Magic

The Magical Coffee Pot

A morning without coffee is like sleep.
~Author Unknown

 

I have a magical coffee pot. End of blog.

No wait, that’s not what I was going to say. Scratch that. Start over.

I have had conversations with my coffee pot in the past. I have posted images of its poor shattered soul. And I have shared it with friends and enemies alike. It’s quite possibly the most important appliance ever created. And mine is magical.

I drink coffee in the morning, at work, after work, all night while writing, and right before bed. It does absolutely nothing to wake me up or keep me awake, but I love the happy sexy creamers I find and it’s warm and toasty and it just works. Don’t judge me.

The one and only time the coffee works to wake me up is when it’s being magical. Or rather, when I would prefer it just be a damn coffee pot.

As a writer, I pay attention to my dreams. I’m lucky enough to have lots of them—and apparently more nightmares than certain hippies deem normal, but if I can use the material, so be it! I’ve gotten more than a few kernals from dreams, several scenes, and a great “ah-ha!” moment.

But lately, the coffee pot erases all memories of my dreams. My morning routine is pretty standard. I robotically spring from the bed as if it were on fire but my joints aren’t quite awake yet and grace has nothing to do with this movement. I sneak out of the bedroom, trying to make as little noise as possible because no amount of coffee can turn a nightowl into a morning person and hippies should be left to sleep as long as possible. Pause in the bathroom long enough to wipe any leftover mascara from my eyes—because if I don’t, I guarantee I will rub those evil little stinging flecks into my eyeballs and grind them into my brain within the next ten minutes. Manage to walk down the stairs with one eye open. Start sweet talking the coffee pot as soon as the kitchen is in sight. Now if there’s been a dream, I know it when my feet hit the floor, will be thinking of it at the bathroom mirror, and trying to decipher its meaning and/or importance on the way down the stairs. And then I grab a mug, pour the creamer in, and the second the coffee pot is in my hand *poof* dream gone.

This is frustrating, especially if the only thing I can remember is that it was important to what I’m working on and now I can’t remember it. It’s annoying when the hippie asks how I slept and I tell him I had a dream…and then my eyes glaze over trying to grab something I know damn well is long gone because I touched the coffee pot. But last night? Last night was the worst!

I’m starting a new novella, The Three Dollar Notebook. I have notes, names, a path, an ending. Everything is lined up nice and neat and ready for fingers on keyboard. Except the opening. Oh, I know the scene, but that exact moment, that first sentence, is important. It sets the theme and the mood and the path. And I dreamed the perfect opening three days ago… you know, right before I woke up and got coffee!

So I’ve spent three days glaring at the magical coffee pot trying to remember that perfect opening. I’ve thought about it in every free moment, and a couple not so free moments—I must admit I may have zoned out of a conversation or two lately, oops. And I finally gave up. I spent several hours just trying to create that perfect line while I was doing other things, making soup, fixing the graveyard, checking out the Harleys at the fairgrounds—because multitasking is sexy. And then I started the novella anyway. It’s a good opening. I like it. I may love it when I finish and go back and reread. Or I’ll change it then. But I’ve moved on. I’m over it. I’m off to the races on a story I know is going to come flying out in a matter of days.

And wouldn’t you know it…

This morning I remembered the line while wiping the mascara flakes off my eyes. I repeated it over and over like a mantra, out loud, as I walked down the stairs. I paused long enough to get a cup of coffee and…

*poof*

Damn magical coffee pot.

Mamihlapinatapais

abracadabra

Mamihlapinatapais

from the Yaghan language of Tierra del Fuego, is considered the world’s most succinct word — and hardest to translate.

It means: a look shared by two people, each wishing the other will initiate something that both desire but neither one wants to start.

The Hippie found Mamihlapinatapais on a website somewhere and shared it with me. I stashed it for safe keeping. And found it again today while digging around the computer for treasures (read as, transferring files). It’s a fun word. It got me thinking about fun words, or rather, words in general. The way I cringe when I hear “legit” because of the teenage abuse in our house. The way I giggle whenever some uses “exacerbate” and because of the irony of its often self-imposing definition. The way awesome words thrown into normal conversation makes my eyes brighten and my heart flutter.

I heart words.

The English language has over 200,000 words. New ones are voted into the official dictionary every year. Obsolete words are asterisked every generation. And thesauruses exist for a reason. There are tons of ways to write every single sentence, but the correct way is using the right words for expressing what you need to say. Mamihlapinatapais.

I actually have a file on my desktop where I tuck interesting words when I find them. And this one word made me do more. It begged me to search for other crazy words. It pulled me down a rabbit hole of internet links and giddy polysyllabic terms. And thus I found Magic Words—a lovely little website that blogs fun, interesting words. Sometimes from fiction, sometimes from history, and they got points for having Mamihlapinatapais (which, seriously, I wish I could pronounce!).

