when pulled backward
unmistakable pattern
rally, move forward.
Andy: Hope.
Red: Hope? Let me tell you something, my friend. Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane. It’s got no use on the inside. You’d better get used to that idea.
Andy: Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies
From the 1994 movie, The Shawshank Redemption, written and directed by Frank Darabont, based on the 1982 Stephen King novella Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption.
sunlight, bright, clear, loud
world in motion, spinning round
new day, same old way
There is a quality to the sunlight down here in Georgia.
It’s a reoccurring theme in these notes.
It is brighter.
It is clearer.
It is stronger.
It is, some how, loud, in its brightness.
Being in it, seeing it, waking up to it, makes you feel better just for its being there.
It starts shining bright every morning.
The same and always different.
Always new.
coming in tired
amazing simpatico
takes all sorts to start
Random words and phrases as I listen to the conversation during a rain delay in the 3rd test match.
Random words that describe my morning to a T.
Fog of fatigue.
Swamp of emotions in drive to work.
Things to do.
Things I have to do.
Things to get done.
If asked though, I just want to lay down for 10 minutes and close my eyes.
searching for dark socks
in a dark drawer, dark room
each day, new result
Part of my preparing for bed routine is to grab underwear and socks out of the dresser for the next morning.
When I wake up I try to not bother my wife who gets to sleep a little longer.
On the days I forget, I find myself in a dark room, reaching into a dark drawer, for dark socks.
Socks by feel.
Dark socks feel just like light colored socks.
I am setting down the parameters of this analogy.
I leave to you to apply it to your day.
Your life.
For myself, I feel this is a sign to give up now and get back in bed.
drip, drip? percolate?
one cup at a time? which one
need coffee, not slops
FATHER FEELS STARVED
At breakfast, Father would put down his coffee-cup in disgust and roar: “Slops! Damn it, slops! Does she call this confounded mess coffee? Isn’t there a damned soul in Westchester County who knows how to make coffee but me? I swear to God I can’t even imagine how she concocts such atrocities. I come down to this room hungry every morning, and she tries to fill me with slops! Take it away, I tell you!” he would bellow to the waitress. “Take this accursed mess away!” And while she and Delia were frantically hurrying to make a fresh pot, he would savagely devour his omelet and bacon, and declare that his breakfast was ruined.
in Life with Father (1936) by Clarence Day
Kitchen counter can look like a mad scientist’s laboratory and all I want is a decent cup of coffee in the morning.
CONSISTENTLY!
The drip coffee is reliable but the brew can be a bitter and soulless cup of ‘slops’.
The percolator has the body and richness but some days it doesn’t work right and it produces ‘slops’.
The less said about the keurig the better. One cup of ‘slops’ at a time is still a cup of ‘slops’.
Not saying I don’t like the keurig during the day but for breakfast, but for that wake up cup of HOT coffee?
No Sir.
You CAN say it is not a vacuum pump thermos of coffee that has been set out some time ago.
COME ON.
All I want is a rich, smooth cup of coffee that I can count on every morning.
Come down stairs, put it together and plug it in.
Back upstairs to shower.
Downstairs eager, hopeful to not being filled with ‘slops’.
No Haiku For You 