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Father of the Year

Way back when I was a wee lad, my brilliant mother sat me down at a table at our home in Cape Coral and we wrote together. Well, the historical record should read that she wrote while I colored and talked and talked and asked random questions as kindergartners are known to do. We talked, my mom and I. We talked about my dad, whom I knew fairly well; but, she knew better. By the end of this brainstorming session, we had produced an essay. There was a local Christian radio station holding a Father of the Year contest. It was a long-shot, but my mom is a writer at heart and she turned my list of "things I love about my dad" into something a little more moving and lasting.

The radio station called our home to tell my dad he had won. Of course, I rushed to the phone as I always did, as kindergartners are known to do. I remember being over the moon with excitement. Everyone would get to know that I had the bestest father in the world! Dad was given a few prizes, though I don't remember all of them. One was a nice plaque. The second was a leather-bound New International Version Bible. (There must have been a dinner involved too. Right?)

As the years rolled on, my dad continued to live and act as Fathers of the Year are known to do. He has continued, year after year, to care for and protect the people who were brought into his life. That bible became so worn from all of the life lessons and joyful stories he pulled out of it. When I speak to my dad, each conversation is a burst of energy and ideas. His words are a blend of passion and wisdom. Dad has always been enthusiastic about the right things in life.

Many of us are blessed with a few good role models, I've been given more than my fair share. Dad, thank you for being the best and the brightest, the most loyal and loving. Thank you for challenging me to see what you see: the kingdom of God bringing new life to every corner of the world. You are still and forever will be Father of the Year.

silva's bleed creativity

another beauty from nate silva

"This is so not life at all."

(for my bro, Kevin. & for the Starr's, on to their next adventure.)



All things change. Time for the next chapter.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L_Bl9NIBvY8

Why I read Warren Ellis.

He always tips me over at just the right moment, so that I spill what I've been brewing, making a beautiful mess. Here's a recent shove from the evil Mr. Ellis:

"I'm a big fan of pretension.  It means 'an aspiration or intention that may or may not reach fulfillment.'  It doesn't mean failing upward.  It means trying to exceed your grasp.  Which is how things grow."

This is good news for me. 'Cause as you know, pretension is my middle name.


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"Do the next right thing."

Elizabeth put on Michael J. Fox: Adventures of an Incurable Optimist tonight, for me to watch after work. It was like playing a C chord, or tearing open a bullet of fresh espresso roast. Some joys, some joys; they revive the senses.

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You make me miss music.

Superfuzznoisepopgazing...my favorite past-time.

The First Fix

As I walked into the madness that was the Gardens Mall today, I was treated to a rare opportunity. A university-aged guest was looking to purchase a lb. of coffee. He had just purchased his first coffee maker and this was to be the inaugural brew. In fact, although he had tried several of our coffees in his local shop, he had never before bought a bag to enjoy at home. We talked out preferences and expectations, settling on Caffe Verona (with some chocolates for pairing.) & another coffee journey begins...

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"Is you is or is you ain't."

Mos' thought this week has rained down in the sound of drum & bass. Setting the table and laying foundation. Seeking the present moment. Back to being, for a time.

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Waiting for Godot

I've been sitting on pins and needles for weeks now, ready for a few necessary evils to run through the system and leave me be. But the "all-clear" has yet to arrive.

At this train stop in the land of Ideaspace, my imaginary iPod packed with stories I've always known and lessons I have yet to understand plays at random. Trains roar by, but not mine. Sleep is tempting and the oil in my street lamp is running low. Still, it has not run out. ...invisible miracles.

Patience is a virtue. But, diligence is as hard to grasp as the wind surrounding these hope-raising trains. Perhaps today, maybe tomorrow... Lord, let Goodness show its ugly face.

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"geniuses of compression"

As I hand the man his cappuccino and thank him for his visit, he stares at me and asks, "It is your job, you are the one, it is you who makes the milk hot, no?"

Yup. That's about right.

Colombia

My sisters and mother will be traveling south in a few days. I wish I could be with them on this journey. But, it just wasn't meant to be. So, I'll be waiting for their return, super-excited and filled with many prayers for the extraordinary things they will no doubt encounter. This will be huge. I can taste it.

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& what does it mean?

To be a coffee master?

As I'm working with several partners on their coffee journey, I've been reflecting on those ten words.

The aim of coffee knowledge is a new appreciation growing alongside passion and understanding. It's a fluency of the new. It's a readiness to re-discover. It's a culture of experiencing the familiar again and again and never narrowing how it all may conclude.

This is not about arrogance or snobbery. It ain't about becoming a know-it-all. It's about finding joy in the gift of coffee. It's the ability to step back from one's own preferences and describe a coffee based upon the taste in the cup. It's the adventure of putting aside the marketing and seeing a coffee in its native dress: its aroma, acidity, body and flavor.

To taste and discover; again, and again and again I said, Amen.

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wordles

jerespresso


yellowhousefiction

Race

James Spader in a new Mamet play on Broadway? Directed by David Mamet? Be still, my beating heart.

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finally released from the prison house

So, that feels good. The first of 3 creative projects currently in-progress is finally available. SPIRITS IN BONDAGE is a semi-autobiographical book, kinda. I mean...it ain't a book now: it's a series of Compact Discs (that lovely, obsolete medium). & I sure as heck didn't write it: a young C.S. Lewis did, under the name Clive Hamilton. I just hack them up and string them together into hybrids of song and performance art. But, the story found in SPIRITS connects deeply with me. It echoes in my heart. So, I'll be working on these spirits until I've strangled the life out of every one.



This first collection of 12 was born in a studio apartment on Roosevelt Island, in between Manhattan and Queens. My favorite tracks -- the singles, if you would be so kind -- would have to be "Spooks" and "Night (one)". Oh, and "Ode for New Year's Day" has special meaning to me too. They're all fairly interesting, if not enjoyable.