So this monday, instead of some crazy memory or thoughtful insight (feel free to flip those adjectives if you know me), I suggest you go check out Magic Words. Hell, grab their RSS feed while you’re there. It’s a happy little tidbit in your email every day and much more uplifting than the news usually is. You’ll be delighted, ecstatic, elated, glad, gleeful, gratified, happy, jubilant, overjoyed, pleased, thrilled, tickled you did…  =)

Mamihlapinatapais

Mamihlapinatapais

from the Yaghan language of Tierra del Fuego, is considered the world’s most succinct word — and hardest to translate.

It means: a look shared by two people, each wishing the other will initiate something that both desire but neither one wants to start.

The Hippie found Mamihlapinatapais on a website somewhere and shared it with me. I stashed it for safe keeping. And found it again today while digging around the computer for treasures (read as, transferring files). It’s a fun word. It got me thinking about fun words, or rather, words in general. The way I cringe when I hear “legit” because of the teenage abuse in our house. The way I giggle whenever some uses “exacerbate” and because of the irony of its often self-imposing definition. The way awesome words thrown into normal conversation makes my eyes brighten and my heart flutter.

I heart words.

The English language has over 200,000 words. New ones are voted into the official dictionary every year. Obsolete words are asterisked every generation. And thesauruses exist for a reason. There are tons of ways to write every single sentence, but the correct way is using the right words for expressing what you need to say. Mamihlapinatapais.

I actually have a file on my desktop where I tuck interesting words when I find them. And this one word made me do more. It begged me to search for other crazy words. It pulled me down a rabbit hole of internet links and giddy polysyllabic terms. And thus I found Magic Words—a lovely little website that blogs fun, interesting words. Sometimes from fiction, sometimes from history, and they got points for having Mamihlapinatapais (which, seriously, I wish I could pronounce!).

So this monday, instead of some crazy memory or thoughtful insight (feel free to flip those adjectives if you know me), I suggest you go check out Magic Words. Hell, grab their RSS feed while you’re there. It’s a happy little tidbit in your email every day and much more uplifting than the news usually is. You’ll be delighted, ecstatic, elated, glad, gleeful, gratified, happy, jubilant, overjoyed, pleased, thrilled, tickled you did…  =)

Stop and Smell the Daisies

daisiesStopping to smell the flowers and/or roses, depending on how you heard it, is actually a misquote. Thanks to google, I now know the true quote to be…

“You’re only here for a short visit. Don’t hurry. Don’t worry. And be sure to smell the flowers along the way.”

~ Walter Hagen

On the way into work today I saw a huge bunch of beautiful white daisies in full bloom on the side of a forgotten shack. I stopped.

I didn’t pick any. I didn’t even get out of the vehicle. I simply pulled over on the side road, smiled at them for a few minutes, and let the flowers do what the cloud covered sun couldn’t this morning—warm my insides. I heart a good daisy. They’re like dandelions to me. More weed than flower, more wild than tamed, will grow anywhere and do whatever they please. Little rays of stubborn sunshine no matter the cloud cover.

It’s been a rough week or so. I’ve had dayjob hell getting quarterlies done with new tax crap we have to deal with for the locals and preparing for the upcoming tax season. I’ve had fun with teens (who can be as fickle as daisy petal plucking—I like him, no I don’t, I like him, no I don’t). I’m still fighting with the insurance people from the car accident. We have two new kittens (because one cat cannot replace a lost needy cat, it takes two!), a critter in the garage and a graveyard that stands alone (oddly, I haven’t decorated much this year. It’s not cold enough here for my brain to trigger October). And because I cannot be one of those that sits by and watches, I reported abuse and played safe haven for an adopted teen or two that needed us. Life is crazy.

Daisies are nature’s way of saying, “chillax, dudette.” So I did. I stopped and smiled. And as I sat there I thought about other little things that make me smile. Silly things. Simple things. Things that earn me both an eye roll (for being 12) and a chuckle from the Hippie—bubbles in the house, talking to bugs, sidewalk chalk, cartoon bandaids, jumping in puddles, crayons. Even when I want to hide or scream, I can smile…

So. It’s Thursday. You know what that means. What was the last silly, stupid, little nothing of a thing you smiled at? Not your kids or your partner, that’s cheating. Something out there that is just for you. That warms your internal sun and heats your blood. What was your last daisy?

And if you can’t answer, perhaps you should look around and find something… Instead of watching a child, play with them. Or better yet, just become one for 10 minutes a day. It does a psyche good!

Stop and Smell the Daisies

Stopping to smell the flowers and/or roses, depending on how you heard it, is actually a misquote. Thanks to google, I now know the true quote to be…

“You’re only here for a short visit. Don’t hurry. Don’t worry. And be sure to smell the flowers along the way.”

~ Walter Hagen

On the way into work today I saw a huge bunch of beautiful white daisies in full bloom on the side of a forgotten shack. I stopped.

I didn’t pick any. I didn’t even get out of the vehicle. I simply pulled over on the side road, smiled at them for a few minutes, and let the flowers do what the cloud covered sun couldn’t this morning—warm my insides. I heart a good daisy. They’re like dandelions to me. More weed than flower, more wild than tamed, will grow anywhere and do whatever they please. Little rays of stubborn sunshine no matter the cloud cover.

