Moon on My Mind

Tonight, the moon hangs bright and full
So serene in its vantage point
Undisturbed by the size and scope
of it all

Mona Lisa of the skies
Witness to our cries and sighs
Speaks volumes in rotund silence
of the ages

A slow opening at the City Hall cafe gave me a chance to sit for a few minutes with one of my customers and write up some Valentine cards. Valentine's Day suddenly becomes really fun when you've stumbled upon really beautiful vintage cards that were designed nearly a century ago. Never mind that I had no one in mind to give them to at the time of purchase.

"Love heels", one of the cards was entitled-- the one that was cut into the shape of a ladies high heel shoe--, but love also wounds. Take that. I've been classically unlucky in love so far. I could go out of my way and actually try to find someone special, but I don't have the heart to put in such effort presently-- whether this lack of motivation stems from suspicion, defensiveness, fear, or some other deep, dark psychoanalytic well,...it is what it is. I will stumble upon the various threads of my fate just as I stumbled upon these beautiful cards.

And just as I purchased these ephemera greeting cards with no particular receiver in mind, I also purchased a bottle of sparkling cider with no one in mind to drink it with. I bought the cider because I tasted a sample of it at the grocery, and as it fizzled down my throat, it threw me back to summer days, to warmth and tranquility. And so I threw down 10% of my day's tips and purchased a bottle of this liquid summer, which now sits in my fridge awaiting to relieve a soul parched by a long winter.

Stats: Today, my coworker and I served more than 500 drip coffees in 6 hours. Including espresso drinks, this means we saw more than 100 faces per hour. That's a lot of faces! That's more than 100 "Hello how are you"'s per hour. That's about 50 "Happy Groundhog Day"'s per hour and 25 mentions of Bill Murray per hour. You're welcome, Bill Murray. And Happy Groundhog Day, everyone.

The irony: Today, I feel like retreating from humanity. Sometimes, it seems there is entirely too much cattiness and judgmental attitudes in every corner of my world, and it makes me want to eschew humanity. Yet, today I have also encountered kindness, funniness, and empathy from many (many!) folks, and these positive encounters are usually enough to draw me back into the fold. However today, I am feeling rather misanthropic. On the other hand, I had some really beautiful encounters...I go back and forth. The past few days have been tough on my psyche...I feel bruised and battered-- yet healing-- yet still sensitive.

The past two days have been unnaturally beautiful. The sudden spring air in the midst of winter has awakened my spirit, which feels like it has been in hibernation for many months. I brought my camera out of hibernation and followed the light. Beautiful flowers, beautiful building walls, beautiful streets and beautiful throngs of people and the homeless...one of my favorite streets in Philadelphia is along Juniper, between Sansom and Chestnut Streets: old walls that attest to a more refined, ornate past; on the wall upon entering, a poignant quotation by some philosopher or another about how knowing that there is an end is what gives the present its meaning. At the end of the walk, upon the sewer giving off heat lies a homeless man wrapped up in his anorak. I see him in this very spot every single morning that I walk through this alley on the way to work. He has made himself a home-- that is, if "home" is defined by the place where you sleep every night. He has become a meaningful node in my line of vision-- something that I look for as I wend my way through the streets of Philadelphia in the twilight hour.

Yesterday evening, I gave myself a ballet class in a glass-enclosed space in the exact middle of the city; that is to say, at the cafe. This is one of the most magical, spiritual experience that I can offer to myself in the city. During the day, it is the place where I make money; it is alive with people and lights and conversation and coffee. But at night, after around 7:30pm, I unlock the glass door and let myself into a shadowy haven that is both secret and utterly revealing. I turn on two lights-- the track lights hanging over the large family table and the one in the back kitchen. The bathroom is my dressing room. After I change, I plug in my ipod; slow adagio music fills the air. I begin by facing the burr grinders filled with Nizza and Haitian beans. Slow tendus, the way I was taught during my 12 days in Russia. To this day, I still hear Ilya's slow, methodical counts: Raz, dva, tri, chetyre; raz, dva, tri, chetyre; raz, dva, tri, chetyre; plie...

From there, I sink into plies and the rest of the essential barre exercises, then center work. I use my reflection in the glass to correct my form. Outside, groups of people walk by. A few peer in; most pass by unaware of any activity on the other side of the glass. Cars whizz by around the bend; lights shine from the cars, street lamps, and surrounding office buildings; voices carry past the glass. I ponder briefly the things we would discover should all walls be made with transparent glass. What goes on behind those walls? Here, at the cafe, my activity is made utterly transparent. It is full of dichotomy: I feel naked, yet hidden; amongst people, yet alone. I am surrounded by people, yet I feel sheltered by the glass the keeps me at an impenetrable distance from them, no matter how transparent they may be. For those who catch sight of movement and peer in for a closer look, I welcome them into the world of ballet as I see it, as I love it: the repetition, the rigor, the sweat, the discipline-- the ritual of ballet class.

