Small rooms discipline the mind, large ones weaken it. Said DaVinci. And it is with limitations of this sort in mind that I post a photograph taken with my greatly pathetic camera phone machine. Even the depicted coffee is a reduction, the tiniest iteration of coffee possible, but don't be fooled by the power of a single image. The truth is, lately I am drinking the coffee equivalent of a whole series of small rooms, and as a result my mind is anything but disciplined. Thesis statement: coffee is the symbolic domain in which I negotiate between passion and boundaries. There probably isn't much reason to essay further; we all know how this works. I adore a good crema. I want to feel the quickening. I tank up on sugar. I am impressed with the prospects of the day. I chat with strangers. And though I go to the cafe to write, hardly anything gets written. I leave the cafe with a blur upon my brain. A couple hours later, ever the optimist and slow the learner, I get another coffee.
This sounds like a dilemma because I'm presenting it as such. But maybe it's not. Maybe the crema is as worthy as the writing. Whatever the answer, my best writing for the day consisted of a very short note sent along with a payment for a parking ticket: "You got me this time, adversary." Meaning, of course, that there will be other times more in my favor. Come soon, times.