I'll begin recording the "on Jupiter" series soon. Not sure how many will get finished for this batch or when the second album will be released...it's low priority. First I need to release Very Important Creative Project That Actually Has A Built-In Audience -and- Not-So Important Creative Project That Has No Audience But Is Nearly Complete. Until then, I'm going to celebrate on the inside. At least I was able to get this thing out there.

You can hear the poems on the player to the right. If you like them, you can order the album at http://www.lulu.com/yhfiction for $7.99.

Marketing to whom?

Sadly, I think it's safe to say that my company's new marketing initiative is nothing more than the same, tired text-based focus on the ethics of what one buys. I keep waiting for our story, the story of the coffee farms, the story of our customers and the storied experiences that exist between real people and finely crafted espresso... I keep waiting for these legends to be placed on a pedestal for all to see, via a medium that actually connects with potential new guests. Instead, we start out the "campaign" talking down to base competitors through past-dead newsprint, beside yesterdays stock quotes. As if on cue, our regrettably chosen competition does what they do best: run funny, light and effective web and T.V. adverts. Sigh... Nothing really changes.

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Migraine

So, I've been trying to nail down a few creative projects and one of them is nearly complete and ready for release; but, the finishing touches just aren't doing their jobs. It's terribly frustrating.
Busy, busy Mother's day weekend at the mall. Time to rest before the madness wakes up.

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"You can blow out a candle, but you can't blow out a fire."

www.playingforchange.com

Goodbye, John Dorian.

The SCRUBS finale was an inspired end to an uplifting series. JD was an adorable screw-up; an idealist with more confidence than wisdom. Dr. Cox ended it well... I only wished we could have watched it with the Govin's.

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Obey.

What he's speaking to you may make no sense whatsoever. Act on it anyway. Your own path is shite. Have ears to hear, mate!

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"I've got the joy, joy, joy..."

"When peace like a river attendeth my way; when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say 'it is well, it is well with my soul'."

Today, if one watched closely, one would see life and its epigrams turning into beautiful epitaphs.

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"Same as it ever was."

Overheard yesterday, while crafting a woman's caffe latte:

"But, I told my dad I wasn't going to apply there... I mean, I want to have a Profession! I don't want a job."

End scene.

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"From the womb, my first cry, it was a joyful noise."

Every step since has led me astray. I can hear your voice calling from behind. You've kept me from the cliffs and given me strength. But my voice is still nowhere to be heard. It seems locked away, with the dream and the map.

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Seeking the Spirit

Oh, to inhale deeply and feel new life in these weary bones! Oh, for the spirit to animate and form a new experience! Oh, to sit and listen for spell! In, out, in, out...

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Steady, Steady

Must get through till Tuesday. Nothing else to say. All thought is out of reach.

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Brilliance

My sister, Jessica, delivers her thesis this week. My sister, Sara, walks at her college graduation this week. I could not be a prouder older brother than I am this week.

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Instigation

Moving forward, walking down the path, holding hands with the love of your life can be terrifying; but is always invigorating. The next month will be filled with purpose and the intention of breeding passion in others. I will draw strength for these efforts from the little moments of inspiration that sparkle from the eyes of the love of my life. There's no way to know how this will all turn out; but, the month will certainly be alive like wildfire.

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To catch the train...and give up driving forever! (If only.)

(by Nate Silva)

Out of Calibration

Perhaps it's an effect of this week of extra work with a side of insomnia; maybe it's how tone deaf I become after a long stretch with no time off; whatever the cause, I found myself just "off" today. I spilt everything and I fumbled the fundamentals. I could not get my words to fit the shape of my thoughts, or even to exit my lips in the correct order. It's as if my mind and motor skills scheduled their strike together, so as to have the most dramatic results. I am on the fritz.

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The Bad Tech is Killing Me

This day just won't end. That's largely the fault of junk machines, to which I've been forced to rely upon. They've owned me today. Mark me, I will take my revenge!

(I...just...want...to...go...home.)

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Coffee as Muse

So, the gift of the crema provides the will to move through the crappy day and the ever widening Bad News. But, it pushes away the dreamscape and locks me into insomnia, more often than not. I don't trust decaf, as I prefer the tickles of the stimulant. (Don't we all?). The trick is to expand the scope of one's day-dreaming, to call out for the subconscious competence to step forward confidently, to do the hard walking -- wide awake and dreaming up What Happens Next. The hard walking and the loud listening echo better when one's eyes are held open by the stab of the Siren, swimming within the aroma's curl.

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Tip of the Tongue

Inside, the urge for a long conversation about dreams and risk-taking is surging. The spirit is willing, but the body is so freaking weak. My lips are sealed shut in anticipation of REM, leaving me with nothing small or meaningful to say. So, I pray for my family and my friends, my business and my world, my enemies and my forgiveness. Inside, there is this wordless speech as I seek after sleep.

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"Today's another day to find you."

No decision is pure.

The past 7 days have been modular pods of unique and important information. The week was a stream of 411 that leaked into the next week...and will surely bleed into the rest of the Month: April showers of dropping knowledge.

It's difficult to trust your choices when you sweat exhaustion. The brain feels like it's shrinking. Water and wisdom, baby. These are what I need. I am bound to screw things up here, and I could use a couple of accomplices. Water and wisdom, bros. You could be to blame. If only you'd join me.

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druggo

(Many thanks to amiga Jessica V. for this satire.)

"Caffeine is my shepherd; I shall not doze. It maketh me to wake in green pastures. It leadeth me beyond the sleeping masses. It restoreth my buzz. It leadeth me in the paths of consciousness for its name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of addiction, I will fear no Equal™: For thou art with me; thy cream and thy sugar they comfort me. Thou preparest a carafe before me in the presence of The Starbucks. Thou anointest my day with pep; my mug runneth over. Surely richness and taste shall follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the House of Mochas forever."

~Author Unknown

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For the God of Love and the God of Fear are One

For this life to bloom as it should, I must fall deeply awake and dream clearly.

Attention must be given.

Time must be cherished.

The notebook of conversation --with its context and theme-- must be laid open upon the table.

Pencils must be sharpened.

