I have started to write mediocre poetry in resent years, bizarre I know, a sign of old age I suppose. But anyway, if they happen to be sufficiently not bad, I will post them in this article for your viewing pleasure (or quite plausibly, displeasure, depending on mood and taste).
My harddisk died today. It was all so sudden. Slow stuttering data transfers, pleading error messages, and then... nothing.
I opened up the casing with my bear, trembling, hands. Jerked the disk out of the SATA port. Wires everywhere. Then it all went black. (the computer screen I mean)
One moment you're watching My Little Pony, the next non existent void. Makes you think. We all pretend to believe that our computers will go on eternally. Never taking a backup, never calling our sysadmin about that error message. Until it's too late. Until the illusion breaks.
What about all the wedding photos, are they lost? Forever? What about all the work I didn't finish? Is it just gone? Was it all just a waste of time? How can that be?
It is hard to face such realities. But realities will come, no matter how hard we fight against them. We can take backups, we can sign support contracts. But is is all in vain, it is all a desperate struggle against the inevitable. Like a grand pyramid in Egypt, just an overengineered heap of stones.
Hopefully though, I will get my money back on the warranty.
Sarah likes spiders, icky, hairy, creepy-crawly spiders. It's disgusting!
She tries to deny it, but everyone knows. And who would admit to such a thing? The more she denies it, the more she confirmes it! Tommy even said that he saw her eat a spider once! Can you believe it? I know I can. I once saw her standing right next to one in the hallway, and she didn't scream or run away or anything! So I know the rumors are true, I have seen the evidence with my own eyes.
Once I hurt my knee. Sarah tried to help, but I wouldn't let her. The though of being touched by those filthy spider hands of hers makes me sick. I bet she ate spiderjam for lunch, and her fingers are just dripping with it! She just did it too butter me up anyway, she always goes around trying to sweat talk everyone. That's why she has so many friends, despite being a spider lover. Nobody wants to be friends with me. It's because I'm not a phoney like her, I say it like it is, and if people can't handle that, then that's their problem!
But I do wish people weren't so stupid! Unlike the idiots that surround me, I know all about spiders. I have read about them in the school library, and I even forced myself to look at some of the icky pictures, so I KNOW about spiders! That's why I hate Sarah. Spiders are disgusting, she is disgusting. And I am going to tell everyone in school!
What does it mean to "fall in love"? When it happens, you become infatuated with a mere stranger, a person you know next to nothing about. You justify the precious feelings in so many ways, but really, it is a mental image in your own mind that you have fallen in love with. An angelic mirage perfect in every way, not a mere human of flesh and blood.
As the years go by, the dreamy fantasy is gradually replaced by hard reality. The fickle love of youth is replaced, stone by stone, hardship by hardship, with solid and mature bricks, a grounded and real relationship, not a lofty fantasy. And yet, the mysteries in the depths of a human heart are boundless. Given time, they can be explored deeply perhaps, but never fully. The inner person is always just beyond our reach.
So why do we love, when in reality we are all strangers to one another? Can we love someone we don't know, someone we don't understand? Maybe it's a mistake to talk about "falling in love", like it was an on/off switch, or a bear trap. Maybe we should be talking about "walking in love" instead. A relationship being an infinite road we can walk together, the bonds growing stronger each step along the way. A journey that began with a few embarrassing stumblings, that extends deeper and deeper into an everlasting paradise.
What a mystery love is, hopefully we will never understand it.
I wake up naturally, unalarmed by a clock, as the sun rays gently hug my eyelids. Ah! The morning joy awakening in my body, tingling in every limb, after a long restful sleep, void of worries, fake news and stupid trivia. No restless electrons buzzing in my brain, no agitated frequencies pulsating in my vain, no hurtful memories coloring my mind with disdain. Just the gentle breathing of my loved one besides me. That sleepy head! No matter, there is no rush, and I'll let her snooze for a while longer.
I get out of bed and stretch myself, yawning with satisfaction. and I feel fully charged and ready for action. As I dress, I briefly consider what theme I shall be wearing on my persona today, blue I guess. I put on a hand woven shirt and take a moment to appreciate the intricate design of its geometric pattern. How many hours had it taken my wife to make this? A year? The coolness of the cotton felt good on my skin, but the tender love and affection in the stitches felt even better.
