffee could be inspiring?? I fell in love when I was at 1369 in Cambridge this summer. The iced coffee there tasted so complex. Like fruit and berries and chocolate and goodness. When you brew iced coffee the way that Jonny does which is through a cold brew method (which I'm totally sold on), the coffee grinds basically sit in a filter bag sort of thing in a bucket of cold water for 24 hours. A ton of silt acquires at the bottom. Silt is part of the coffee grind particles that are small enough to travel through the filter. Sometimes if you drink a french press, you’ll see silt in the bottom of your coffee cup. Silt. The siphon is what Jonny uses to pour the brewed coffee through in order to get rid of the silt. Fancy.

Also, the title has alliteration which I love. Also, silt is a cool word. So is siphon. I like the purpose here of collaboration and randomness and sharing coffee knowledge. And Jonny got to post a poem about poker night this past Sunday! I really like one of the last lines which refers to all the sorts of people we had sitting around our table.

Last night, Jonny made me a contributor which I’m really excited about. I love writing and I love coffee. Duh.

Yay for being sick and having time to write and read blogs in bed.

-C

Time for just one...

Many of us are "many people" in one. Many roles, many identities, many faces, many outfits, many voices, many jobs many many. But I've only been at it a year and I'm tired of not being one with my one, but instead many with my one. If I have one self, one life, one passage for air to and from my lungs that causes my chest and my flesh to rise and fall together, as one, then why do I find it so hard to convince my "manies" to unburden themselves and make room for myself? I went from a year ago being a busy-bee with a hand in every pot, a friend, wife, roommate, a community chef, a godmother, a researcher, an artist in a shared studio, a teacher, a tour guide, a tutor, a theologian-in-training and a midnight food hunter to now being a chicken farmer, a commuter, a "professional" in an office job, an in-law (read out), a wife without any time to see her husband, a used-to-be-theologian in training, a now-gardener-in-training; but the difference between these lists of manies is that the first list felt like one. The second feels scattered, helter-skelter about, with not an aim in sight.

When I sit, sit, not run out with a to-go cup in our oh-so-American way, when I truly sit, I am one. I am reminded of living alone in Paris, so many years ago, just sitting, being, watching the traffic of faces and of motorbikes. It was there that I came to love coffee. Not just coffee, actually, espresso. In fact, I didn't have an option, it came with the landlord. My landlord, William Para, was an Ecuadorian-Parisian photographer who rented me out his old photo studio. And with it came many mornings of thick, even muddy espressos when he'd stop by to grab a photo book on his motorbike. There was no saying no, just diligently heating the milk on the stove to accompany our dense, black stovetop percolation. Between my broken French and his accented tongue, we often missed one another. Morning espressos became a language of sharing, of sitting, of listening to the street and further down the Luxembourg gardens below.

I am reminded that it was with Mr. Para that I came to adore a good latte, and that having one signified more than just a drink, more than just a caffeine experience. It was in the act of sitting, of being one with oneself, that a good latte was enjoyed. Whether alone or with friends, life is experienced in each thick, frothy, creamy sip. A beautiful universe of white and brown swirls on the top only served to slow down the moment more.

And yet, again and again, because of the "manies" of each day, the many "things" to "do," the many roles to play, I rush in and rush out of Para, not taking time to sit and be. Shame, shame on me. I shall write Mr. Para and thank him for the reminder than his name will always provide me. And for the love he helped cultivate of a good latte.

and

and i think i was waiting
for you to awaken me
and to feel the moment
the darling dreambird
opened its long feathered fingers
and plucked me from the bed of my
mediocre monster
and to taste that infintessimal timefraction
in which the uncandid condor soaring miles above me
became the elephant of your eyes
and danced in the wildest space between
memories short-term and long

and before these eveninghands fade
i want to tell you that you are
the most beautiful bird

and that this youpoem
which is my everybreath
always begins
and ends
with
and

Today's Question

How do you wear your onsie?

Today's Question

Are green beans related to coffee beans?

check

taptab-le check eye bet no
thing this ((e)very) ti(me)
hands shake
-y
pock it gestures
heads & h&s sh-ache
pow(d)er (man(i))folds
id super(b)l-y do
ifin whennin b(-)
lack st-aches hire
b-
urnem all cuts fors
tos the jacks of
-fs all round these
hid in h(e(ar)t)s
phds&hivs&esqs&mrss&ocds&ibss&robs&
9 ofakin(d) gets me
all in

Check

Check email. Re-check email. Control arrow through spaces. Return to firefox. Re-fresh inbox. Grab iphone. Check time, load email. Return phone to dresser top. Fingertip to the nosepiece of eyeglasses for no apparent reason... Click on a tab that is not gmail. Two finger scroll. Back to gmail.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking my email."

Then it hits me. I check my email. And then, regardless of whether I do or do not have any, I leave it all there. Bold-faced. I'll read it later.

Out of guilt, also boredom, I take a gander. A couple clicks and now I'm reading about Telle and Rex. A dynamic duo that left their respectable jobs on the east coast and like pioneers (their words, not mine) discovered a new way of life in Portland. In Portland, it's only their spare time that's for sale. Full time is reserved for making art! I am suddenly reminded of how last summer I went to tears over a blog post like this. I felt like someone in a crowded bar sat down after me and upon finding doodles on my damp napkin, made a career out of it.
But who am I? Not Telle and Rex, "seeking out enticingly obscure music"

WHO SAYS THAT?!?

If I were on the other side of the legal pad, listening to me, I would ask myself to close my eyes and describe fantasy me, to me. How does she start her day? What does she see when she looks out the window? Does she sign for her own packages? Is she still crossing her sevens? Does she reapply her lipstick after lunch? Has she made a difference in anyone's life? Did she finish reading the book for book club (or is she faking it)?

::my eyes close::

In a large room with plenty of open space, wood floors bend here and there beneath my shoes; I start every single day with a cold-brew iced coffee. The window is larger than me, the entire wall, and outside people walk and run and bike and pass. It's lightly raining. My outfit depends solely on my mood. All of my work depends on my hands and (and glasses). I'm signing for my delivery (which may or may not be the book for tonight's meeting).

I reapply lipstick after lunch, right before I read my email.