The coffee maker just beeped, signaling its intent to stop heating the remains of any liquid left in the pot. I know there is a little left, enough to heat what remains in my mug. A "heater-upper" as it's colloquially named around here.
My mug is an Italian one, wide and round at the bottom, tapering inward at the top before rolling outward just enough to give it a kind of hourglass shape. It is hand-painted, mostly white with a blue bird singing amongst blue flowers. Inscripted - inscribed? The red squigglies underneath the first tell me inscripted is wrong. Inscribed on the bottom of the mug is L'assainato Grottaglie - a pottery shop in the town of Grottaglie in Southern Italy. I look it up on Google and images of a quaint town pop up on the screen.
The mug was part of a pair. Was because its partner was broken in a tragic accident involving a hot container of syrup. I've looked for a replacement and have found a matching pitcher but not a partner mug for it. Yet. I'll keep searching for it.
In a cupboard full of mugs with mustaches, funny quotes, or from memorable places, the one with the blue birds is my favorite. I don't know why.
I've refilled the mug by now. The warmth of the coffee gives me life on a cold Monday in December. In the background a record is spinning and music comes through a high-tech speaker system. It's not the most advanced system but for a beginner it gets the job done. Fingers hit piano keys and Bon Iver's voice comes through, followed by Taylor Swift's in the song "exile." It's a soft and slow tune, with a ring of sadness to it.
In a separate blog I might chide myself for listening to Taylor Swift, but really it is nice background music and I'm just going to bask in her soothing melodies right now since I only have a few records on hand. Of the twelve records on our shelves, six of them are hers.
Beside me are a stack of books. Three to be exact, which I am slowly making my way through. This particular morning I read a few pages of The Names of Things which I would say is my inspiration for writing at this very moment.
Across from me is a decorated tree with gifts underneath. Chisholm-plaid, my wife's namesake, are hung over our fake fireplace. We have a real one, but it's in the basement and our previous owners decided a fake one in the main room would look good in this room. It's only uses are as a shelf and conversation starter.
If you told me years ago that I'd be sitting in a chair with my feet up, sipping coffee, listening to records with a book in my hand on a Monday morning I might have laughed. Even now, the image of me doing this is somewhat comical. It feels like a pastime for someone much older, much more... cultured... than me, yet, here I sit.
Perhaps there's an image I'm trying to imitate but I can't picture it. I don't know anyone else who does what I'm doing at this moment. It feels nostalgic but I don't know for what. I certainly don't have a memory of doing this with my parents. We did listen to records sometimes. My mom started every morning with coffee but not me. I hated it back then. Her breath always smelled of it but now when I breathe in that scent now waves of old memories crash into my brain. I read a lot as a child. We weren't allowed to watch too much TV and I try not to as an adult either. But the scene I'm currently in is not one I've been in before. It seems like a scene from a movie but I don't know which.
I have written more over the past year than I have since I was in grade school. Even then, I never freely wrote as much as now. It was all structured writing. Reading something else and summarizing it. Now, though these words are mine, they always seem foreign. As if they've been written by someone else and I'm regurgitating them on this computer screen. They are the words in my head - does that make them mine? They are borne of the influences and experiences I've had throughout my life, blended across neurons in my brain and carefully typed into squares on a 13 inch by 8 inch collection of metal and plastic atop my lap. A laptop, as it's colloquially named - everywhere.
It's closing in on 9 in the morning. Roughly forty-five minutes have passed since I started typing. Is typing writing? When I say I'm writing, it feels like there should be a pen and paper in front of me - not a screen. I don't consider myself a "writer" but if it weren't for this screen I suppose I would be writing these words - does that make me a writer or am I just a man who happens to be writing? Am I a typist? A typer? A typewriter? I like that.
I'm a type of writer.
The record has stopped playing. I get up and flip it to side B. Sit back down. Take a sip of coffee as the soft taps of the laptop keys are overwhelmed by music.
For a moment I stare into the distance, through the living room window and what leaves remain on the Japanese Maple outside of our window. It belongs to our neighbor but has grown over the fence and over our back patio. The back of our homes face South and the tree's search for the sun has made it stretch and bend over as it fights for position amongst other trees and tall homes across from it. We don't mind it being over here - the tree is gorgeous when it blooms and the seed droppings make for great compost.
There isn't much beyond the tree. The corner of our neighbor's row home, the front facade of another. A bright sky beyond as the morning rubs the sleep out of its eyes, along with me.
As I stare through the window and the naked branches and over the neighbor's homes into the sky beyond thoughts swirl about as I think of how to construct the next paragraph. Where am I with this piece and where am I going? The influences of my writing all flash through my mind as I try and match the flow of this piece with the next sentence, the next word. The next punctuation mark... an ellipsis?
Suddenly, I realize the time and realize I need to start my actual job. I open the email app on my phone and the Executive Director has already emailed me - I should probably respond.
My faux-nostalgic morning is over. For the next twenty-two hours the regular paces of my life will take hold. Answering emails, making phone and video calls, consuming food and drink. Meagan will come home, we'll talk about our day and make dinner. Soup tonight; there is leftover celery and carrots from last week - no reason to let them go to waste. Then we'll wind down, go to sleep and tomorrow morning I'll be back in this same spot.
In a life filled with hustle and bustle, I've had a few mornings like this as of late. Two hours without deadlines. Reading, writing, listening, thinking. Sipping coffee and letting my mind explore.
It's been nice. I think I'll do it again tomorrow.
Comments