Breakfast, oh what joy! Coffee, hand picked and ground, freshly brewed. The scent of it! Served with eggs and marmalade on toast, no bacon. A recipe I must have found somewhere, as I browsed through my childhood. My dear wife was awake now, munching away at some toast like there was no tomorrow. Now there's an absurd idea if I ever heard one!
As she is busy decimating the toast, I take a silent pause to reflect on the agenda today. I open a note in my mind, a blank, undecorated notebook, unbound by frameworks and other peoples paradigms. Perfect for jotting down new ideas. As i scribble away, writing an anecdote here, doodling a bit there, a few golden nuggets emerge out of the general mess, and I save them to permanent storage. I highlight these for future reference, and look forward to sharing them with my friends in the loveliest way possible.
After breakfast my wife and I chat for a while, peer-to-peer, using the aged old you-speak-first-then-me protocol. There are occasional glitches with this primitive method, one might speak out of terms, get a muffled reply, or just plain misunderstand each other. But such minor inconveniences are are easily smoothed over by a smiley or two.
An old acquaintance from our substantial contact of friends come up in the conversation. We haven't heard from this brother in a while, and decide to realmail him a letter. We write a few lines together, my wife uses her lovely custom font, and I add a little drawing at the end. The letter finished, we wait eagerly for someone to pass by our house, someone we can give a cake or two in return for passing along our letter. Eventually it will reach its destination, hopefully being read by all kinds of people along the way. Who knows what kind of friend requests this simple letter can generate!
Better get started on our work today. We have so much to do, but with infinite time, there is no pressure, only work for pleasure. Ever adding new features to our expanding global environment.
I love coffee pots, or more precisely the coffee within them. The pots themselves are just vessels of course, made of frail glass and a thin steel frame. They break easily and are soon replaced and forgotten. But they mean much to me all the same, and so I write this little poem to remind me of what I have lost.
Alexander was my first coffee pot, my old tutor. My mentor at dawn was a bulky contraption, with a steady frame, there were no uncertainty in his methods. And yet he always brewed down-to-earth coffee radiating with warmth. Although rigid and strict, I always enjoyed his company. I though his strengthening steadfast drink would last forever, that he was more durable even then the great temple of Herod. How young and naive I was back then. Alas, your guidance was cut short, as you shattered suddenly and unexpectantly to a thousand pieces on the kitchen floor. Had I only known, I would have spent more time with you. Shared one more cup of warm wisdom.
Rebekah, my second coffee pot, was but a stranger at first. Nevertheless she was the centerpiece in the house, tying us all together with the loving embrace of her gentle brew. Even I, a stranger, a bastard, were taken inn, as though I had always been a son in her home. She gave me mild coffee with such subtle aroma that it brought me to tears. This was coffee the way it was meant to be, a warm and loving drink that filled an empty cup with hope. You too were suddenly taken away from us, far too young. In our short time together, you only gave me a few cups of coffee. But those drops were precious to me, more then you know, and I will treasure them always.
Lionheart, the third. He was not a deep coffee pot, but he was ostensibly unbreakable, reinforced even with a steel grating. He was a pull-up-your-sleeve-and-get-it-brewed sort of kitchen appliance, and what he lacked in character, he made up for in cheery effectiveness. And yet he did crack. Just a small crack at first, easily fixed with duck tape. He continued to serve coffee as before, pretending that everything was alright. But cracked he was, and the crack grew, spread, deepened, ate him up from the inside, until he was but a grotesque shadow of his former self. Yet he still poured out a little coffee now and then, and I drank out of pity, trying not to look at the duck tape holding him together. When he finally broke, it came as a relief.
Gertrude, the mild one. She never served a bitter cup in her life, though her coffee was stronger then any in the land. She was of foreign design, fragile yet strong, elegant yet approachable. She would listen to to half-crazed ramblings in the morning with a patient smile. Soothingly pouring out another cup of that life giving elixir, which cools the heated head and unravels the knotted nerve. She gave her coffee freely to all, with tender affection and care for young and old alike. Giving others the strength to climb mountains, though she herself longed for the shore. She too eventually broke, like all coffee pots eventually do. I have come to accept it, and yet, I miss her.
