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

Strive for calm early in the morning before anyone is awake. Salute the sun breathe deep of the air tinged with dew and cool winds. Nightingale goes to sleep owl settles in its nest as the bluebird and robin hunt for breakfast. Time for the first cup of coffee while the day's first light peeks over the horizon. The day's chaos has not started yet but this moment this minute is the epitome of peace.

Pulled apart between my heart and my mind what I need to do what I have to do the reality of real life doctor visits prescription refills kids' school woes relationship blues and my fantasy life of the written word and colorful paintings to uplift my soul. The rainbow of hope that shines despite the rain of living bringing comfort to a string of grey days.                                                              

Sun breaks through clouds dark and forbidding on the horizon. It's dark inside fallen trees on the road lights are all out. running on twenty percent on my phone. But we should respect the power and the anger of a lady named Helene.

Eight strings paired in two a wealth of tradition Don Giovanni romantic songs on warm Italian nights strings vibrate in tremolo single notes conveying deep love and devotion to ladies fair. bright happy sounds melodic voices chords doublestops on the mountain roads brought over from the Old World to the New. Traditions don't die they live on in song.

My name is too difficult for them to say: "I'll call you this instead." Reduced to syllables meant for a casual tongue. That is not my name. Nicknames said in jest laughing in private humor. I don't find it funny. Adopting a new identity to fit in with accepted rules. This isn't me at all. But I have to reinvent myself have a new mindset Erase the old one. Until in the long run I don't remember who I was. I am forgotten.

Grey outside yet warm and humid the last bits of summer stubbornly cling fast heedless of the calendar ignoring the Equinox. Bonfires and crackling leaves cozy sweaters and scarves pumpkin spice and apple pie all of those will still need to wait a while. Hurricane season lasts from June to November They're predicting six inches of rain or pop up thunderstorms even the weatherman's not sure. Dark at 7 AM and again at 5:30 PM as time marches on at least in some ways autumn has arrived.

When people tell me that I'm strong that I deal with things no other people normally would. I feel like a fraud. "God gives you only as much as you can handle." What if I can't handle it? "Bless your heart, dear" They smile and shake their heads and do not lift a finger to help at all. If I had a penny for every bit of "advice" they spouted at me I would be a billionaire. I did not choose who I was, where I was born my blood family but I can choose my reactions. Smile and nod my head be brusque and tell them to mind their own business they can't take my spirit.

Go outside into the sunlight Feel the breeze on your skin the warm sunlight dazzle your eyes Touch the grass with your palms and the dirt under your fingernails. There is a world outside your window away from the electronic screens. Keyboard warriors on the constant fight for their causes some noble and just others with a massive chip in their shoulder. Pixels are just that models and light that tell a story that touch the hearts and souls of all that experience them. Some might relate to the struggles and trials in their daily lives-- there's no harm in that. At the end of the day when the power is out and it is 'Game Over' the real world beckons What matters is your character not on the screen but within yourself. How you treat others what you do outside it reflects who you really are on the inside.

Walking alone on a dusty road eyes gritty desert wind swirls round You meet the denizen sitting in the chair at the abandoned gas station who warns you not to go to THAT place over the hill it's haunted in these parts. The empty diner with the indifferent waitress and the bum in the corner booth. The jukebox playing a sad song guitars twanging. The lone warrior wandering the world experiencing adventure gritty reality walking alone.

River flows in silence water drifts in the summer sun swirls around rocks and fallen logs with very little effort it goes to the lowest point drawn by some higher power that it does not understand but it does not care it is the law of nature and of harmony past mountains and through valleys over the edge of cliffs to plunge into the depths below before it divides into many branches all independent ignorant of the others and the source from where it comes. Floating farther and farther from its origin far far away The journey takes it to the crashing rapids until it disperses into the bigger void lake or ocean, it matters not for it joins the currents swept into the harmony.

How much of being fearless is staring Adversity in the face because it's the right thing to do and how much of it is because you cannot avoid it? Or because you just don't care anymore? Spite can be a great motivator. The tales of great courage show the hero unflinching in the fact of danger loss death but the ballads never say how much they trembled inside knowing they could lose all they hold dear. The hero does what needs to be done heedless of the cost to themselves. Stares into the abyss of their own doubts and true motivations. Whether it be justice or coin or the cold kiss of revenge.

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.