A Caffeinated Intermission

I had some dreams; they were clouds in my coffee. ~ Carly Simon

I must have been about twenty-five-years-old when I sat down for the first time on an off-colored, poorly upholstered, semi-chairish couch at the local coffee shop. Sitting around drinking coffee in an eclectic public environment filled with intellectual chit-chat, socialist word-paintings, and awkward first-date conversations seemed like such a novel and bourgeois idea.

I do remember my very first cup of hot coffee. It was nighttime in the desert and the wind that blew chilled straight to the bone. My buddy pulled out a thermos and filled my canteen cup with the steaming hot black drink. Black has always been my favorite color. Black was the color of this moonless cloud-covered night. Black was the color of my childhood dreams. Black was the color of my foxhole buddy, a man I would have taken a bullet for without a moment’s hesitation.

Black is the color you will see when you look deep into the eyes of death. I have never given much attention to the bright white and purity of light rumors from those that say they have returned from beyond the darkness. I guess I just never stared into the eyes of death long enough to find out for myself.

I like my coffee black. It is all that I have ever truly known. And I do believe that Sisyphus deserves a coffee break.