Grace must be welcomed.

The first must be last and the last must be first; listening for their cues to bring joy into our weary world.

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I think I need the Life of David.

I think I need forgiveness.

I think I need more than the rest.

I think I need just not to know.

I think I need a hospital.

I think I need not to go there.

I think I need a heart to share.

I think I need just not to know.

I think I need a hospital.

I think I need to love you more.

I think I need to lock the door.

I think I need to pay the toll.

I think I need a hospital.

I think I need to write this song.

I think I need to sing along.

I think I need to quit this job.

I think I need a bank to rob.

I think I need another show.

I think I need some place to go.

I think I need to let you know.

I think I need a hospital.

###

Michael Knott lives in California and has created more undiscovered art in one day than most will attempt in a lifetime.

I remember the night I first heard this song "Hospital", several years ago. I sat with a group of about 50 indie kids in a cramped art gallery in Lakeland. It moved and inspired me with its honesty.

Watching Charlie Kaufman's new film "Synecdoche, New York" recently poured memory upon memory over me, until I was drenched with the story of my life and purpose thus far.

This song, and that night --like many other nights from my youth-- a blend of momentalism and over-reaching, woke me from the settling slumber of consignment.

Oh, to wake once more!


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"There will be an answer. Let it be."

You will be missed by many. Good night, girl.

theMEs

Input.

Ideation.

Intellection.

Inclusion.

Strategy.

Now, how to paint the future with this chalky knowledge? That is the question of the hour.

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Family

I love being surprised by moments of joy and wonder, revealed through the scary and sovereign nature of close relationships. This Easter was laced with such moments and memories. Who can say what will come of them? I am ever hopeful.

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To Simplify

To focus.

To excel at what is true.

To blow off the dust, to see the foundation.

To turn off social networks in the service of core relationships.

This is my aim.

Our work is never done. (Tres)

*in my notes from nola series*

"This coffee spent nine months growing in the sunshine, on a family farm that supports 34 people. It was picked and laid out on a tarp to dry. Every night the family carried the parchment inside, until the beans were dry enough to be dehulled. The green beans spent 17 days in transit to Oakland, CA. They were roasted by a partner with 11 years experience. This batch has been tasted and tested three times. It traveled more than 10,000 miles to get to your store. 14 pairs of hands have taken care of this coffee so far..."

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As featured in SONS & DAUGHTERS: An Ambient Fiction Album -- This is my favorite story of Guatemala Antigua!

Mr. Cinnamon’s Wake
By Jason Procopio

One day Mr. Cinnamon died. We did not know this until three days later; he simply failed to show up at the coffee shop at three, as was his usual custom, and we gave it no more than a passing wonder.

Then Friday his wife entered the shop, puffy eyes scanning the horizon of the pastry counter, searching for anything comforting they could touch.

‘Mrs. Cinnamon,’ I said. We had never publicly joked with Mr. Cinnamon about his name, but we did notice the oddity of it. The irony as well, since he detested cinnamon. We took to calling him Mr. C because it was difficult to say his name without grinning. Although he took to his nickname immediately and with affection, it was never passed on to his wife. She was never Mrs. C. It seemed fundamentally wrong to call such a regal woman by any other than her true title.

Her eyes darted over to me, startled. She sniffed. ‘Good afternoon, Harry,’ she said. Her chin wrinkled. I almost asked if something was wrong.

‘Can I get you something?’ I asked, ready to grab a mug and pour, which was the only reliable course of action I could think of.

‘Oh, no,’ she said. I waited for her to continue, but her eyes shifted to the left, uncomfortable holding my gaze.

After a moment I asked, ‘Can I do anything for you?’

Immediately she looked at me and said, ‘Can we sit on the couch for a moment? I must speak with you.’

I stammered. I looked to my right, perhaps seeking advice on how to proceed, and instead I found Tracey. She was sitting on a stool behind the cake window and staring into a book.

‘Watch the counter a sec?’

Tracey nodded without looking at me.

I moved through the coffee shop to the couch in the back. It was a love seat, not a couch, and the idea of sitting in such close proximity to Mrs. Cinnamon was not appealing, but it was apparently a matter of great importance; she sniffed regularly and seemed uneasy, which she never was.

We sat; I scooted as close to the armrest as possible so our legs wouldn’t have to touch. I felt as if touching her would be something like touching the Ark of the Covenant—that she was an object so high above me that God would strike me dead if I ever worked up the nerve.

She sniffed again, looked at her skirt. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and I noticed that deep in one dainty fist was a concealed wad of much-used tissue.

‘Mr. Cinnamon died yesterday,’ she said.

It was like being told that something universally dependable (say, oxygen) had just taken a turn for the worst and was not expected to make it. The thought that Mr. C could die—that such a thing was possible—had never entered my mind.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said after a long moment. I was still not sure I had heard her right.

‘Well, it was peaceful,’ she said. ‘He died in his sleep.’

‘That’s good,’ I said sympathetically. I wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Cinnamon still slept in the same bed. I wondered what it would be like to wake up and find that the person you love and have shared a bed with for so many years was dead, and that you had been cuddled up with him that way all night. I suppressed a shudder.

‘The reason I came here today,’ said Mrs. Cinnamon, ‘is because we have known for some time that he would be leaving us soon. We had begun making plans.’

I nodded, unsure why that would cause her to come here.

‘Well. The day before…’ She paused, looking away from me for a moment, eyes glazing a bit. ‘…before he passed on, he said to me…’ Here she smiled. When she did so her eyes squinted a bit, and a tear fell out of each one at the same rate of speed. ‘…he said wouldn’t it be funny if we had the funeral reception at Harrison’s? I didn’t think it was a bit funny, but I agreed with him. He kept bringing it up all day long, and that night he said, with quite a bit of finality, “I think I’d like that. To have the reception at Harrison’s. When the time comes, could you please have it arranged?”’

‘I humored him, of course, I didn’t expect…’ She sniffed and wiped her nose with her tissue.

