By the Drop

11 June 2006

“By The Drop”

By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy

Light filters through the blind, the purple flowers sway outside my window, I feel an easy assurance about the day.

And the warm air buckles at the opening door to the aroma of lattes and ginger tea
Music from the other room drifts down the hall,
creeps around the corner to couples and single sitters on comfy couches
There's a fig tree dancing above me and I wonder if the fruit's any good.
If it’s the deep, soulful nourishment or just the amped up shot that sustains me for the moment.
Cards sitting on my desk remind me of feelings I'd rather not feel, long tucked away as lessons learned.
The written history, like the stacks of NY Times by the door, forever etched into me
Those stories, those thoughts, from a year or two back, and more than twenty too, all collected and make up who I am today, right now.
And who I will be when I stand and return the scorching heat or cool of an open refrigerator.

An old business card reminds me of a jovial, deal-making, easy-smiling, big bear of a man, transitory friend, colleague really, temporary acquaintance, maybe nothing more, maybe
100 degrees. 6 degrees separated from warm, anxious not-so-strangers entering in my shop this Sunday morning.
Some make their order, take a moment, take their breakfast, beverage, and depart, while others linger, like the dogs sharing their company with me as the music continues to play.
They lap up conversation, words, sweet aroma of a partner they've walked with for most of the better part of their lives. Chicago horns enter the conversation.
And the piano drones on, shifting the mood from promise to subtle dread, I feel my pulse quicken and my grip tighten as I try to hold on,
My colorful, engaged palate in sharp contrast to the olive and tan earth tones and tile that hardens moment by moment, eternally.
The coffee in my cup nearly gone, lingering at the bottom, and on my tongue, a thin film of slightly sour taste, I pull my teeth over the surface to wipe it clean, and go back for a refill.
Full, empty, full again- life cycles and the whir of machines blending ingredients from places I've never seen and will never know.
Map of the world wrapped around the container and my mind, often drifting off to those far away places, far away peoples, temporary feelings I wish I could contain.
But I know containing is temporary, spilling out like a careless cup of tea or a tidal wave surging through the once dry land.

I surround myself all the time with images and things and sounds that will keep it constant, like Knopfler, a picture of Vaughan or Syd, a dictionary, a glass of pens, that dog asleep in the corner
"won nepo skcubrats" captures my attention. Perspective shifting with new angles, emotions shaped with every changing song.
The dust on the blinds and a whine from another room remind me of things I need to do, but the strumming six string keeps me seated.
Give me the beat, drifts Dobie, I wanna get lost in your rock n roll. I can think of no better place to be right now. Lost. Perfectly Lost.
Looking at The Dome on the wall I recall that feeling I first had, the first time on top, there was no better place to be at that time.
Atop a mountain, on top of your game, above a beautiful, vulnerable woman- knowing down is also a good way to go, too, like glacial water and bare feet.
Like the flowers in the garden that come back every spring, knowing that going up and coming down is part of life, inevitable, nearly automatic, wisdom I keep forgetting.
I'll never let you forget for your mind is my mind, you hopes my hope, your life mine, and yours.
Living life by the drop is ok, Stevie reminds me, because though we come in and leave alone, we're together lots in between.
I tilt the cup one more time, spill the last drop down my throat. My inner voice shouts across the shop and out into the blazing heat one more time, "Refill, please!"