Tag Archives: coffee

Gomez

Oh, my dears. It’s been a long week. And it is Friday night. The sky is dark, the moon is traveling past the stars, and much of the world is readying for bed. Curl up and listen to the tales I weave, until your eyes grow heavy and you slip into slumber, ready for the Dream Maker.

Deep in Mongolia, near a castle built by Tsogt Taij, lives Gomez. Gomez has a farm of 73 acres, and he toils over his coffee crop, determined to grow a blend that brings to mind clear skies, warm earth and grass for as far as the eye can see.

He calls his blend Zanabazar, after the first Jebtsundamba Khutughtu in 1640. Unfortunately for Gomez (and, quite frankly, the rest of us), coffee prefers warmer and lusher climes, and until he gets his state-of-the-art greenhouse yert built, Zanabazar is just a dream.

Gomez also raises goats on his land, and since he’s rather short, he wears tall golden ears so that he’s easily found amidst the herds. He reads poetry to the goats as they wander the acreage, and his deeply resonating voice echoes across the quiet skies.

Perhaps future generations will sip Zanabazar and raise coffee wherever they please in yerts full of warmth and fertile earth. Perhaps future generations will see drawings of Gomez in his gold ears, poems etched into the walls above his image, like in the Khoid Tsenkher Cave.

And we, we shall admire Gomez for his dreams. For his faith in the beauty of simple things – like goats, coffee, and poetry. We shall dream big dreams for ourselves, and will stare on hills towards the sky, barefoot like Gomez.

Wearing gold ears.

Sleep tight, my pets. Dream deep.

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Half Melted Owl

It appears I keep the house to cool at night for Bubo’s liking.

This morning I woke to find a snowman on my dressing table. He was holding a lit candle and was not melting one bit.

Owls.

They are so passive-aggressive pre-coffee. Post coffee they’re just aggressive. It’s a no-win situation, really.

 

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Dysthemia

I stubbed my toe this morning and managed to spill the last of my Turkish coffee all over my bedspread.

While this is not an abnormal occurrence (my bedspread is a soothing shade of brown that Bubo calls “hot spill”), the sudden lack of my special coffee sent me into a bit of a malaise. As did my toe smarting rather ferociously.

Perhaps this malaise is in part due to holiday let-down; on my morning constitutional the sight of so many Christmas trees dropping pine needles onto the Brooklyn sidewalks struck me as sad. Whether or not you celebrate a traditional Christmas, those abandoned trees is unquestionably morose.

Perhaps this malaise is merely due to my low caffeine levels.

Or it’s due to Bubo’s apparent New Year’s resolution to watch more reality television. Owls. Nothing to be done about them. But she’s no longer interested in our evening Scrabble games.

Whatever the reason, I shall soldier on. At least the house is empty of relatives. That is quite the respite.

Dysthemia is a noun for mild, chronic depression. It comes from the Greek words dys for bad  plus thymia for mental disorder. Thymia is, of course, from thymos which means mental, mind, soul.

Dysthemia is an obsolete psychiatric term. There are some discrepancies when it comes to the word’s origins – some believe the term was first coined in the 1840s while some believe the term was coined in the 1970s by Dr. Robert Spitzer.

Whatever the origins, if you are suffering from some seasonal dysthemia, you are not alone. Do watch your coffee and your toes, dears.

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Groggy Fever

Mordecai and I imbibed too much grog last night. We watched Admiral (Адмиралъ), a Russian biopic film that follows Alexander Kolchak and takes place during the Russian Civil War of the early 1900s.

I was thus foggy when awoken this morning by Bubo.

She was crooning Peggy Lee’s infamous song Fever. In Russian. Clearly in her cups, Bubo seemed happy, if exhausted. A trip to Maine means she visits some rather raucous owls.

She is now sleeping it off whilst Mordecai and I sip coffee and watch the wild turkeys chase each other along Harpswell Neck.

By the way, pets, it’s Kwanzaa. Are you celebrating?

 

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