People talk about art, the idea of it, the great altar of creativity where lesser human beings with real jobs and real problems just wouldn't fit in. Despite all recent evidence to the contrary -that great art can in fact not only be inspired but catalyzed by the sheer drudgery of modern, mundane life- people still talk about Art. Not art, but art. The idea of it. That electric wasteland of eccentricity and divine inspiration and unquestionable genius where the gainfully-employed fear to tread.
I'm sick of this reverse-snobbery. I'M NOT WORKING CLASS, I want to scream into the ears of the barista as he hands me my morning coffee, his pencil moustache acquiver, eyes accusatory, hands pulling away too soon in pariah-appraisal of my keyboard-smoothened fingertips. I turn and look around me at the expansively alternative ensemble of tattoos and piercings and ripped garments and fedoras that are part of this daily scene. I CAN BE QUIRKY AND IRRESPONSIBLE, I scream silently at these Gods of detached Cool, I CAN BE PAINFULLY AWARE AND SARDONIC AND
She's here. She of the espresso eyes and latte lovin' lips. I meander: first the sugar-and-cream-counter, then the newspaper stand, then back to grab a second paper napkin, all within a couple of feet off my customary bar stool. All this just to hear her order : "coffee: black. No, regular but no sugar, no no black, sorry, so black coffee, no sugar please. And a chocolate muffin?" The troughs and crests of her dietary indecision bounce off the pall off my smitten heart with a sort of pronounced nonchalance. Her voice has done this since the begining of Time, this dilly-dallying over the choice of beverage, that ridiculous question-like inflection at the end. Hearts that get broken along the way are merely the collateral of such dedicated caffeine consumption.
First date - Blink 182
I'm sick of this reverse-snobbery. I'M NOT WORKING CLASS, I want to scream into the ears of the barista as he hands me my morning coffee, his pencil moustache acquiver, eyes accusatory, hands pulling away too soon in pariah-appraisal of my keyboard-smoothened fingertips. I turn and look around me at the expansively alternative ensemble of tattoos and piercings and ripped garments and fedoras that are part of this daily scene. I CAN BE QUIRKY AND IRRESPONSIBLE, I scream silently at these Gods of detached Cool, I CAN BE PAINFULLY AWARE AND SARDONIC AND
She's here. She of the espresso eyes and latte lovin' lips. I meander: first the sugar-and-cream-counter, then the newspaper stand, then back to grab a second paper napkin, all within a couple of feet off my customary bar stool. All this just to hear her order : "coffee: black. No, regular but no sugar, no no black, sorry, so black coffee, no sugar please. And a chocolate muffin?" The troughs and crests of her dietary indecision bounce off the pall off my smitten heart with a sort of pronounced nonchalance. Her voice has done this since the begining of Time, this dilly-dallying over the choice of beverage, that ridiculous question-like inflection at the end. Hearts that get broken along the way are merely the collateral of such dedicated caffeine consumption.
First date - Blink 182
4 comments:
I always order "real" coffee at Starbucks, just to make them mental. Black as night. Hot as Hell. Bitter as Marriage. (Recipe for good coffee from a Peruvian friend of mine).
I have yet to hear an attractive definition of "ART".
From art to smitten-ness ... I think you've about covered it all here in one succinct post. Oh, religion ... but you could make a case for worshiping caffeine or beautiful women, so it works. Nice bit of writing.
xxx
@the blog fodder: Wish I had your balls mate. Seriously intimidated by those coffeeshop types. I'm pretty sure they spit in your drink if you order anything without a fancy name.
@goatman: I hear you but its important (to me) to not sound like a disgruntled Guardian reader,so I let it go. Slippery slope, I know.
@red dirt girl: No greater deity than Woman, spot on.
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