There was a long pause while I waited for her to continue. She looked at the floor, then at her hands, then at me. She looked at me as if I were a child. ‘Well?’

‘Oh, uh, of course. When, um, when do you want—I mean, when’s the funeral?’

‘Tomorrow. And could you offer anything in the way of complimentary refreshments?’

‘…Well, I can offer them complimentary to your guests, of course, but I’ll still need to be paid…’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ she exclaimed, throwing her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. ‘I didn’t mean charity. I don’t want charity. Of course I’ll pay for it. I was just making sure you wouldn’t charge the guests.’

‘Of course I won’t. I apologize.’

Another long pause. I wondered how Mr. C put up with this woman all those years. Mr. Cinnamon had never been what I would call dependent or inadequate, so obviously he didn’t need her to run his life, but I could not imagine a circumstance in which she would settle for anything less.

‘And I accept your apology,’ she said after a while. ‘The reception will be at three. You will have to close early.’

To contradict this woman would be death. ‘Of course.’

‘You will need to make enough refreshments for thirty people, give or take. Have the bill ready by the end of the reception.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She paused; looking at her lap, then suddenly and surprisingly grasped my hands with both of hers. Her old tissue was pressed into the top of my hand. My imagination caused it to feel wet, although it probably wasn’t. I could not imagine a woman like Mrs. Cinnamon holding a tissue with the snot on the outside.

She tried to speak, but she choked. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘You were his favorite,’ she said.

I have the feeling my eyebrows arched. ‘I was his…favorite? His favorite what?’

‘His favorite person,’ she said. ‘Besides me, of course. Every day—every day—he would come home and tell me you were his favorite. I think he wished our son was like you.’

All this was staggering to me. Only occasionally had I given Mr. Cinnamon more than a passing glance.

I began to say thank you, but she said, ‘I wanted you to know that. He would have told you himself, I think, eventually.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

She gave my hands a quick squeeze—I briefly marveled that I had touched her and not caught fire—and said, ‘Thank you, Harry. For being so accommodating, I know you don’t have to. You were his favorite person; this was his favorite place. This is the way this should be done. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

One final hand-squeeze, then she stood and left. I sat on the couch for five minutes, staring at the hands she had just released.

***

Mr. Cinnamon’s hobby was solving crossword puzzles. I knew at least this much about him. Once or twice I had sat with him and we figured them out together. He was a sweet man, if not quite fun. And I did at least have the presence of mind to recognize that when I helped him with the crosswords his joy increased exponentially with how much time I spent there.

His favorite coffee was Guatemala Antigua. I remembered this. He would settle for our regular house blend, but he always asked, as he walked behind the counter holding the coffee mug he left at the store, ‘Did you brew Guatemala today?’ And if the answer was yes, he would smile, give a hearty ‘Oh-ho-ho-ho!’ and pour himself a mug.

I remembered him speaking of a son. I was not sure what the son did for a living or where he lived, but the fact that he existed and was spoken of by his father, this I knew.

All day I cleaned out the filing cabinets in the back of my mind, searching for some shred of information I knew and remembered about him, but this was all. Crossword puzzles, Guatemala Antigua and an absent son. Only this, after knowing him for almost three years.

Mr. and Mrs. Cinnamon owned an antique store across the street from my coffee shop. Mr. Cinnamon was there at the grand opening, pointing at the sign reading HARRISON’S COFFEE HOUSE and asking, ‘Who’s Harrison?’

‘That’s me!’ I said mightily, extending my hand, overcompensating for my propensity to shyness in order to keep my new clientele returning. ‘Harry.’

The next day he brought in his mug, which he kept on a shelf behind the counter, and the next day he discovered nirvana in the form of Guatemala Antigua. After that the days blur. Nothing else about him was memorable. He was ordinary.

And yet I was his favorite person in the world, apparently. I tried to understand what was more extraordinary about me than Mr. Cinnamon, why I should be memorable; but, my pride, for the moment, escaped me.

***

The reception was more or less a success. The guests filed in wearing black; some with puffy eyes, some simply somber, one or two children playing and receiving angry glances from parents. I was dressed in my only suit (which, luckily, was a dark, charcoal gray), a light gray shirt, and a black-and-electric-blue striped tie. Tracey was the only person not dressed to the hilt, but even she did her best—black work slacks, black blouse, black apron.

For the first twenty minutes we served coffee to the guests in white ceramic mugs with the Harrison’s Coffee House logo printed on the side. We had prepared pastries and cakes, but no one wanted any. The restaurant was silent, each guest staring passively at the floor or the tablecloths or the coffee cups or their laps.

Tracey and I stood behind the counter after everyone was served; presumably our job was done until they all left, when we would have to clean.

Mrs. Cinnamon had called the previous night with a few last minute plans. Included in them was her request that we set up the shop’s one microphone and amplifier that we ordinarily reserved for the occasional guest musician. She said some people might want to say some things.

The first person to approach the microphone was Mr. Cinnamon’s brother, whom I knew only as the Other Mr. Cinnamon. He tapped the microphone and, as per tradition, coughed into it before realizing it was on.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Uh, thank you for coming. I know this would have meant a lot to David, all his favorite people’re here.’

So his name was David.

‘If, uh, anybody wants to say anything,’ continued the Other Mr. Cinnamon, ‘share any memories that, you know, um, you have with Dave, you’re more than welcome to take the mic. Thanks.’

One man near the front of the room applauded feebly. There was silence again for a long while, as people looked at each other and around the room, waiting for someone to speak first.

The first speaker was a young man of about thirty, wearing an expensive suit, with short, neatly tousled, cosmopolitan hair. He held his coffee mug in his right hand.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Gary.’ (The words next expected were: And I’m an alcoholic.) ‘For those of you who don’t know, David was my father.’

I stood up straighter, grinning a little with the pride of victorious memory. He did have a son! Ha-ha!

‘I hadn’t seen him as much as either of us would’ve liked these last few years. But I did miss him. Do miss him. I wish I’d known he was going, so I could’ve at least come down and said something to him.’

