A Morning Poem, From My Desk at Work, Written Before Anyone Else Arrived, Because Those Emails Can Wait, But Poetry Demands My Focus, Before My Coffee Is Delivered
It’s that time of year when I attempt and fail to quit coffee drinking.
My nephew’s death hits hard and every morning I wake up having forgot he is gone and shower and dress and ready for the day, happy and wide, only to sink as the smell of my morning mocha slaps me back into place.
It’s not exactly cowering, but it’s definitely not standing tall.
I’ve signed up for a test that’s actually an interview that’s actually the qualification round of a sport where your personality is the muscle to train before competing.
The first four dimensions that the test is designed to reveal are:
Composure
Cultural Adaptability
Experience & Motivation and
Information Integration and Analysis.
Composure = self-control = staying calm = effective in stressful situations.
It’s not exactly lying, but it’s definitely not an authentic expressing of feelings.
Cultural adaptability = drinking tea and pretending it’s a sufficient substitute for espresso and shrugging off colleagues who outside of the office suspect you’re bound for hell.
Experience and motivation = born blessed and knowing how to sell yourself.
Information and analysis = I don’t know, I still have a couple months before the test, I better study.
There’s eight more dimensions, but they’re basically further explanations of the first four.
By the time you get to dimension ten, you wonder why twelve?
Maybe that’s how many were needed to fill one page?
To avoid awkward unexplained white space?
Maybe there’s a more mystical justification?
12 months, 12 hours, 12 tribes, 12 apostles, the 12 spices that will instantly make you a better cook.
Turmeric
Ginger
Pepper
Coriander
Mustard
Cinnamon
Basil
Cumin
Oregano
Rosemary
Cardamom
Bay leaf.
It’s not exactly chaos, but it’s definitely not easily understood.
Meanwhile, I’ve signed up for more than one book club, created a local writers workshop WhatsApp group, keep forgetting to book lodging for my upcoming vacation, and continue to worry whether my daughter and son need developmental interventions.
Meanwhile, my current work is busy busy bees knees and deadlines and projects.
Just like yours and hers and everyones.
It’s not exactly universal, but it’s definitely not unique.
I’m still avoiding writing my epic stories, my quick shorts and novellas in progress.
I shouldn’t be.
Because no matter how sinking sad I start, once I begin, as sentence follows word follows idea, I inescapably slide into silliness.
It’s not exactly therapy, but it’s definitely better than solitary thinking.
I could keep going, but my phone is alerting me to the soon to arrive delivery driver with my:
Third latte of the morning
Chocolate croissant
Hesitant hope
Cheese Danish
Work.
“and every morning I wake up having forgot”
I know this hell that you have perfectly put into words. I hope the words lead to sentences lead to healing lead to more poems/fiction/nonfiction/writing like this which I think help remind the rest of us we’re not alone.
Hi Wil.
I started drinking half caf coffee a while back to help with the jittery anxious feelings I have generally that I thought might be exacerbated by caffeine. This week I started added a second cup to my day. The mid-day mood slump was getting to me. All days start with energy and hope for me, and they all end with a bit of sadness and dissolution. It's a pattern I'd love to break but wonder how that's possible if I'm not willing to break the monotony of my self-imposed habits. The more things stay the same, the less they change?? That makes sense, I guess.
Grief is a beast.
Take care, friend. 💜