Friday afternoon, 1/20/12: First Cupping

-that is, coffee cupping...location: the Warehouse
-pregame with Primo hoagies
-first, a taste of Pure Black, sweetened and once-pressed: top taste is undesirable; bottom taste is wonderfully grainy and all coffee; sugar is consistent from top to bottom; SN likes a punch in the face
-the demise of Robinson, our Haitian coffee ambassador: mob politics with reactionary, old men; we will dig deep into Haiti
-Beasts Ride Bicycles: A children's book ft. Bird Rider & Robusta Dude
-pizza: Naples vs Rome; semolina vs no semolina; chef vs. the 8th generation Russian pizza connoisseur
-where was the coffee spoon? (a) not a coffee spoon-- a drug spoon (b) in Serge's tool box; (c) not a drug spoon-- a pooper scooper; (d) Bryan stole it to clean up after his new dog (e) Bryan has Flyers tickets
-pods: ever-widening screens from 54 to 58mm in diameter; they are evolving, and so must we; new packaging-- silver and sleek
-redefining "direct trade": buying directly from the children who stick the parchment around each bean

The cupping itself was a neat experience. We three baristas who had never been to such an event-- sat side by side on the bench across the table from JP, while he stood like an eccentric professor, waving around his hands until one of his unusually thick fingers got sliced by his own Pure Black twist-off cap and began bleeding profusely. As casual as his manner was, he had the air of knowledge about him as he spoke. He was in his element, talking about a subject that he had spent hundreds of thousands of hours of his life thinking about, studying, breathing, creating, tasting, drinking, dreaming and doing. Eventually, most of the office staff drifted in and joined the meeting, hanging around the perimeter of the gorgeous wooden conference table, but not quite sitting at it. Even Tobin, the accountant, popped his head in for a brief moment to say hello.

After the cupping of the first Panamanian bean, the cups-- rounded, white bowl types-- were washed, redosed with the second El Salvadorian beans, refilled with boiling water, and re-aligned in a straight line down the long bench table. We steeped and slurped. The surprise was that, as light as the El Sal was roasted (lighter than the Panamanian bean), it was much more pleasantly citrus-y and smooth than the sharply acidic Panamanian bean. Part of the reason for this seemingly paradoxical result may have been the inconsistent grind level of the two beans. JP suggested a darker roast for the sharply acidic Panamanian bean; Chris, the roaster, disagreed with an immediacy and certainty that impressed me.

We fell into discussions with our neighbors. From the right side of the room, I caught a tip from Chris: slurp a spoonful of the Panamanian, let it sit in your mouth, and the orange-iness will hit you like a bus. It hit me suddenly that "citrusy" did not necessarily entail "acidic". From the left side of the room, Patrick sat at the end of the table with a ph meter dipped into his cup of coffee, as focused as a doctor listening in on his stethoscope to the beating of a heart. He listed the following acidity levels for the sake of comparison: stomach juice-- 1; lemon juice-- 2 to 3; Panama-- 5.28; El Salvador-- ? A point emphasized and re-emphasized by the chef of the house was that the beans for the cupping were roasted lightly enough to expose the faults of the bean, but also dark enough to expose the beauty of the bean. He dipped his hand into the pile of roasted beans, lifted and let them run through his fingers as he spoke of their beauty.

How Many Cups?

This evening at the Rittenhouse cafe, I served three girls decked out in head scarves and bedazzling outfits from Forever 21. The one in pink was from Baghdad; the other two from Tunisia and Morocco.

The three bedazzling ladies sat down at a table in the corner in front of the bar and began giggling like schoolgirls as Bart fell yet again into his hysterical "tragic laughter" state-- the one in which you can't tell if he is laughing or weeping. I was sure he was actually weeping this time until he pointed at Pedro and said that he was "very funny".

I had to agree with Bart this evening: Pedro was very funny. Today, Pedro chose the wrong time to trash talk to me and ended up with cappuccino all over his jeans. That was very funny. Then later during clean-up, we started swinging between the bar counters for fun, and in the blink of an eye, he was on the ground. That was also very funny, but only because he was unhurt.