At the back of the room, Mrs. Cinnamon sniffed.

‘But I guess it was his was to go. Y’know. His way was…’ Here he stopped, choking on his words, his eyelids blinking fast as hummingbirds’ wings. ‘His way was always better than mine.’

Then Gary sat down. No one applauded.

There was another moment of silence while we waited for someone else to go. I lost myself for a moment, feeling almost discorporeally propelled past everyone and toward the front of the room. This happens to me occasionally, this daydream-sleepwalking. I woke from my reverie and realized I was in front of the guests, the microphone in front of me, watching them stare at me and wait.

Some panic in my gut. Vapor in my brain. Mouth dry. Sensations only adequately expressed in stream-of-consciousness.

I cleared my throat into the microphone, like the Other Mr. Cinnamon. ‘Hi,’ I said. My voice sounded tiny. ‘I’m, uh, I’m Harry. This is my coffee shop.’ A few people nodded in sudden recognition. I shook my head a little to focus. ‘Mr. Cinnamon was a regular here at the shop. Every day, two-forty-five, he’d come in, get his coffee, sit at that table over there…’ I pointed. ‘…and do his crossword puzzle. Mrs. Cinnamon came in yesterday and told me that Mr. C had always admired me…I felt bad about that, we barely knew each other. I’ve known the guy for three years and all I know about him is that he does crossword puzzles better than anyone I’ve ever met.’

The Other Mr. Cinnamon smiled at that.

‘And I know he loved Guatemala Antigua coffee.’ Mrs. Cinnamon now smiled. ‘In honor of Mr. C, Guatemala’s what you’re drinking today.’ Everyone peaked into their cups as if it may have changed since the last time they looked.

I made a concerted effort to make eye contact with Gary. ‘And I know he had a son, whom he talked about a lot.’ Gary’s breath came in hitches. ‘Nice to finally meet you,’ I said. He nodded.

I looked around. Suddenly everyone was smiling. They were looking at me as if I had saved the day. What had I done? I knew three things about Mr. C, and I told them. That’s it.

‘Anyhow,’ I concluded, ‘I didn’t know him very well, but I’m gonna miss having him around.’

With that I stepped away from the microphone, telling myself I’d recovered well from my accidental approach to the stage.

When I was behind the counter again, I noticed Mrs. Cinnamon looking at me. She mouthed, ‘Thank you.’ I nodded.

Everyone was gone by five. Tracey and I cleaned up, then she went home. I sat in the coffee shop for a while listening to music. I saw Mr. C’s book of crossword puzzles.

Everyone knew not to mess with it; it was left on the bookshelf every day and never touched. I pulled it off now and opened it to the last unfinished puzzle. Mr. Cinnamon had begun it and solved nearly half. That had been a day he had to leave early. He completed half the puzzle in twenty minutes. The title of the puzzle was “Space Race.”

In his sharp scrawl, I read the words mylar, atlantis, lunarexcursionmodule, nasa, apollo, cassiopea, satellite, orion. I read the next clue: ‘On the moon, Sea of _________.’ I pulled a pencil from my pocket and wrote down, through Mr. Cinnamon’s amperes, the word tranquility.

I finished the remaining half of the puzzle in Mr. Cinnamon’s chair, and it took me an hour and a half.

###

Jason Procopio is the author of several short stories, the children’s novel Amélie Pocket and the screenplay How To Be Still. He lives with his wife in France.

SONS & DAUGHTERS - an ambient fiction album is available to order at www.lulu.com/yhfiction for $7.99.

(art by nate silva)

Our work is never done. (Dos)

*in my notes from nola series*

"This coffee spent nine months growing in the sunshine, on a cooperative farm that supports 824 people. It was picked and sorted by a young woman. A mill worker touched it to make sure it was fermenting correctly. A family spent 70 hours turning the drying beans by hand. It spent 31 days in transit to South Carolina, where it was roasted by a partner with 7 years experience. This batch has been tasted and tested three times. It traveled more than 8,000 miles to get to your store. 10 pairs of hands have taken care of this coffee so far..."

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Courtesy of Guy's blog

Henri Nouwen writes, "We are poor listeners because we are afraid that there is something other than love in God. This is not so strange since we seldom, if ever, experience love without a taint of jealousy, resentment, revenge, or even hatred."

So, we hear but do not listen; and our love becomes filled with these other traits and empties itself of God's nature. & we continue to drift into The Other.

Can we recall the original melody? Are the notes of love still ringing, if we listen closely?

This is the message of C.S. Lewis' THE GREAT DIVORCE: We have to listen for what is real and be done, finally with our illusions and distortions of what we remember of love. For, we lost the plot long ago.

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You are Becoming Something Other

That is reality. But the mystery? Ah, yes, the mystery is what the other you will look like when the book shuts. With every turned corner and departure from the map, your journey is changing; and it is changing you from the inside out. By the time you leave this forest, you will be a completely different creature feature. You could be following someone beautiful, at the start. They could be pure and true. You might be walking into virtue. But, every misstep changes your course. Quietly, without alarm, you are becoming what you hate. Oh, to be recognized again for our love! That feels so long ago.

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Our work is never done. (Uno)

*in my notes from nola series*

"This coffee spent nine months growing in the sunshine, on a family farm that supports 28 people. It was picked by hand and milled at a community mill. A farmer spent 60 hours raking it so that it would dry evenly. It spent 22 days in transit to Seattle, where it was roasted by a partner with 18 years experience. This batch has been tasted and tested three times. It traveled more than 5,000 miles to get to your store. 11 pairs of hands have taken care of this coffee so far..."

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Bruce Sterling - "The invisible hand (of the market) is gonna strangle us! Everybody's got a hand out. How about offering people some visible hands?"