It’s been a rough week or so. I’ve had dayjob hell getting quarterlies done with new tax crap we have to deal with for the locals and preparing for the upcoming tax season. I’ve had fun with teens (who can be as fickle as daisy petal plucking—I like him, no I don’t, I like him, no I don’t). I’m still fighting with the insurance people from the car accident. We have two new kittens (because one cat cannot replace a lost needy cat, it takes two!), a critter in the garage and a graveyard that stands alone (oddly, I haven’t decorated much this year. It’s not cold enough here for my brain to trigger October). And because I cannot be one of those that sits by and watches, I reported abuse and played safe haven for an adopted teen or two that needed us. Life is crazy.

Daisies are nature’s way of saying, “chillax, dudette.” So I did. I stopped and smiled. And as I sat there I thought about other little things that make me smile. Silly things. Simple things. Things that earn me both an eye roll (for being 12) and a chuckle from the Hippie—bubbles in the house, talking to bugs, sidewalk chalk, cartoon bandaids, jumping in puddles, crayons. Even when I want to hide or scream, I can smile…

So. It’s Thursday. You know what that means. What was the last silly, stupid, little nothing of a thing you smiled at? Not your kids or your partner, that’s cheating. Something out there that is just for you. That warms your internal sun and heats your blood. What was your last daisy?

And if you can’t answer, perhaps you should look around and find something… Instead of watching a child, play with them. Or better yet, just become one for 10 minutes a day. It does a psyche good!

Tastes like Summer

dreamsicleA single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows.
— St. Francis of Assisi

I love dreamsicles. No, really, you need to understand… I turn into a twelve-year-old when I hear the ice cream truck. I jump up and down and run to find my wallet or the hippie’s pocket, bat my eyelashes, and smirk like a kid that knows what they’re getting for Christmas. And every time the ice cream truck stops, someone brings me back a dreamsicle. They don’t ask what I want. They know. Because I love dreamsicles.

Because they taste like summer.

I heart Ra in general. Sunshine is a good thing. It makes your soul smile and your skin tingle. But if you zero in on the generality of sunshine and just consider summer… well, that’s where I went while savoring the last dreamsicle I had.

I said it tasted like summer to whomever was standing there, and then I thought about that. What else tastes like summer? Better yet, what other senses bring summertime to my mind?

I hit that thought again at work during last week’s heat wave. As many of you know, I abhor shoes. I am barefoot whenever possible, even if it gets me yelled at by certain waitresses that will be missed at HFW this year (Nora!) or other people of supposed authority. As such, I was barefoot at work when I went out to get the mail. Walking across the parking lot was like walking on lava, but instead of cursing the heat, my mind traveled back to a summertime long ago.

When I was seven, we lived in Texas. Across from our apartment building was a giant field, then a 7-11. I was sent to get tomato paste. I don’t know why I remember it was tomato paste mom needed, but I do, because the mind and memory are weird like that. I have no idea what I learned in eighth grade history, but I know thirty-four years ago my mom needed tomato paste. And I was barefoot. And the parking lot of that 7-11 was like lava.

Pavement threatening to blister my feet feels like summer.

And then I remembered what I said about the dreamsicle and I wondered about the five senses of summer again. So I started thinking about it. Dreamsicles taste of it. Hot asphalt feels like it. What looks, sounds and smells of it?

Smell could be lilacs, but that’s cliché and more spring than summer. Bonfires? Perhaps. Because they remind me of parties at the point, burning tires, laughing with friends and sitting on the sand. Sound could easily be associated with the ice cream truck music, but that’s a little too close to the dreamsicle and each sense deserves its own trigger. A new summer sound would be cicadas. They’re loud and obnoxious and absolutely fascinating, if only because they’re still new. Perhaps next year that will sound like summer. This year, it’s too fresh and sound will have to settle for being… I don’t know. And I don’t have any idea what summer looks like to me. I’ll have to think about these things. Or rather, pay attention. Because I don’t believe I can just remember, or decide, what summer smells, looks or sounds like. Not with that same rush of warmth through my chest that the dreamsicle and asphalt brought to me. Not with that tickle in my mind that reminded me of childhood summers and the escapism brought with them. I think those things have to be experienced with an “Ah-ha” moment, where I become twelve again and declare “this” smells like summer.

Moments of declaration are a strange thing. In this case, a whimsical thing. Equating a sense to a season is just a fun exercise in silly at this point. But silly is good. It keeps you young. It makes you buy sidewalk chalk and blow bubbles in the house. I keeps your spirit high when stress wants to drag it down. And it helps you live the only life you’re going to get.

Summer is different now (sorry mom, I’m going there). Summer is warmer and lasts longer. It comes earlier and stays late, like a canadian trying to suck the most out of a three-day weekend. It brings fireflies by the droves and a night sky that doesn’t quite look right to me. It smells like tiki torches and feels like the cool water of a kiddie pool. Someday, I’ll figure out the other senses—by accident. Right now, I have a dreamsicle, that tastes just like summer.

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