I introduced the Deaf Elephant to both him and John this evening. They threw cups at me in return. Then they gave an observing customer a cup to throw at me too. Hence, I had three cups thrown at me today total. Paper cups, not the ceramics from Italy.

Day 10 of the Year 2012

I followed the full-ish moon to work; orange lilies lit up my workspace.

-what are ram horns? handlebar moustache turned upside-down; equivalently: what is a handlebar moustache? ram horns turned upside-down
-at the espresso bar: a calligraphy session with the two young, bubbly doctors-to-be; a discussion on the science of baking cheez-its with a crossword puzzling pastry chef
-a word in the English language with three of the same letter in a row: (a) does not exist; (b) "oooh!"
-Day 2 of this week's challenge: go to a dance class every day for 7 days straight. Screw the healthy balance; I embrace my obsession.
-I saw the date "January 8, 2012" printed on an online article; it took me a couple seconds to realize that this date was not in the science fiction-y future. Woah...From now on, we're livin' in the future!

Day 6 of the Year 2012

-crashed a classics conference at the Marriott: in which I discovered chaîne opératoire and listened to a scholar talk about Planet of the Apes
-with Mini Millar, built a cuppyramid, and then an even bigger cuppyramid, and then an even bigger cuppyramid with an alligator moat which was then destroyed by the longest yell in history: in which I was all the while fascinated by the little engineer's obsession with the one particular form, which he built over and over again, utterly in the zone; in which the little engineer christened me "Crane-kay"
-inflamed by acer negundo, aka, box elder tree, whose wood turns brilliant streaks of red when attacked by borers like the ambrosia beetle
-took Juniper Street, the back alley route home; considered that calligraphy, flower arranging, and ornate sculpting of building facades require a similar mindset in their undertaking
-overdosed on darling clementines and put Mozart piano sonatas on repeat

"Russian?" said Bart, "That's the language of Hell."

"What's the language of heaven?" asked Osama.

"Hebrew," was the prompt reply of the Messianic Schizophrenic Jew.

"What about Arabic?" countered Osama, who is Palestinian.

"Uhhh huh huh..."

"Uhhh huh huh..." echoed Rad from behind the bar.

Day 2 of the Year 2012

A day off...

-watched Titanic at 6 in the morning
-tried not to weep over the fleeting nature of love and life
-broke my fast with nachos; ate grapes for dinner

Day 1 of the Year 2012:

-wake up, shower, and put on a tuxedo dress and black tie; but forget on purpose the creepy moustache
-serve coffee to dozens at the City Hall cafe; escape before the mummers get too obnoxious
-serve coffee to hundreds at the Rittenhouse cafe; chase them out at the closing hour with '90s techno hits
-take Broad Street path home and wonder at the chaos on the streets: trash everywhere, everywhere the stench of alcohol, drunken revelers on foot in droves; everywhere the flashing of blue and red cop lights
-come home, put food into stomach, decompress; consider watching Titanic; I cannot explain this sudden urge, nor shall I try to fight it

New Glasses

Good morning, world! The world is clear. Smooth wine red and sky blue frames circle the cuts of glass through which I see you now.

Clearance

After nearly two months of attempting to understand, accommodate, and excuse our neighbors across the street from the Dilworth cafe, the three of us who were working this morning stood outside the shop just before opening, as the sky grew light. B. held a cigarette in his hand, A. a mug of drip coffee, and I a single espresso. We stared at the empty cement plaza across the street which, up until one o'clock this morning, had held dozens and dozens of tents occupied by a peculiar, hygienically-challenged alien race.

As I had rounded the corner to Dilworth Plaza this morning, I had been greeted by an incredible sight of what appeared to be the entire Philadelphia police force surrounding this former tent city. Police cars lined up ass to nose, buses filled with riot police, a helicopter in the sky, workers (surprisingly not dressed in hazmat suits) clearing up the last scraps of tent and the last bit of the 27 tons of trash that had accumulated since October 6th. But not a single one of those smelly squatters remained.

The pastry man, along with the first two of our customers of the day showed up, so I headed in first. The other two followed suit soon after. A. did a quick bathroom check, dusted off his hands, and declared optimistically, "Yo! From now on, bathroom gonna be OK!" (Translation: No more clogged toilets, blood on the floor, overflowing trash, extreme BO, or lines that run longer than the line for coffee!)

What have I to say at the end of all this? I have learned that whoever you are, your politics means nothing to me. It says nothing to me automatically about what kind of person you are, or how you treat others. Politics is so superficial. It's so easy to hold up a set of political beliefs on a sandwich board and pretend that it defines you in any way, but now I know better. Don't bother telling me whether you are a Democrat or a Republican, investment banker or starving artist, of the 99% or the 1%. In my shop, I will see for myself whether your are courteous and kind and know how to flush a toilet.