Two blogs have been inspiring me to move forward in pursuit of my purpose. One is Guy's "lenten" reflections on Henri Nouwen's writings. Guy Glass has been helping me craft my definition of selfless and sacrificial love for over a decade. But, this SOLO blog has turned my faith on its head. His examination of a life in "downward mobility" has ignited my heart. The second is Marla's Coffee Shop Journal. It's always been insightful and warm, with thoughtful essays on that which I'm OBVIOUSLY interested. But, the last six or seven entries have made me sit back and question my priorities and agendas. They've led me to press "pause" on certain activities that have born little fruit, giving me time to listen and obey. Her last post on the importance of names in our mutual humanity moved me greatly.

To love my enemies. To obey in spite of fear. To do that which I've been wired. This is why I'm here. These two blogs have formed bright constellations in a darkening sky. You can find them in my blog list on the right, along with other "must reads."

Held

Depression of every sort can leave you with the lasting impression that both God and Man could take you or leave you; that the sum and results or your life are an afterthought. But, if we dwell instead on the scope of the story we inhabit and the small movements of hope, we can see that we are still being held; in the hands of our maker and in the arms of our loved ones. The future may be dim, but we can still seek joy; holding hands, we can still treasure grace.

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Good Words on the Good Brew (of which, I not the author.)

"Coffee is the wine of Islam."

"No one understands the truth until he's had a cup of coffee's frothy goodness."

"I believe humans get a lot done not because we're smart; but because we have thumbs and can make coffee."

"Coffee makes us severe and grave and philosophical."

"I never laugh till I have my coffee."

"The coffee will never let you down."

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Never Wise to Leave NYC

The Colbert ReportMon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c

Goodbye, Conan O'Brien

Colbert Report Full Episodes
Funny Political News

Christian Bale Parody
Joke of the Day

Quo vadimus?

"I've failed much more than I've succeeded. And each time I fail, I get my people together, and I say, Where are we going? And it starts to get better. And that's what you should do."

- Sports Night

"Clover Wednesdays" @ SBUX on Lincoln & Pennsylvania in South Beach, Florida

On Friday, I had my second encounter with the lovely Clover machine and the small batch offerings in its entourage. Of course, it was marvelous and well worth the drive down to Miami. If you want to taste and see for yourself, this brilliant "beacon" SBUX is currently offering Clover coffees at the price of a regular drip brew -- Wednesdays in the afternoon. Take advantage, amigos!

Thanks to two true coffee lovers -- Melody O. & Marla S. -- I've been able to taste several small batch offerings purchased from Clover stores in Seattle & Boston. I have to say that my favorites so far have been Ethiopia Nardos, Sulawesi Kalosi, and Colombia Manzanares (which has a great cola mouthfeel). Honorable mention goes to Burundi Kayanza, since it was both a Clover offering and a stunning promo offering in all of our stores. Take a drive with a friend and taste the finest coffees in the world through the best brew system around. :)

http://www.v2v.net/actions/the-clover-coffee-experience

http://www.clovercrafted.com

My Delusions of Goodness

"The tips of pointed fingers should lead to frightful introspection." I used to hold that truth self-evident. Like many things in which I still believe, I don't reflect upon it as much as I should. Truth cuts both ways. The sharpest truths are painful to wield and to suffer. & it is so much easier to box them up for posterity. But, as they say, no matter where you go, there you are. You can run around the world or bury yourself in work or passion and still be forced to face the mirror. & the shadow of your true likeness is a loyal companion.

So, it is one thing to cry over being let down by those you look up to and admire. It's all well and fine to weep over broken dreams, barren hopes and failure that lingers a beat too long. But, when you are the last actor on the stage, then you are the only loser left to flub the line. There is no one else left to blame. In the glow of the ghost-lamp, now is the time to remove the facade. Time to put away the tired tricks and reflect on the smoky atmosphere of truth that surrounds.

You missed all those brilliant opportunities out of sheer cowardice. Your gut is wrong and has led you down many, meandering roads, all of them dead-ending. You take for granted your wife, friends and family and allow vital relationships to slip through your fingers. Your journey to uncover your true potential has shown the concept to be imaginary. Your prayers dance far too close to manipulation. Your life of faith and action has devolved into doubt and drone. Your smile is a clown's mask. Your leadership looks a lot like rinse and repeat. You sit in judgement over others.

& I know I am not the only one. I stand with the multitude on the mountainside. I'm just one in a long line of those needing to face that cathartic moment in every great tragedy; that crescendo of eating the fruit from the tree of knowledge, of good and of evil. Yes, all of this stems from that tree. Every act of selfishness which I commit daily is born out of my original sin (not just that of my biblical ancestors), my own, personal, original sin. That seed of separation is planted deep within each of us and we are eager to hold onto it and the safety it promises. We fight for the right to keep it. We wrestle with the Almighty to live in peace with our original sin. We believe it provides identity. Instead, it separates us, in a corrupt translation of holiness.

So, we throw dirt over that original sin and re-write our origin story. For we have always been at war with Eurasia! We have always been good, deep down, really. We choose to act on that goodness, to pursue the path of righteousness and live a sacrificial life. We beat our backs and say the rosary. We tithe and sing songs of grace. We study to show ourselves approved. We commit ourselves to the social gospel. We seek justice. We make peace. We train up children in the way they should go. We listen to our elders. We live above reproach. We volunteer and advocate. We work and toil. & we believe. Oh, how we believe! We believe in God and Country. We believe in Equality and Mankind. We believe and we choose not to believe. We go and make disciples. We buy food and medicine. We build and re-build. We do Good.

Questions become very important in our quest to simplify the complexities of goodness. So, we ask and we seek and we knock. "What makes one good?" "What must I do to enter the Kingdom?" "What would Jesus do?" We hold seminars and smallgroups. We read and we write and we celebrate our knowledge, of good and of evil. & society moves forward and we grow in our good intentions. Good intentions build our ideals. We ask ourselves what the world should look like, what the Kingdom does look like, and we take swift but thoughtful action to bring about the revolution. We lead others in this mission and we mentor them in being good.

