New Press

Three french presses make up my posse. Please.

The first I got for a camping trip. It was a road trip, really. A month long tour of the northwest put me in my place. I moved here first.

The second was left for me, a glass number, by my friend Sean Price, when when he went off to Europe to follow his dream of becoming an international peacekeeping. And to follow love. I heard he's back delivering mail in Corvalis. Love letters to others from no one he knows. I don't think I met Sean.

The difference between theses two presses: the camping one was plastic and taller. The glass piece was short but had the same circumference. Why is this important?

For some reason I lost the screen for the first. The screen is important--it presses the grind down making the coffee cleanly. Without the wire sifter you are pressing down a shaft into your muddy water. I put the whole think in the cabinet and concentrating on the the shorter, glass press. Which is nice.

The glass beaker to this--your second press--rests in a metal cradle with the lid and press part separate. It cleans better than the first because of this, it's glass and comes apart from it's base. I made a lot of coffee continuously. Tightened many screws.

But then something tragic happened. While I was cleaning it one morning. I thought cleaning was easier with this one. I was at the trash bin--metal and modern-- and tapping the glass beaker to get out the rest of the grinds, stuck there on the bottom from yesterday's brew. The metal connected with the glass or the glass the metal. The thing crack. Glass broke off, even. I ended up dropping the whole thing into the can. That's sad.

I was crushed. I went to the cabinet having forgotten about the missing piece to my carafe. When I remembered I tried various combinations: plastic carafe with the glasses lid. Too short the shaft to effectively press. I had the grind but nothing to make coffee in. How bout the screen, at least? I detached the metal screen from the lid of the press that broke. I tried to attach it to the shaft to no avail. Metal and plastic don't make good mates.

Determinded I put the kettle on the burner. I put beans in the grinder and crushed em til they were find. Dropping the grind into the plastic beaker, I waited for the water to boil. I had a plan.

When I mixed the heated water with the grind below there was a confluence of wet and dry. The muddy water you were talking about. But hot. Like lava.

I decided to put the disc like screen on top and the bubbling quelled. With the plastic base of the press I pushed down the loose screen and with it the whole thing down. I was able to drink coffee again. But this act every time?

Then I got a gift. I opened up the box: a press. What's this, cords? Lids? It's so big...

Second Brew is All You

Big Truck For Sale

So,

Hey. I gots a big truck I'm trying to git rid of right quick. Gas prices are lo an this truck be high off the groun. This is a great opertuntity for you. See, I got laid off my recently from my construction job so don't need my for-by-for. But maybe you do. I jus need some money to pay this puppy off. Also I got to feed my little un. He growing so fast. Least I got this truck. Well, could be yours. Make me offer. I'll git you the keys.

Bye now,
Big Mike

Reasons for being cold

I type tonight to pass the time. I'm waiting for later. I don't know what I'll be doing later. It just won't be now. My wrist hurts. Not as much as before but still there's some pain. My nails are too long. They are cracking and pitted on some of my digits. My lips are chapped and my scalp has an itch. It's cold inside. Maybe colder in here than out there, though, I'm still not sure how that's possible. Maybe it's the wood floors, or the uncovered window panes that make it seem like tundra conditions in my kitchen. I sit on the toilet and yelp. Cold seat on my seat. Still, there are colder places I could be. I keep my fingers moving on the keyboard. Circulation. If they sopt moving they might shrivelup into balls and then where'd we be? I can't feel my toes. I have socks on--not even cotton--and dry shoes. They aren't on feet that are walking, though, and that might have something to do with it. Again, circulation. Still, where would I go? I walk up and down stairs to move and to stay in the house. If I leave I'll be colder, I think. I'll want to walk to the Ship. I'll order neat whiskey, well and a beer. I'll drink and want to go home but won't want to as well. Instead I'll sit here tonight exercising my fingers. Sipping red wine. Laundry.

Rising from the ashes

 

I lay there neither awake nor asleep

A laptop computer can make quite a racket. After an hour of, say, idle time the laptop computer prepares itself for sleep. There’s a tiny fan that spins, and the laptop computer’s screen lights up. Little green lights blink as the computer quests for hibernation.

Before going to sleep I’m awake. Tired I start reading, I’m not tired enough to fall asleep on my own. I read for a while and my eyes became too heavy for the next paragraph. I turn off the reading lamp. Still not asleep, not awake, my mind continues reading the story. My eyes are shut, but sentences form as the novel goes on. I’m back in the book with next paragraph to make sense of. I’m flooded with words, dialog and detail. It's different.

If I turn the reading lamp back on to bring the laptop computer out of standby, I know outcome will not be the scene I’d seen (not read). The thoughts I just lost cannot be recorded and saved on the screen when I wake up.

I stop not reading and begin dreaming. In my dream I invent a way to connect my laptop computer to my subconscious. I want these thoughts to be there when I wake up like I typed them to sound true. My eyes are closed and I’m unable to write it down. An hour of idle time the computer turns itself to sleep mode.

Volunteers, amateurs, call them what you will...