Presspots are funny things. They yield what I consider the best of the best as far as brewed coffee is concerned, but like anything worth a darn you have to watch it all the time, or, if not all the time, at least pay attention to the time. Plunge it too soon and the mixture is weak, wait too long the coffee is too strong and bitter. But if you pay attention, let it sit, wait, stir it up a bit and then press the screen down, you'll have a mighty fine cup of joe.
One thing about my current situation is that I play strictly by the book. My "alarm" goes off at eight. That's the latest I can stay in bed. If I want to watch or finish a movie it has to be done by then. When the clock tower bongs and the navy martial music plays it's time to get up, make the bed and hit the shower. Grind beans and heat up the water. Fire up the 'net. Let in the cat and give him his morning shot of tuna. Hit the things to do list and see what's on the burner for the day.
I have to wonder if I was equally disciplined seven years ago when I quit SPL. I've looked at that time as one of the finest summers of my life. I had my family around me, a nice chunk of change in my pocket, a ton of projects to knock out. We had good weather, my Estranged One pretty much gave me carte blanche as far as supplies were concerned and we kept the word that I was off work from the parents which kept us from being thought of as complete idiots. Grant it, we still had company to entertain, a conference to attend in California and an almost daily process of searching the internet for work to contend with but overall I was content and happy. That is until fall hit and the rains began. Then we hunkered down, dealt with banged out interior walls, saw that that holidays were coming and knew that the grand plan, of getting the house ready for sale, of grabbing that swell job in California, was not happening the way we expected. That golden summer of renovation and barbeques and sunshine was suddenly gone, and in it's place was the promise of a cold winter with funds about gone and the wolves baying at the door.
Then came the job offer. Once again my winning personality saved the day. No commute, a big crew to supervise and plenty of new challenges. Life began anew. Then, seven months later, I met you.
I was sitting on the couch this morning, before the press pot, before my shower, before the 'net came up. I had a hard time shaking dreams, wanted to stay in bed past the bonging of the clock tower, past the blaring of the martial trumpets, and so I did until the phone rang and I popped tall out of bed. But still, I just couldn't shake that sloth, that desire to stay in bed and sleep the day away. So I came downstairs and squandered fifteen more minutes, took a long look out the window at the inlet, let the grey skies take me away, and in that time thought of this house, what it meant to me for so long, and what in the end I gained by hanging onto it for so long.
Three days ago I sent a letter to the Estranged One. I told her how I felt about this house, about all the hard work, about the sweat equity, all that, how I became infatuated then fell in love with this place, how I placed it before her. I asked for forgiveness for doing that, then, a moment later there came a knock on the door and I had an tentative offer on the house. You see, I am a believer in such cosmic things, that you let stuff go and then things come back to you. That if you are sincere in your desires, in this case, to loose the house and get close to my kids again, and then your wishes will be granted.
I suppose that's why I was fixated on that mantle this morning while I sat in the quiet of the house. I looked at the green paint I had laid upon the walls, looked at the amateur construction job of the mantle and knew, at that time, when I did that work, that my love for this house took a different turn. I used it to impress you, used it instead of muscles, instead of cash flow, instead of prestiege. I let this house become an extention of me, of my culture mores, of my collecting jones. I put this house on like a suit and paraded around in it, did my best to impress you and other folks as they came through the door. I have to wonder if they saw what I finally saw today, that this house, while beautiful, was like that presspot of coffee. Without the kids and the family it was weak, without my life being firmly grounded it was too strong. I took this house as far as it could go and now wish to start over. I want to reheat the water, grind some new beans, heat up my cup and make a fresh pot.
I know that when you came her, when you kicked off your shoes and played parlor games and ate at my table you were seeing the whole me. You were tasting the brew plunged just right. I have been trying to find that perfect grind again ever since. I have tested the waters and found them lacking. I know it's because I lost the whole point of being here, lost my sense of timing, lost my desire to pay attention to the time. I plunged too soon and now this house is empty, work it being knocked out and it's up for sale. Full circle? Not quite, but close enough.
Can't be here with my kids, and couldn't find a way to be here with you, so what's the point? For a job across town or down the street? For an easy commute? No, the house, like the job that saved me so many years ago, are now both in question. And the big question is, how many more quiet mornings can I possible face in this house alone?
I loved putting that mantle together because every time you came by it was a bit closer to completion. I loved laying down the paint, too, as we sat on that old brown couch and picked and chose amongst the color swatches. I loved sharing with you the whole living room thing there for awhile, fire blazing, candles twinkling, music playing, games on the table, the whole shebang. But what I miss equally well is the noise and mess and hoorah of my children tearing the place up. If I can't have one it's time to recapture the other.
