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

Chipping away at the old block In the Valley of Despair in the Shadow of Doubt. Can't go forward Can't go back thanks to this boulder in the way. If you look beneath the surface you see words chiseled there: you'll never be as good as them. The dying light highlights more text what's the use of it all you'll only fail. All I have is a single pencil the point blunted and flat chipping away at the stone. Suddenly a gift box lands at my feet. It's labeled "TNT for you and me." The sticks bear names written in gold the names of friends. I laugh and light them up they sparkle like candles on a rather forbidding cake. The sight is spectacular as the block crumbles away flung to the four corners of the world. The path is now clear going forward will not be easy there will be more rocks in the way. No one can surmount this alone sometimes you need a push or a box of explosives.

I'm starting on a blank canvas. Pristine, untouched prepared with loving hands. The brush touches the surface there's no going back. Flaws and perfection accident and true design evolving in the moment. Colors swirl and take shape forms appear before my eyes. I've learned to let the muse take hold and guide my hand. Plans never last longer than a fleeting moment. The bare bones in my mind's eye the details become clear at that very minute that very second. It all comes together without my conscious effort to get in the way.

Handcrafted each stitch tells a story each color shows emotion Shuttles whisper in firelight gnarled hands tease out the knots fringes combed out smooth. Hardly a lost art just not seen as much not as vital as it used to be. Quiet chatter in circles gossip and relationship advice old passing stories to the young. Can there be a revival of those long forgotten days different fabrics sewn whole again?

My muse with clipped wings swings her brush from between the bars of her cage. Canvases steeped in darkness never to be seen by anyone in the light. An expression of madness caused by too many voices suddenly made silent fair weather friends. A scarred heart only half healed hidden away in order to not be hurt again. Her precious children dripping with hope and courage no longer for auction no longer for promotion. Perhaps if you are sincere and don't arrive just to leave again you can see their colors.

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.

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.

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.

Pen paralyzed on the page The words will not come the images remain stubborn not wanting to be transferred onto paper. Imagination fails me The memory of your lips your smile your laughter dim behind an invisible wall even though I see your visage every day. The colors are muted my brush freezes with indecision Why am I blocked from the flow from which I hone my craft?

The color of kings Rare and expensive Light of vibration that lifts your soul and calms you down. The mystics treasure it this hue of Knowledge the rage of red balanced with the calm of blue a mix of balance of the two. Not as scarlet as rubies or deep as garnets. Not as azure as sapphires. Amethysts are their own very unique shade. Reserved for the mightiest until it could be duplicated replicated for the common man: purple is my favorite color.

Many hearts beat to the same drum Never wavering, never changing Then something strange happens: It only takes one second one hesitation, one misstep then the rhythm stutters. Soft at first, it's hardly noticed. Then as the seconds tick on Others fall out of line. The steady cadence stumbles it's no longer dependable it's not what it used to be. Utter chaos reigns as each beat struggles to be heard. Then one grows louder than the rest. It takes the others by the hand and leads them to a new direction charting a path far from the old. More and more join in the music swells more and more into a crescendo overwhelms the old, transforms it. A new and stronger way As long as it lasts until the cycle comes again.

Just when you think the ground beneath your feet has given up all its secrets: you find something new. Different techniques theories of how it works how it was constructed new ideas, new technologies. The old becomes current again cold cases dug up reassessed, reworked torn apart to fit the evidence. That is the beauty of it all that nothing remains static even after centuries or millennia it is every changing. What is considered fact a hundred years ago might not be correct the cycle begins again. This is how knowledge expands building on what comes before making room for future discoveries ever flexible, ever exciting.

Do imaginary friends count? Those voices you hear in your head. The characters you see only in your mind and when you try to put them down on paper they become recalcitrant They have their own thoughts personalities their own quirks which you didn't assign to them. This is their story not yours not anymore. They will see it through to the bitter end through hell and high water but not according to your plan, no matter how hard you shepherd them onto the track. Are they still your friends or have they become your worst enemies?

Stack one block on top of another Large and small red and blue some rectangular others curved Construct walls roofs, towers arch towards the sky. Castles skyscrapers tree houses a bridge here a garden there animals cars and people it's almost alive if you can imagine it. Your very own land your private domain all made of plastic blocks boxy and unwieldy transformed by your hand and your thoughts old or young it doesn't matter It endures for years.

Paint with words try to describe how I feel Not very easy to start even more difficult with a limited palette. You can do much with the basics   Color theory complementary colors to make harmony. red and yellow make orange yellow and blue make green blue and red make purple black and white make gray. I have more than I think.     But I must plan this composition the shades, the tone, the light even the subject matter to make the painting pleasing to the eye.     From the underpainting to the final draft every brushstroke is stifled: for I need to ensure your sensibilities aren't offended.

Tap the crystal ball predict what people would like Should I do this or that? Follow the crowd. See the numbers go up and down day by day, likes and dislikes. What will be popular with them? Will I get noticed? Those little arrows that go and down Tied to how much you like yourself. It's hard to break the chains. One eye on the others. What do they I have that I don't? Why can't I be seen? Be yourself, do what brings you joy. Easier said than done. It takes an inner strength Confidence in your words and hopes. And sometimes being at peace with yourself makes it all worth it.

Alone in the studio the paintbrush speaks the music swells the sound of the tumbler as rocks turn into jewels. The vase throws itself onto the potters' wheel the arrangement of flowers please the eye and the mind the smell of the food wafts from the kitchen and whets the appetite. Every stitch lovingly made every warp and weft in patterns. Pixels make people laugh and amaze others with their resolution. These are all reflections of the artist's mind heart and soul. Lovingly created and lovingly shared as an expression of creativity within.

( "Write about a woman named 'tomorrow'" prompt from The Writer's Retreat Kit by Judy Reeves ) At the edge of reality not quite formed not quite there Tomorrow waits for her time on the stage. Yesterday has already made her curtain call and joined the ranks of those who have had their time in the sun. Today commands the stage captivates Her audience hands out favors on a whim makes her displeasure known with no rhyme or reason. Tomorrow recites Her lines in her mind. It has to be perfect. Yet her performance hinges on what Today does and on what Today leaves behind. She must improvise on the results left to Her. Some events are preordained others are left to hilarious chance. For now She watches and She anticipates Her time in the lights and She knows full well another ingenue also named Tomorrow will follow in Her footsteps.

Kintsugi (or Kintsukuroi)): Japanese. Fixing a broken object with gold resin The fire burns bright it eagerly claims the coal void transforms to pure light the frozen to searing heat molten gold fills the cracks of your heart. Still liquid, still pliable shining and seeking to fill the low pooling within the dents and transforming the shattered pieces not making it as it once was not making it whole but strengthening it making it shine despite the wear and tear of life's battles. It becomes part of the tapestry not a mere observer and unifies the chaotic making it coherent again old yet new.

Eyes the color of ocean mist that pale blue, almost white impenetrable, implacable almost clouded but clear what secrets do you hide as you look at me, my child? An old soul in a young body You look at things in new and exciting ways trace patterns forgotten recombine them to fit whatever you see now. The past buried deeply in the realm of dreams mirrored in the hues of the waking world. You know the impossible yet seek the improbable. Where does this wonder come from? And how can you keep it from going dim as your vision seeks more from this harsh reality? For now your eyes can see what can be made true.

Extra padding Going through and cutting through the fat Inflated statistics to make you look good. Obfuscate the truth and need to dig deep to see the reality. A salad of intelligent words nine or ten when only five should do A mess of sycophants when a handful of good friends will always have your back. See counts go down peace of mind go up See popularity dip and numbers shrink but lose the weight and fly free.