But the original sin lives within, even as the heart is washed white as snow. My original sin grasps at every good work, every good intention, every good purpose. Like the mother-love in C.S. Lewis' THE GREAT DIVORCE -- that turns sharply into craving, murderous greed -- all my trumped-up goodness reverts in form. Without the Spirit moving and breathing, my few fruits fall from the tree unripe, leaving no harvest. My own goodness is my own original sin playing dress-up.

& I am not alone. You are not alone. All of our magical ideas flow from a dead well. Our plans are full of holes. Our maps are upside-down. This is our story. This is the broken record. This is history cycling back again. Spirit, breathe new life! Wisdom, walk among us! Love, show us what you look like! For we have sadly forgotten. We can only really remember ourselves and then we just play this whole thing by ear. (& we suck at it.)

So, why coffee?

There might be a magic about this fruit that gives us energy, focus and inspiration for our day. There is always a story behind these beans and the nectar that fills your cup; stories of farmers and families and the flavor of a place. There are many moving reasons to enjoy and chase after the gift of coffee. But, what I love most about the barista-hood is how difficult it is to get it right. I love the craft and just how easy it is to screw everything up. Everything matters. Every little detail in how you treat coffee from bean to brew will produce a different result. Most of the time it won't be what you were setting out to create.

Fundamentals exist to guide our steps on the coffee journey. Proportion, Grind, Water & Freshness. "Please, go with the fundamentals." Everything matters. The urgent should not crowd out the important, after all. Screw up just one of these and the whole brew will be off, it will taste off, it will feel off. But, if you nail the fundamentals, you always bring forward the intended experience of the bean. This is the taste hinted at through cuppings on the farm and at the roasting plant. It can never taste better than intended. You can only bring to life the characteristics of the bean which have been meticulously formed through the agronomy, harvest, processing and roast. & yes, you certainly can capture these nuances!

The craft of the barista is a series of difficult moments bringing to life the aroma, acidity, body and flavor of these handpicked gifts from the creator. We get it right -- I mean just perfect -- over and over and over. But, it is always difficult to make it perfect; much more difficult than most people realize. & yes, we screw it all up just as often. Like everything real and worth doing, the craft of coffee is demanding and exhausting. Like every art, it is a lifelong journey, laced with failure, but pointing in the direction of success...a success which has certainly proven to be "not an entitlement." Simply put, coffee is worth doing.

SBUX in NOLA: with an incredibly large, swift & perfect coffee tasting of Thanksgiving Blend!

My company has been living out this philosophy for years now. & I'm not sure it works anymore.

Blogger Jeff Jarvis writes, "For more than a century, the public face of companies has been their advertising, slogans, brands, and logos. How much better it would be if a company’s public face were that of its public, its satisfied customers who are willing to share their satisfaction, and its employees who have direct relationships with customers. Brands are people. If that’s the ideal, here’s the goal: Eliminate advertising."

There seems to be a moment when the public actually desires the in-joke, the slam dunk, the cliche of the commercial. Brands are people? Like corporations are people? It's not that I don't love the idea of the person-to-person buzz leading commerce... It's just so obvious that, as with most everything that can be vibrant, there is a life-cycle to that "grassroots" branding. Sadly, the death knell is alarmingly loud.

the younger sibling to those two sketchy stories: 1% and Careful Mr. Windswept

Cero

Walking through the wilderness is a sin against oneself. You push forward only to see dust has whirl-pooled all sense of direction. Cold fear hugs like tight leather. Solitude slides into loneliness. Quiet spins between atrophied ears. No conversation or brilliant escape plan develops. Just some royal sheep on his own, holding imaginary court...proving, reasoning why fleeing kingdom’s pasture was wise. Ever there churns movement, motivating slippery steps; inspiring aimless wandering. Manipulations laid bare provide little food, even less drink. Prayers go unanswered, for shepherds tend their flocks by night. Still, darkly lit stars comfort overhead. Time ticks, tocks, unmarked.

### jsj 009 yhf ###

H. Nouwen, courtesy of G. Glass

"The art of living is to enjoy what we can see and not complain about what remains in the dark. When we are able to take the next step with the trust that we will have enough light for the step that follows, we can walk through life with joy and be surprised at how far we go. Let's rejoice in the little light we carry and not ask for the great beam that would take all shadows away."

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Give 5 Hours of Your Time to Others

In True Community

You are going to lose and you are going to lose huge. They are going to throw rocks at you...and I want to be standing next to you when they do. (Paraphrased Sorkin)

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Chatting Ethics with a Minor

There's something vital and refreshing about answering the tough questions machine-gunned to you by an eager 16 year-old; someone who is navigating his own beliefs and forming his opinions.  As you pause and reflect before saying something stupid, cliched or misleading, you are forced to put these answers to the test of your own actions during your own experiences.  "Did you follow these rules you're laying out for me now?"  "How true is that universal truth...to you...really...in the real world?"

As I left one of these sparkling conversations this week, I was made to analyze why I have been so disappointed by many people I've put in high esteem.  This past year has been a roadmap of letdowns, by people I admire and trust.  Why did it turn out that way?  Why did I misplace my allegiance?

The answer at the root seems to be a contrast I've never quite examined.  What is the difference between being an Idealist and being Principled?  The blur between ideals and principles moves about like the tides.  What was once a core principle fades into an ideal that is no longer practical or pragmatic, or even possible.  This makes one's ethics easy to escape.  For years, I sought to understand my idealism in the light of my innate pessimism.  Why did my beliefs slide into sad "reality" so often?  I wanted to be an idealist.  I sought to be a true believer.

Principles hold fast.  They are built upon a rock, a mountain, a high place (where one would find the finest arabica beans, for instance).  Principles are found after journeys of searching.  Blood and sweat are spent on them and they are worth more than any trade will offer.  So, you don't trade your principles.  "Love people and use things, not the other way around."  "Love always wins."  "Respect and dignity for everyone you meet."  Being principled means making the tough choice to be responsible for your decisions and your ethics no matter the chaos that threatens.

