Monthly Archives: August 2015

The Grind

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Mocha Muse has its very own newspaper, The Grind. It may contain a quote, a poem, song lyrics, snippets of overheard conversation or fascinating facts about creativity/life. So, leather sofa in Home Interiorsnuggle into the sofa, unfold the paper and reach for your morning cup of coffee.

Here’s the twenty-second issue. . . just click on newspaper to enlarge, then continue to click until text is readable for you!

 

 

 

The Grind - (8-31-2015) Wanted Understanding Ear

 

I’ve not been a fan or follower of Stephen King since his earliest novels, however, this quote presses me into thought. The idea of writers not being bereft of stories to tell, but, rather, the tragedy that’s created when a wordsmith fails to find an empathetic ear.

It’s haunting. And, so true, I believe.

 

**Quote: Stephen King (Different Seasons)

Front Porches

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House - Black & White Illustration

 

My childhood largely revolved around front porches.

Front-porch life was stuffed with neighbors, waves, smiles, spontaneous conversations, sounds of children playing, delivery men, coffee klatsches, repose, daydreams, and mosquitoes.

On the East Coast, screened-in porches were a necessity if one wanted to linger in summer’s hazy, lazy, crazy days of white heat. And that quivery, tar-colored mesh created a new seasonal room overnight.

It was magical.

And I claimed it as my secret space .  .  . sitting on the painted mocha concrete, hidden from the gregarious world by a hedge of boxwood. So perfectly sculpted in geometrical angles. It was my father’s pride, as an engineer, to bring his drafting skills home from the office and share them with our landscaping.

It was technical perfection as it rounded a porch corner, and, tall enough to camouflage a tiny girl playing with her simmering fantasies.

Sitting on my front porch in the summer, I would look out at the world through a mesh veil of tiny squares. Small enough to prevent a mosquito from flying in. Fine enough to allow my child-eyes to see through. To see the details of life.

It was nearly transparent, but screen vision left an imprint on my inner lens.

Life always wore a tulle shroud of imperceptible right angles, square snapshots multiplied exponentially.

Vision was defined by bolts of woven wire. A plain weave. A diaphanous wall through which angels and children watch the world. Not yet knowing that life is really lived outside the graph paper rhythm of mosquito screening.

Insects do bite. And vision gains clarity outside the porch cloak.

But as a child, I felt protected inside the porch with its concrete floor and painted wooden side door. And the screens, where windows once sealed a space, now permitted breezes to visit in diced ripples.

I didn’t know yet that tiny squares were prisons, too.

And I didn’t know why mosquitoes were feared.

I was a child designing hopscotch blueprints and diagonal dreams for the asphalt avenue just outside the porch.

I was unaware of my containment in squares.

And unaware of what a vast breeding ground little square porches and concrete steps can offer to someday stoop-sitting philosophers like me.

Yes. It’s always a surprise to pause, take a moment to look back to childhood, and see how that child birthed the woman I am today.

A woman happy to sit in a rocking chair on any vintage front porch and daydream as cotton-candy clouds scud overhead.

Will I ever truly grow up?

Only time will tell.

Time: that faithful, gossipy scribe that records all life’s events – both visible and invisible.

 

 

The Grind

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Mocha Muse has its very own newspaper, The Grind. It may contain a quote, a poem, song lyrics, snippets of overheard conversation or fascinating facts about creativity/life. So, leather sofa in Home Interiorsnuggle into the sofa, unfold the paper and reach for your morning cup of coffee.

 

Here’s the twenty-first issue. . . just click on newspaper to enlarge, then continue to click until text is readable for you!

 

 

 

The Grind - (8-24-2015) Rhythmic Coffee Spilling

 

In my experience, waitressing can be a dance. A form of art in motion. A balancing act with a tray of plates or a single coffee cup perched in the palm of a hand.

It may look like drudgery to the untrained eye, but, actually it can be transformed to performance art.

 

 

Reference Source: UberFacts

Marooned Trucks

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Pickup Truck - New Mexico

One of my favorite personalities of New Mexico is desolation.

 

I tingle at its tableaux, especially pickup trucks parked randomly – slantwise on farm roads overgrown with buffalo grass. Parked on dust ravaged, ghostly earth. Earth that crawls continually toward the gaunt hills of a frontier desert, across a basin bottom that fillets before them, across those boundless flounder-flat plains.

 

This is also a portrait of my heart, I realize – a montage of rusty and hollowing. A still life of my red-clay heart sinking into fields of somber silt. Left behind by the thoughtlessness of time.

What attracts me to inertia is its potential. The power, love and wisdom that can flow through once the current is turned on.

I love the stillness of potential:

The hour just before dawn

The heart just before it loves

The marooned truck just before its engine ignites

The moments after death before the soul transitions

It’s all so scintillating.

Prairie Schooner Cartoonery by jayni

I look at my heart like a crazy cartoon outlined in black and I color it with ridiculously intense colors, trying to resuscitate it. Inflate it. Give it a second birth. Just as I do with marooned trucks that I adopt roadside.

 

Sometimes my heart feels like a sordid red satin curtsying cowgirl at the close of the fair. Waiting for her night shift to end. For night to run away, chased on its heels by dawn’s bloody fingertips.

 

I both fear and crave abandonment. I’m afraid of being totally unloved, yet, I want the world to leave me alone – to cast me into a field of decaying carnival rides. I want the corpse of the barker to kiss me goodnight on the boardwalk at midnight.

I’m a Jersey girl by birth, and, that birthmark can erupt like a wounded tattoo and go bankrupt without warning. I need my hood-love sometimes to tether my bilingual life to a knot in sea-beaten, sun-bleached wood.

 

It’s a moment after twilight and I’m angry.

The anger is born from me not knowing how to operate the instrument panel of my vehicle. The owner’s manual burned when my father died and no one has edited a new reference book.

 

I sense that if I have the keys and can read the dials and shift the gears, that I can save myself. That I can drive my forlorn prairie schooner out of the desert’s talcum powder dust, and into the merger of life’s crossroads.

 

In the quest for meaning, I know that many walks, or drives, through the lion’s den are required.

 

But right now, I’m still angry. Or, I’m angrier still because my dearest friend died last autumn. The last of the true friends.

 

Now I only face faux friends who charge me an exchange rate for likes and favorites and follows and comments and hashtags and stats that exceed the galaxy.

 

I hate bartering for friendship, for love.

 

I hate haggling in the brothel of Wall Street relationships, waiting for the bell to ring; waiting for the net to connect; waiting for inane conversation to begin only to bring shine to the ego of another and shadow to the heart of my vacant vehicle – dying little by little.

 

Yeah. I’ve been on the road all my life . . . out there running just to be on the run.

 

I need a little off-roading time for quiet, detailed contemplation.

 

I need to bury my burdens like a velveteen rabbit and learn to drive my own vehicle of soul back to the original destination from which I departed eons ago.

 

I’m just a traveling soul stripped of her colors. Trying to paint over my anger and reupholster my spirit. And rejoin my tribe.  Pickup Truck - Rusted Trio

 

The Grind

Standard

Mocha Muse has its very own newspaper, The Grind. It may contain a quote, a poem, song lyrics, snippets of overheard conversation or fascinating facts about creativity/life. So, leather sofa in Home Interiorsnuggle into the sofa, unfold the paper and reach for your morning cup of coffee.

 

Here’s the twentieth issue. . . just click on newspaper to enlarge, then continue to click until text is readable for you!

 

 

The Grind - (8-17-2015) Writers versus Waiters

 

 

 

**Quote: A. Lee Martinez