Coffee in a tiny teacup

I drank too much coffee and my head is buzzing with thoughts. I usually make LaVazza espresso with a Bialetti coffee maker, which makes the process quick, and when the coffee is done I pour it in a tiny teacup and mix it with condescend milk. I’m not drinking much coffee here, but it’s enough to make my brain buzzed with caffeine. I usually drink tea, but sometimes I opt for coffee if I’ve slept too much or have a headache. I consider it a saintly day when I consume tea instead of coffee, but alas, sometimes one must rebel from the sane, calm days.

If I have more than a teacup of coffee, work productivity turns into frantic work-overload, thought-overload, and the inevitable pacing back and forth, as I think about what’s unfinished, though the day is half way done, and my “to do” list is sent into a disarray. I stare at my list, which is written on a pink notepad, and I think, “I have so many unfinished tasks.”

lemon balm tea.

I say, “Fuck this list,” as it stares at me, so I flip it over, and give it a scowl. I might as well chuck it on top of the pile of papers I have yet to review from the pile that was saved from my last cleanup day. It’s funny how many papers I’ve gathered these last couple of months of living here, most of them fliers, old bills, napkin notes, business cards, random receipts and flyers.

Onward with the day. The sun is gone, and now a momentary threat of rain, with the slurring of thunder in the distance.

This humdrum town

I find myself rummaging through old pieces of writing. Here’s one from last summer. The summer I spent on park lawns watching birds eat scraps off the floor, jugglers dancing, and blue sky whirling above me.

Cynthia Via

∞

Days are blending into each other. It’s suddenly the weekend, and yet the week stares at me, without rest, going on for months and months.

It’s summer. Monday is not the first day of the week, but the first day of eternity. Thursday turns to Friday, and my weekend blends into the working hours—never knowing the separation between the two. The hours of the day all go to the white screen. When I get home, my eyes hardly want to see another screen, so avoid I my laptop and cell phone, and hide my eyes in books, journals or under a blanket.

Cynthia Via

I miss my free hours when I could roam around my house, and write when I saw fit, look out the window, and watch the birds fly down. If the weather was nice, I’d go out to my hammock, swinging on its own, telling me to give up my chores for the silence of the swaying trees. The real world was out there calling. I paid no attention. Now I’m there, walking to and from— home, train, office, to the city park, back to office, sometimes with the infrequent stops at local lunch spots that mostly leave me unsatisfied.

For lunch I go over to the city park, and try to renew myself for that one lonely hour. Now that the weather is warmer, there’s no reason to wait for a free table, instead, the lawn calls me over.

Cynthia Via

On many occasions, I was pleasantly surprised. Once it was Shakespeare’s birthday. Actors were running around creating scenes in different corners of the park. Just when I thought: “oh no, not someone fighting,” it was two hamlet-type characters arguing loudly about impending doom. As I ate my lunch, the couple next to be proclaimed their Romeo and Juliet love.

One some days, I saw guys going shirtless, sitting on green chairs without a care, or others meditating under the hot sun. I was pleasantly surprised when I bumped into a friend from my old job. I said, “how I miss that job.” His suit and tie brought me back to reality. He too had an hour, and ate his Indian food without salt in a hurry as our conversation ate time away.

When it rains I stay inside our small office kitchen. Conversations relax me and take me away from the white screen, but it’s mostly silent. On some days, on some Mondays, the quietness consumes all life, and there’s not a single drop of it. Other days people will talk, and laughter will fill the room only temporarily then back to the black hole from where it was first buried. I tell myself “this isn’t so bad.” I’m learning new things, and the people are nice, and sure it could be silent, but that means there’s more to investigate. If everyone shared their thoughts and feelings, wouldn’t it cover the room entirely.