An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

My body is a temple in the middle of the Amazon jungle overgrown with weeds but teeming with secrets The walls are crumbling insides fragile with rot but potent spells adorn the walls just waiting to be unlocked Spells of will, power to keep going despite it all. Not all magic is pure some are of bitterness and spite Memories of times gone by when health was taken for granted. It looks solid and mysterious on the outside how can such a strong place be so fragile? It doesn't look so dire and dangerous in the pictures in the travel books. But the soul is not its container And somehow it finds a way to go on As the mists close in the temple keeps its valiant fight.

 It's been years And hindsight is 20/20 Rose colored glasses naivety with the glaze of youth It's easy to become jaded to become bitter and angry. The challenge becomes to see life with the experience of time. Not lose the spark or the thrill of living when it seems there is no point. Easy to blame the state of the world that other people are at fault. You hear how things are going to hell that everyone are out for themselves. Yes, there are darker parts of life but no man is an island. Like it or not, other people live here too. And even the most isolated hear about them. There are other lives, other hardships outside of your cranky little bubble. The trick is to acknowledge the good with the bad and look at things with a pragmatic eye Not toxic optimism or doomsday pessimism but how life is, and what it can be. Because if such change is not possible what is the point of our existence?

Dramatize apologize then wait until the furor dies down. Short memories long effects nothing ever changes the status quo is maintained. Until it comes around and cannot be denied any longer consequences can't be avoided. The blame game minimize the behaviour it wasn't that bad you were a part of it too The times have changed my friend what you got away with then the reckoning arrives now.

I. Untimely omen: there's a flock of black ravens as they say their vows. II. No one notices the warm sun beams happiness a curtain of love. III. The stars in their eyes rival any galaxy so so far away. IV. A cold wind blows through swirls through the assembled crowd kisses the bride's veil. V. The crowd cheers loudly shouts of congratulations pointed, staccato. VI. But all the fates know a confluence appearing a calamity. VI. An innocent joy one that is not meant to be enjoy this moment.

 I remember... 7th grade social studies I don't recall what the lesson plan even was. The school secretary came to my classroom and stood in the doorway and told me "Turn on your television. Right now. Something is going on." So I did.

Sometimes I stand out on the porch as the sun rises on the horizon coffee mug in hand and wonder how I got here what Deity granted me Its grace or its fury. They all say to stop and take stock of your blessings and your curses be grateful for all that has happened in your life. And that you're still breathing and still surviving despite all to the contrary. Sometimes I wonder just how and why I live for another day because for all intents and purposes I probably shouldn't have. Is it just a quirk of fate or is there some sort of cosmic game of which I am completely unaware?

You don't know sacrifice she says as memory flashes across my mind. As she runs after the paramour traps her in the restroom stall. Her screams of anger ringing through the air and all eyes averted the gossip floating for days Long days on the production line soldering circuits to the board hunched over burned fingers daughters at home led astray should have been there but could not be A life of regret a wellspring of broken dreams a wave of old expectation But life goes on passes her by her children strangers no one sacrifices to sit with her in her old age.

I went to the Halloween store as I do every year, I looked at the costumes all on display from the horrific to the absurd You could dress up like your ghost or vampire or a ghoul or a witch as a pirate or a pineapple. There were signs and flags cat ears and demon horns fake blood and trick knives. I'm a kid at heart on the one night of the year where you can dress up and forget who you usually are and act like who you are meant to be. And I wish you were there with me but you've never been one to see the purpose in it.

Two souls not quite joined at the hip share no blood but sisters nonetheless Share every secret keep every counsel talk every day. No matter how life gets busy or how fate twists and turns Take a break change it up but still meet at the end of the day as if time had never passed. A bottle of wine and two glasses a carafe of coffee and two mugs Through pain and sorrow life's little joys and tragedies to be fortunate to have such a one through the ups and downs of life.

Days pass according to schedule the same thing over and over every morning every afternoon every night Comfortable in routine know what is coming everyone reacts the same way a limited palette of color, of fabric, of sound An established niche from work to home and back to work again In control of the environment tailored to a certain mindset no misunderstandings nothing out of place There is peace no conflict no anxiety. It is wonderful. I am screaming. In silence.

My hands are wrinkled crooked and bent joints swollen misshapen yet they still dance across the piano keys and along the fretboard. I cannot do the delicate work on a freshly tumbled gem or solder silver wire in intricate patterns but I can string beads along a stretched out cord. They've changed the diapers of three babies now grown made them lunches sent them off to school. These fingers have tapped keys spun intricate worlds like fairy floss and funnel cakes at the world's biggest fair. They ache nowadays with the slightest change in the weather. I cannot do what I used to do as the years go by and cartilage wears away. But my desire to create will never cease to be.

A story doesn't have to be long in order to tell its tale. There's much to be said in a single page or just one paragraph. Epic ballads in two minutes of song. Words succinct unforgettable characters. Lives fleeting touching oh so briefly. No rambling speeches quick and to the point. The writer still holds the power of life and death. Whole worlds made in small strokes of the brush. But as short as life is they still make an impression.

One drop begins a storm. One spark gives birth to a forest fire. All it takes is one. Two hearts entwined in love Two pieces lock into place But it needs just two. Three lines make a triangle Three stones form a pyramid. For its base needs three. Too many cooks in the kitchen. Too many hands in the pot to ruin a good thing involves too many.

Pages fall like rain ripped out of their spines to be scattered like the wind far from the hands of those who wish to look upon their words. Voices are muffled ideas are stifled never to see the light of day. What beauty do letters have and what supreme power. Each character a building block a stepping stone to new horizons a brick in a sturdy building a piece of stout wood in a bridge. The match of a fire scorches the foundations black reduces the contents to ash swept under the carpet thrown into the sluggish river of mediocrity. Physical objects to hold in your hands but ideas cannot die They will last forever no matter how often you put them to the torch.