Cafe Scenes

Mila came in today with a crown of flowers in her hair. I miss her coming into the shop in her pajamas and dangling from her tummy over the chair, experimenting with flight. Later, Gilda came in with her daughter to drop off biscotti.Who was cuter-- the mother or the daughter? I bought butterfly stickers after work for these girls and all the other adorables that come into the shop. Too many to count; too cute for words.

In the evening, I put on my alter ego attire-- a leotard, tights, and ballet slippers-- and headed over to ballet class. Along the way, I ran into the Red-Eye Winker (his drink is a red-eye, and he gives a friendly wink every time he orders). We both stood under our giant black umbrellas and doffed our imaginary hats at each other. He's just as silly as I am!

As a La Colombe barista, I have a front row view of the tents occupying Dilworth Plaza, 6 hours a day, 4 days a week. It is interesting to be caught in in the middle of this movement physically and ideologically. Our second shop being located in the city's financial and government district, many of my "clients"-- the people to whom I serve their daily coffee-- are the very people whom the protesters are fighting against. I can't say whether they are part of the top wealthy 1%, but for sure they are not what I would call "middle class". Of course, our clientele is not limited to those who make banks, but they do make up a noteworthy portion.

Lately, however, we have had a great influx of clientele from the tents. In the beginning, they came in primarily to clean themselves up and piss in a proper toilet, but upon realizing that this was our livelihood, they started checking out our coffee as well. The exchange is often rather strange and awkward-- they come in already apologetic, perhaps holding up a cup they had purchased earlier in the day, head toward the bathroom asking in expression more than words if it's okay to use it. Some just head directly to the bathroom without making eye contact. Some act like normal customers and human beings, which is a welcome relief.

Yesterday, a mother took her daughter into the bathroom. I heard water running, then the hand dryer blowing, then suddenly a scream that carried throughout the cafe. For a millisecond, I was extremely worried, then realized the little girl was screaming with delight at how funny the air felt as it blow-dried her hair. I wondered if she was one of the children caught up in this movement unwittingly, forced to live in a plastic playhouse among the tents while their parents alternately stand proudly with their signs and ideologies, then turn around and break up tearful fights among one another's babies.

This evening, 5 minutes before closing time, an occupier gave a purposeful start when I offered her plastic cups for the water she had requested. She then proceeded to give an unsolicited explanation for why she "made a face" when I offered her the cups. "You see, I'm a person who recycles all the time..." I didn't need to hear this, and I can't say that I took it with grace. I have no patience for self-righteous, condescending, holier-than-thou attitudes, and it made me want to take a bulldozer over all those tents out there. It took me a few minutes in the back kitchen to remember that neither she, nor the mother with the screaming child, nor the awkward sidlers wholly represented the population of Occupy Philly.

For the most part, from poor students to the multimillionaires, our regular customers appear to acknowledge the occupation, but not bother themselves much over it. They have their own lives to lead which is to study, work, take care of their children, and other such responsibilities. As for me, as an American citizen officially categorized as being below the poverty line, I am caught between wanting to support a movement that fights against the injustices of Corporate America, and being wholly unable to identify with the type of people who are actually involved in the movement at the grassroots level.

Big Picture

Life is bigger than a Netflix price-hike. It is bigger, even, than the biggest argument or most long-standing grudge. Every problem comes with a choice: to care or not to care. It is a hazard to care too much, as much as it is a hazard to care too little. There is no right or wrong approach; just choice and consequence. Impressions are far from immutable: given enough time, most things are forgotten, fade into unimportance, are altered, or replaced. Evolution is inevitable for anything that is not trapped in some literal or figurative amber. The blue of a blue sky is never felt with such intensity as when change is imminent-- a move, a voyage, or on a dramatic scale, a death. Clouds are a beautiful, amazing planetary phenomena-- acres and acres of crimped and wispy shapes scattered across that incredible blue, reflected in the glass of the tallest city buildings, soaring out from between drab and dingy abandoned structures, and illuminated gold by the rising morning sun. To think of clouds and stars is a good and faithful reminder of the briefness of one's time on this planet, a reminder of the relative unimportance of most things we consider to be important. Answers, explanations, curiosities, the beautiful, the strange and the wondrous are readily discovered when the mind is fully present and ready to receive: be still, look, listen, consider the stars, and suddenly, the blue sky will leave you breathless.