Hilda, the fifth one. I wish I could say something profound and beautiful about her, but in truth she was cheap. I had become afraid of loosing expensive coffee pots you see, so I bought a cheap one at a second hand store. It was dusty, dirty, and reeked of tobacco. She served coffee of course, but only bad coffee. Suitable for mindlessly binge watching soap operas on TV I suppose, but not for much else. I'm sure there were moments in her youth, happy moments. Summer days out on the beach, where children enjoyed delicious chocolate and icecream, as their laughter mixed with seagulls crying, and the tingling scent of her fresh brew mixed with the salty sea. But those days were long gone now. When she broke and disappeared, the world neither cared nor noticed. If things had only been different.
Eric, the sixth. He was a true viking. He came into my world with a blast! It was always espresso with him in everything he did, spreading life and joy all around. And oh, what plans he had! Yet there was something forced in his strong flavor, something fake. As though he was always scheming behind that merry laughter. There was never anything tempered, sublime, stable in the cups he served. After a while his incessant caffeine was just too much. I had to keep him at arms length, only brewing his strong drink when I had the stomach for it. In the end he drove everyone away, and left his house a ruin, like a burnt out and pillaged village. Your demise was as violent as your life, and I wonder friend, was it accidental or by design?
Bruce isn't a coffee pot. Real coffee is beyond him. He is only a can of instant coffee, decaff. A vile joke that pretends its a real drink. Maybe that's what disgusts me the most. The pretense, the hypocrisy. If he only had the guts to call himself a pretender, then maybe I could have stomached him. But when he sanctimoniously declares himself coffee, even printing "Rich & Smooth" on his label for the world to see, and believes it! Instantly reprehensible is what you are, and the very sight of you fills me with nausea. He is still in my cupboard, unbroken, the smug bastard. I will not shatter him to the floor or anything. I treat him civilly of course. But I wish he would go away.
He is not at all like Mary, my green tea from China. She has a mild blend with a tempered fragrance. It fills your soul with calm harmonics like the smooth strokes of Chopin. I love my green tea, but what possessed me to put her next to the vile decaff? Opposites attract they say, but that is just ridiculous. She has critics though, my green tea, who claims that she is not energetic enough, unsuitable for any real work. Just words. From closed minded caffeine addicts. As for me, I couldn't care less about her effectiveness. There is more to life then busywork. But I will admit that she too comes in a fake package. "SPECIAL GUNPOWDER" it says on the box. Absurd. Is it any wonder I struggle so to find myself, having such misguided beverages in my cupboard.
Perhaps I should tell you about my childhood friend Charlie? Or hot chocolate, as he known among his friends. I loved him when I was young, just like everyone did. He was mister popular, with a rich full flavor, and the ladies were plumb crazy about him! As for himself, he loved all the attention, his natural sweetness that others found so intoxicating. But he became addicted to his own sugar. And once you start eating it, you will never stop, not until the day when its all gone. That's the problem with that disgusting white stuff! I am glad I choose a wiser beverage, but from time to time I still miss my childhood friend, even though we parted ways so many years ago.
At long last we come to my final coffee pot, the seventh. By biblical standards it ought to be divine, but my seventh coffee pot is anything but. It has no name, no gender; its made of plastic. Why did I buy such an unstylish, unnatural, coffee pot? Its simple really, the rationale of our industrialized culture finally got the better of me. Why invest in an expensive glass & steel coffee pot, however beautiful, that breaks? Why pour all your hopes and dreams into this kitchen appliance, only to have it snatched away from your eyes, leaving your cup as empty as your heart? Buy a plastic friend instead, one that never decomposes! Who needs real warmth anyway, when fake warmth in abundance suffice and is twice as affordable?
So here I am with my unbreakable friend, sustaining me with plastic coffee, longing for the day when artificial stimulants are no longer necessary, and coffee pots no longer break.