Steam of Consciousness

A perfectly made cappuccino with just the right amount of steamed milk sits on my desk. I find the dark espresso lurking beneath the steamed milk, and as the caffeine speeds to my head, I know I can focus on today’s world. Caffeine. We’re all on some sort of drugs.

I use a pen for the morning crossword and Sudoku. God, I love those. Gets me going almost as well as that perfect cappuccino.

Have you ever noticed that color defines your mood—soft or bright, rough, smooth, melodic. Color is so much. Color is music. No! That’s backwards. Music is color.

Damn, this cappuccino is good.

Where was I? Ah, music. I can write about loving you as you are, coming to visit me, sharing the day or the evening, but maybe Nirvana can help me do it better:

“Come
As you are
As you were
As I want you to be . . .”

Yes, that’s it. Be yourself, but be the self I mean you to be in my head.

And I can’t resist a good Beatles tune that evokes just the right amount of . . . of what? Coolness? Nostalgia? Come on! If Eleanor Rigby can wear her face that she keeps in a jar by the door, just think of the possibilities. Or, if Maxwell wields his silver hammer or Daniel is hot and Rocky collapses in the corner (Doc, it’s only a scratch). . .Gosh! I hope Maxwell doesn’t break Eleanor Rigby’s jar. That could be ugly.

And the Eagles. Such cheekiness of, you know, putting me on the shelf like that. That is the heart of the matter. Indeed, you’ll have to eat your lunch all by yourself. All I can do is think of poor Charlie Brown and a squished peanut butter sandwich. Jack Tempchin probably ate something real nice that day (no doubt a California Burrito from Juanita’s). Note to self. Today. Juanitas. Where’s a post-it?

That cappuccino is gone. So is the hour.