A Motivation for Making Images

“For Caravaggio, making images is a way of focusing the mind. To paint something is to isolate it for the purposes of contemplation.” ~Andrew Graham-Dixon, Caravaggio: A Life Sacred & Profane

Whimsical Meandering

Carter is tiny, and bald, with the most expressive eyebrows; she must be the happiest baby in the world. Does she know this? Her and her mother's daily visit to the coffeeshop makes my day. What else makes my day? Working with G makes me realize that you can never run out of things to say about poop and farts. This is amazing.

Ballet today: Every class at Symmetry is a craft. The Lakme Flower Duet beckons me into class from the foyer. I try my best to commit each exercise to memory. It is surprisingly doable this second time. I think that I don't like to smile in ballet class. To me, ballet is a noble and stoic art form and it seems incongruous and not genuine to paste on a smile for an imagine audience. Did the Spartan soldiers smile in warfare, rigid training and weary marches?

After class, I skip out on pointe class in order to write out each exercise from memory into my sketchbook. I feel very much like a student, a very serious student. I am driven by the knowledge that nothing good lasts forever; I am in a rush to become an independent ballerina. As I write out my notes, I suddenly consider trying to become a real ballerina. Later I wonder what does this mean, to be a "real" ballerina? Is performance what separates the student from the professional? But I already perform in the streets. Perhaps I am already a ballerina, and I have made the world my stage. Ooh! An idea blooms...A long terms project...every year a new stage...this year Russia...next year...

There is hope yet for my studio.

After ballet, I stop by the bookstore on the way home and read Harold and the Purple Crayon at the low wooden table. Oh Harold! He reminds me of Carter, so bald and whimsical. He creates his own world just like I create mine.

A Forgotten Feat

Ha! On this day last year, I made my first latte leaf. Thanks for the reminder, facebook. What I have learned since then is that:

--there is more than one pouring technique that works

--the way a barista pours his latte art is somewhat reflective of his personality

--the push that urges the foam out is the same physical mechanism as when the car comes to a sudden, abrupt halt and your body continues, or is thrown forward

An amazing occurrence at work today: I inherited a turtle ring from a stranger. "Can you write me into your will for that ring?" I joked. A few more jokes and comments about the ring's origin, then a slight hesitation, and suddenly she was taking it off and giving it to me. The last time I experienced this sort of generosity from strangers was many times over in Kurdistan, when mothers and grandmothers would give me the scarf off their heads, and their little girls would give me cheap jewelry they'd bought at the bazaar.

This time, the gift is not so cheap-- an original from the Urban Outfitter headquarters, given to her by her ex, and now passed on to her barista. The particulars: Its silver head and legs wobble, and its back is studded with emeralds. It fits too loosely on all the fingers of my left hand, but once squeezed past my freakishly large right thumb knuckle, it remains snug and safe. Dr. Gashu saw the entire scene while he waited to order his daily cappuccino. "Did you guys really just meet?" Yup...yes indeed.

A funny occurrence at work today: I wore my new newsgirl hat with a sidelong bow, which I picked up at a Payless in New York City on Saturday, and it drew several independent comments about Chairman Mao. I tell them I am getting into the spirit of the Communist Era, in preparation for my trip to Russia. I realize I know next to nothing about Chairman Mao. So much to learn, so much to read, so little time to do it all.

The dynamic at the cafe today was strange: eerily quiet for the first hour or two, despite the gorgeous, perfect 80-degree weather outside, then finally the buzz of conversation began as a couple of regulars congregated in front of the bar. Behind the bar, I experienced one of the smoothest operations yet as I worked the register and John manned the machines for the first three hours.

Jeremiad: A Debbie Downer On Steroids, in Writing

A jeremiad is a "long, literary work which bitterly laments the state of society and its morals, and moreover prophesies its imminent downfall."

Assignment #6: Write a jeremiad. Preliminary exercise to this assignment: get seriously pissed off.

Pesto Roots

I'm making OG pesto tonight! Ingredients for OG pesto:

(a) pistillum (Latin)=>pestel (Old French)=>pestle (English).
(b) pistillum (Latin)=>pestare(Italian)=>pesto (Italian/English).
(c) Originally, a mortar and pestle was used to make pesto.

Note: The word pestle came before pesto since the former had to exist to make the latter. But they originate from the same Latin root.

Update from the kitchen:

The smell wafting out of the mortar is divinely basil-ic. The smashed basil swimming in its own juices looks like a home-made facial. I would like to slather it all over my face, but I shall resist.