An Experienced Sip

The following story took place on the corner of Grand Avenue, adjacent to Barnes and Nobles. I was attending Michigan State University (MSU) at the time, getting my second Bachelor's degree in English.

Enjoy my MSU story:

The tip of my tongue, ah, a lost sense and a singed reminder from the after math of a venti-size latte attack. This has been my reward for an investment in caffeination. Huh? You mean the conjunction of caffeine and nation can go together? Like ham and eggs or m & m or Jack and Jill? Yep! Exactly like that.

I find myself lacking originality as I timely sip away the mixed pools of black and milk in a mass-produced styro-foam cup. I don’t have to look too far to note my accessories are a book on English Literature in the 16th Century Excluding Drama and a pamphlet on Studies in Philology.

My itemization of meaning and function continue with my feet propped on a wooden stool with four, disjointed legs. I find myself shifting the weight in my legs as I compete to match the rhythm of Eric Clapton’s Change the World. Clapton’s song is currently winning. Go figure. I try to refocus and ask myself, “Why am I in a coffee shop to begin with?" Did I come in for the cozy, warm environment? Hardly. I could have gotten that by cuddling with Tabs, my orange, over-fluffed tabby, in front of my imaginary fireplace overlooking my balcony of 40-foot tall pine trees. Did I come in for the attention? Well, I guess buying my coffee did assist in my conversational skills with the cashier.

Her haircut was cut short with streaks of blue at the tips. The blue seemed to be running away from the bleach-blond in her hair. Her smile was attractive with pink gloss splashed over two lips in a full, red hue. Her round nose was pierced, and earlier I overheard her conversation on existential a priori behavior in the characters of Tolstoy’s War and Peace with a customer who had just purchased a grande-size Americano—whatever that is. As always, upon hearing such conversations I wanted to join in, but remained inaudible, held back by the principle of wait to be asked. Yeah, right. Like anyone really abides by such an “understood” mandate.

Truly, I came into the coffee shop because I could. I guess I liken it to a mountain climber climbing a mountain. When asked the question-“Why? Why did you climb Mt. so-and-so?” To his credit he uttered, “Well, because it was there.” I sat down where I sat down because I could. I bought the hot drink because I could. And when I am ready to leave and move on toward my next destination I will, though not because I have to, but because I can. There is a certain peace in knowing that you have the power of choice as well as the movement to complement that choice. It is within my autonomy, no.

My coffee is now half-filled, or is it half-emptied? I forget which one is more intellectual to think upon, and which one displays the disposition of an active pragmatist. Both deal with a philosophy of choice, right? Right. Anyhow, I get up from my chair to throw the cold, and now distant coffee away. The trash can is roughly 10 feet away and suddenly a rush of wanting to shoot the cup into the basket comes over me. The feeling is like a wave of hope and risk and fear and embarrassment all into one. Then, as it would happen logic, my friend, visits with his neighbor, my mind. “The cup is not empty,” he says. And again, “If you miss, people will notice.” And yet, I feel that I can make it. My emotion is fighting within and yearns to have a voice aussi. From within, the cries express- “Shoot it! You’ll never know until you try it. Believe in yourself!”

I have forgotten that with such a battle raging from within all crevices and interfolds of my person I have been standing throughout this moment of interlocution. I have lost track of time and I cannot recollect whether my “stand” has been a long or a short history. I play it off as if I were day-musing and proceed, with purpose and caution, toward the trash can. Logic has won. No throw—just a simple trip and discard.

I reward myself by asking for a cup of water. I call it a reward because it will dilute my caffeinated culpabilis. I walk back to my chair and stool in hope to actually read something that I have brought, but my love for the aesthetic appearance of scholarship wins out over my actual reading of the works laying on the round table.

I think back to Arthur’s Camelot and the decisions of a king. I come up with a poem on the spot:

O Arthur your Angle Land is no more,
A vision of the immortal Camelot vanished,
Your knights are sleepless, exhaling victory in a snore,
This day is blood-red like the heart established.
Will your legacy hold up beyond the curtain?
Will your shamed marriage affect man and land?
I answer as one descended, like a man certain,
Yet cautious are my steps, though upright I stand.
I will answer the Lord’s anointed and state-
“Your legend precedes you and remains arabesque,
Thy kingdom is seconded, filled with revilers of late,
The gates to your throne round are unpolished majestic”.
O Noble descendant from Pendragon’s stir,
My fears are mortal, your sword still Excalibur.

My poem is a work of expression from an inspired time in a daydream. My modernity gets in the way from true, original expression. My response: I turn from reading to spectating. I am careful to not meet anyone’s gaze. This is a safety measure on my part. The shop is filled with noise and the chatter of students, scholars, and would-be student scholars.

Everyone is under the guise and disguise of buis[y]ness. I notice that no one looks at their notes or books long enough, but that all look around to observe. The entrance door is the only constant, dynamic thing in the room- opening and closing, then opening again.

I think about the frequency of child birth and elderly death and link it to an open and shut door with intricate characters involved in their comings and goings. What ratio would be proper I wonder? Then it hits me! Only the committed stay! I mean some come in, buy their drink, then leave. Others come in, ask for water instead of the dark, brewed magic, and sit down where there is vacancy. Still, only the committed buy a drink and stay to appreciate their investment. I noted that this is exactly what I had done and that I was a part and member of the caffeination. What a realization of overwhelming peace for the person who finds the meaning of existence in a coffee shop from simple, yet profound observation(s). Verily, verily a likened ontology, whose epistemology, centered and thrived on the black and milk of liquid magic.

I learned a lot that day about myself and the “others” that existed in their supportive role(s). The most important thing discovered was that I belonged to an eclectic few, a proud group, and that I could continue such fellowship tomorrow and the next day, and the day after that; but for now, I got up to leave.

I would be back, temporarily escaping my membership; I would allow someone else to experience such a dangerous delight that came from an attack upon the sense of taste, and like that French thinker suggested—in terms of différence, perhaps then such peaceful relations are indeed rare.