Morning abolition are infantile more pleasureful when the act ends with a cup of coffee. Even if the resulting mug of Joe is morning mud, there remains a mental picture of pleasure in the form of milk, coffee beans, and sugar spiked water.Caffeine visions danced like sugar plumbs in my wandering mind as I contemplated my current row with writer’s block. Wordless hours have turned into wordless days, turned into wordless months, and I turned to word filled pages of a writer’s workshop book.
Pressed between the covers of that book, I found a tale of many would-be writers who are not unlike myself. Strapped to the hilt with ideas but not a story to see. Plot lines not plotted and climaxes obscured. We can’t seem to see the story from the trees.
In truth, the only thing these writers have to fear is the fear itself, conjured by the mind and crippled in the finger tips. We have the ability and vocabulary to accomplish the task. Yet lack the confidence to scribe.
“Tomorrow, I shall write a story.” I silently promised in defiance to the fear. “In the morning, I shall make a cup of coffee, lock the office door, and not come out until I had written a story.”
While I pondered the story I was to write, my mind wandered to my future cup and the commonality of coffee. A large portion of the American population wake up the same way.
Though the brand and bean may very, there is a unifying theme in the walk to a morning Java fix as how every human pulls one pants leg at a time.
I realized the caffeine thoughts were an antidote, where I could exercise my way with words and discover a story from the chaos of reality.
The act appeared rather simple. My story had the essential elements in place. There was a beginning, where I woke up and thought of the morning brew. A middle as I measured out the right amounts, poured the water, and prepped a mug. And an end as I sat back at my desk and enjoyed the drink as I wrote.
So I woke up the next morning, slightly before noon, with the image of a coffee story still in the back of my mind. As I rolled out of bed, both my four legged roommates raised their snouts and followed my path down the hall. My intent to make a pot of coffee and their intent to take a stroll around the block.Their intentions won out.
One thing to know about my roommates is their willingness to defecate on the patio when given no other option. Which means I would have to take them on a walk and place my coffee on the back burner.
Life is options and everything is a choice. I could have forged ahead, made coffee, and wrote a story. I would have felt accomplished and get to pick up mounds of shit from the astroturf. My choice sought to feel the satisfaction free from defecation.
Outside, the warm Californian air blew a tropical wind. Other dog walkers strolled by the sunlit sidewalk and let their pets mingle with my roommates.
I hate meeting dog people on the sidewalk. These K9 inclined humans always want to ask a million question about my roommates and the air is filled with the implied notion that I should have a million questions about their dogs.
I don’t have a million questions about any dog, let alone their dog.
Our pack got back to the apartment at a leisurely pace and I checked my roommate’s water bowl level. Then I get a kettle, fill it with water, and set it to boil.
A wave of relief washes over me as the gas stove’s blue flame licks the bottom of the kettle and I am back on track.
In the cupboard, I retrieve my favorite mug from the shelf. Years ago, I had switched coast and acquired the “Tennessee Traveler’s” mug from a gas station outside of Memphis. One of my longest held possessions, the mug is a shell of it’s former self.
The words printed on the side are ghost images of the once bright lettering. And the inside bottom has a cigarette scar, burnt into the plastic, from a case of mistaken identity or poor manors.
“What kind of person uses glassware to extinguish their cigarette, especially with no liquid inside?” I ask myself every time I use the cup. If I was only rewarded with a nickel for each question.
Blue blood boils red as I think of the classless person who stuffed their burning amber into empty, dry plastic. The question marks a pet peeve gained from my dish dog days and flexes stomach bile with images of left over food littered with nicotine. Orange dotted filters stuffed into mounds of mashed potatoes or left over ketchup. I shudder at the thought.
How the mug in question remains my favorite is a credit to my own self-masochism.
“People are filthy animals.” I offer as an anwser to sooth the savage anger and the kettle agrees with a fog horn bellow of steam.Instructed, rounded spoon fulls of ground coffee from the bag marked “Dunkin’ Donuts” pour into the open French press.
Hot water mixes with ground dark beans as the press turns clarity into coco. My wooden spoon turns like witch’s brew. Then silence as the contents settle. The process pauses as the minute hand ticks 4 times around.
Slowly, I push the metallic filter deeper into pot, lowering towards the blarney bottom. Liquid was forced to the top as ground coffee beans became trapped under the metalic grate as it sunk deeper into the pot.
On its last day of expiration, the milk smells a bit off. Though I opt for one last splash for my noontime cup and dump the remaining foul milk down the drain. Then two spoons of sugar in it’s rawest form. And the cup was ready to be filled from the press.
There I had my coffee. My story was now complete. Though the story took far longer to write than the mug to consume. It just goes to show you, what a cup of coffee can do to motivate the soul.