It's time press the pot. Tell me, my love, how did the brew turn out this time?
Your WHMB
One thing about my current situation is that I play strictly by the book. My "alarm" goes off at eight. That's the latest I can stay in bed. If I want to watch or finish a movie it has to be done by then. When the clock tower bongs and the navy martial music plays it's time to get up, make the bed and hit the shower. Grind beans and heat up the water. Fire up the 'net. Let in the cat and give him his morning shot of tuna. Hit the things to do list and see what's on the burner for the day.
I have to wonder if I was equally disciplined seven years ago when I quit SPL. I've looked at that time as one of the finest summers of my life. I had my family around me, a nice chunk of change in my pocket, a ton of projects to knock out. We had good weather, my Estranged One pretty much gave me carte blanche as far as supplies were concerned and we kept the word that I was off work from the parents which kept us from being thought of as complete idiots. Grant it, we still had company to entertain, a conference to attend in California and an almost daily process of searching the internet for work to contend with but overall I was content and happy. That is until fall hit and the rains began. Then we hunkered down, dealt with banged out interior walls, saw that that holidays were coming and knew that the grand plan, of getting the house ready for sale, of grabbing that swell job in California, was not happening the way we expected. That golden summer of renovation and barbeques and sunshine was suddenly gone, and in it's place was the promise of a cold winter with funds about gone and the wolves baying at the door.
Then came the job offer. Once again my winning personality saved the day. No commute, a big crew to supervise and plenty of new challenges. Life began anew. Then, seven months later, I met you.
I was sitting on the couch this morning, before the press pot, before my shower, before the 'net came up. I had a hard time shaking dreams, wanted to stay in bed past the bonging of the clock tower, past the blaring of the martial trumpets, and so I did until the phone rang and I popped tall out of bed. But still, I just couldn't shake that sloth, that desire to stay in bed and sleep the day away. So I came downstairs and squandered fifteen more minutes, took a long look out the window at the inlet, let the grey skies take me away, and in that time thought of this house, what it meant to me for so long, and what in the end I gained by hanging onto it for so long.
Three days ago I sent a letter to the Estranged One. I told her how I felt about this house, about all the hard work, about the sweat equity, all that, how I became infatuated then fell in love with this place, how I placed it before her. I asked for forgiveness for doing that, then, a moment later there came a knock on the door and I had an tentative offer on the house. You see, I am a believer in such cosmic things, that you let stuff go and then things come back to you. That if you are sincere in your desires, in this case, to loose the house and get close to my kids again, and then your wishes will be granted.
I suppose that's why I was fixated on that mantle this morning while I sat in the quiet of the house. I looked at the green paint I had laid upon the walls, looked at the amateur construction job of the mantle and knew, at that time, when I did that work, that my love for this house took a different turn. I used it to impress you, used it instead of muscles, instead of cash flow, instead of prestiege. I let this house become an extention of me, of my culture mores, of my collecting jones. I put this house on like a suit and paraded around in it, did my best to impress you and other folks as they came through the door. I have to wonder if they saw what I finally saw today, that this house, while beautiful, was like that presspot of coffee. Without the kids and the family it was weak, without my life being firmly grounded it was too strong. I took this house as far as it could go and now wish to start over. I want to reheat the water, grind some new beans, heat up my cup and make a fresh pot.
I know that when you came her, when you kicked off your shoes and played parlor games and ate at my table you were seeing the whole me. You were tasting the brew plunged just right. I have been trying to find that perfect grind again ever since. I have tested the waters and found them lacking. I know it's because I lost the whole point of being here, lost my sense of timing, lost my desire to pay attention to the time. I plunged too soon and now this house is empty, work it being knocked out and it's up for sale. Full circle? Not quite, but close enough.
Can't be here with my kids, and couldn't find a way to be here with you, so what's the point? For a job across town or down the street? For an easy commute? No, the house, like the job that saved me so many years ago, are now both in question. And the big question is, how many more quiet mornings can I possible face in this house alone?
I loved putting that mantle together because every time you came by it was a bit closer to completion. I loved laying down the paint, too, as we sat on that old brown couch and picked and chose amongst the color swatches. I loved sharing with you the whole living room thing there for awhile, fire blazing, candles twinkling, music playing, games on the table, the whole shebang. But what I miss equally well is the noise and mess and hoorah of my children tearing the place up. If I can't have one it's time to recapture the other.
It's time press the pot. Tell me, my love, how did the brew turn out this time?
Your WHMB
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