In my sphere of influence, I am accountable to those who rely on my decision-making.  I am accountable to hold to my commitments.  I am accountable for my actions.  It really doesn't matter what pressure comes to bear.  Just as it doesn't matter what "out's" or what excuses I can conjure in order to back out of a promise.  My ideals might not be possible in an environment of uncertainty and fear.  But my principles, if the are sound -- if they are built upon the eternal truths of creation, of faith, hope and love -- they are not only possible, they must take priority.

David Bazan was correct when he sang of how he's never met "an idealist with gray hairs on his head."  By that point in life, they have either given up, sold out or have finally become principled.  Thankfully, we are given this gift of the next generation in order to challenge our precious, self-serving ideals.

On Closing Broadway Shows

With the economic downturn derailing arts at the high end, I can't help but think of the burst of honesty and vitality that must be and will be coursing through the underground and the off-off sector of theatre. Years from now, we will look back at a new golden age, ushered in after a long period of struggle and uncertainty. It will flow out from the margins and build up the next breed of artists. Now is the time for faith and courage. Now is the time to obey the mandate to make new things while Christ makes things new. Yes; I know--easier said than done. Trust me, I know.

"We have each other..."

I'm loving the new project from Ronnie Martin on Velvet Blue Music.  It's called Ronald of Orange and his upcoming e.p. is called "Brush Away the Cobwebs."  This is so right up my alley.  There are just really bummer days, when all seems lost, and you really need something you can count on to remind you that life is pure and good and can be full of joy.  When you stumble on that fantastic reminder of goodness, you should smile and count your blessings.  Thank god for the left coast sounds of the brothers martin!  I would tell you (whomever you are) to check Ronald of Orange out; but you'd probably hate it.  My tastes are pretty horribly specific.  It's true and sad, like most things in life.

Random

I'm much too tired to post a proper blog -- still have this nagging cough too. Have decided to not blog on Sundays as part of my renewal of rest and relationships (which will be a little shaky and imperfect for a while but we're all just stabbing at the dark, right?)  Oh, and THE UNIT may be having its best season ever. The new episode was pitch perfect. Watch it.

That is all for now.

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Still in the Middle

I need to know what is behind my need to always stay busy. Now, if it's me and my lovely bride Elizabeth, if it's just the two of us and no friends or family, I can relax and 'just be', just fine. But I have a tragically difficult time simply 'hanging out' with anyone...even by myself. Boredom may be an issue, but I can't even pause to spend time on the solitary things I love -- like weird docus and boring playscripts and such. I need to pause and find silence in the midst of this "YouMustDoThisRightNowOrEverybodyDies" world I currently inhabit.

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You make plans --

-- knowing that the mix of providence, wisdom and base wants is an imperfect proportion -- and when things go sour, it's tempting to pack it in quickly. But if you pause for just a moment, shut your eyes and breathe, you may remember the slim moments when the plans glimmered and then whirred with energy. Be grateful for the clicking sound of minor plans working. Tomorrow might be filled with them!

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resolved:

to breathe more deeply, much more often

(this one is for my pop.)

Goodbye 2008 tres

To Purge the Disease.

Did the scapegoat see it coming? 

Couldn't the black sheep merely be the scapegoat, but with some really swell foresight? 

Did the 99 ditch their brother a la Joseph and his coat? 

I'm sure they had good cause. You have to force-rank the failure. It's important to cut loose the unbeliever. This is the American way. This is the Judaic way. 

So is it nobler for the 1 to up and leave the herd once the omens become clear? Or should the lost lamb play the part until the curtain falls? & why is this sheep so paranoid anyway?

Goodbye 2008 dos

I've been thinking about illness. I think a lot about brokenness and loss. To me, once you cut away the surface, that reality is always waiting for you. Things decay. 

My father always taught me to love people and use things...for it's so easy to practice the opposite. That truth just might be the theme of his life. A very good friend told me a few years back (when we were sitting on her porch chopping up stories) that her father believes everyone has a very specific theme that comes across in what they say and do. 

At this point, mine would have to be separation anxiety. I write about the 1%. I think about the Other. The black sheep and the prodigal are my protagonists. Psalm 10:14 says "But you know all about it- the contempt, the abuse. I dare to believe that the luckless will get lucky someday in You. You won't let them down: Orphans won't be orphans forever."

This condition of pain and loss has been with us since our first act of selfishness and impatience; since our first belief that we were entitled to "our fair share". This condition haunts our every best intent and corrupts every altruistic act. Being lost is part of this condition; so is illness in all its forms. This condition separates us from one another and from our creator. 

My theme lives in the form of a question: "How long must we sing this song?". At what point will we finally break? Or will we return to something great? My exploration of language centers on faith from the vantage point of one who has lost it and is fighting to believe again.

Goodbye 2008 uno

Jots.

Notes.

Dashes floating on a page.

Morse code.

Strokes at the canvas.

Small and little and seemingly meaningless, till ya' step back and squint. Till ya' hear the brass band.

I opine that the Sketch is the honest and hopeful laying out of humanity. That small bit of comedy can be the perfect balance of critical observation and the release of anxiety. You've seen Tina Fey and you know what I mean.

(You may not know of what I'm speaking; but you do know what I mean.)

Notes can tell the tale, the story in which we find ourselves. Indeed, these chalk-lines on the pavement are quite often the only bread crumbs we have; and we do have to follow them closely if we're ever to return home from this deadly, dank forest.

Step back and hum the tune still sailing around you. Squint and look deeply, just stare for a while longer.

Or...

We can admit that symbols mean nothing and the fictive we recall is only coincidence. We can believe that history and culture and faith are anathema. We can hate and bleed and die. For we will, no matter how we struggle, we surely will.

The note could begin with "Dear John" anyway. The third act could suck anyway. The hit song could ring false anyway. The note could always end in "No."

Still, the question marks will remain: what will you do with what you saw today? what will you say with what you heard today?

&... who taught me that cowardice could be morally sound?

This series of scratches should be seen as forming a curve in the pathway. This is the tittle that whispers, "Take. Eat. For these are the bread crumbs of life."

Quo vadimus? Where are we going? What's next?

We'll see.