The Coffee Guy's blog

Dentists, Dentes, Redemption, and Resurrection

The art of oral eradication of one or more Dente, requires a finesse I could not muster.  I can at the best hold my own in the chair.  The pleasantries and patter are not enough for my nature. 

I have unsewn, unstitched and pulled all but two of the sutures threaded into my outer membrane.  Thankfully these most recent are dissolvable.  Using a mirror to pull them is an unforgivable experience.  I did 18 once.

In modern times these are specialists.   In those of yore, they were masters of none.  The apothecarist was also the extractor, barrister, and trader.  Today they do not allow the alcoholic daze to numb the gums.  Its swabs, or needles, or a gaseous substance, to make you as unaware as you can afford. 

I recall as a child pulling quills from the Porky Pine out of our dog’s snout.  We used ether in a bread bag over his head at first.  He awoke no the wiser; he did it again.  Ah the bush life.  Our current social porosity allows for the exemption of these tribulations.  We manifest our lives bisected into private and personal.  Wouldst I post a pic?  Would I describe in detail, adjure your comment and pixelization of my subjugation to pain?  NOPE!

We have deemed the necessary as unimportant and the trite as indispensable.  The cross pollination of these ideas has become the flowers of our lives.  The crop shorn short, the lowest common denominator.  The global calculation of our existence depends on the smallest clue. 

With the flourishing development of more and less interesting ways of excelling and exceeding expectations.  Great Expectations is a tome.  Our expectations are a snippet.

Disembogue the filtered nectar destiny, I like the flow.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Voice Your Vote and Vanquish the Villains

Duty and obligation are oft used interchangeably: they are not always so.  Duty, derives it existence from the requirement or owing of something. Obligation, has a moral root from the belief that you must perform something.

You as a member of a democratic society, have an obligation to go to polls and place your ex on a spot and vote.  Your have no duty to do so.  You do not owe me or any other person you action to make your make on the ballot.  Your moral requirement is derived from your acceptance by residing where you do.  A representative democracy places a moral obligation on you to state who will be the person to represent you.

You cannot simply say, “I don’t care who gets in, they are all the same.”.  by accepting to live here, you are obliged to do the smallest part of your obligation and pass your say on to a representative.  Society does not operate by rules or laws, it operates because we all agree there is a moral obligation to act in certain ways.

Now you may say my guy I voted for was not elected.  That may be true, but you completed your moral obligation to voice your opinion and toss your hat the way of the person of your choice.  That is all that is required.  The elected are then entrusted with your morality through them.  You are now absolved of responsibility until the term of office is complete.

You owe no body anything that you should vote.  When this occurs, it is called patronage.  Somebody paid you for your vote.  In a representative democracy, it is known as corruption.   While this does happen more often that one might think, it is not the reason to vote or a good reason to vote.  Corruption is unavoidable with the human spirit.  Freedom of thought is inviolable.

These times occur at various terms and opportunities as we all live and age.  When you are able, morally you must. 

Foam it on the top Fabriana, make your mark.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

When Ingenious and Industrious, Tribulations are Trivial

Hobby is an unknown word or action to many if not most.  Too many it is rare; occupation is a must.  There are those that think they could become active.  Activity is a mindset.  I feel Atlas is about to Shrug.

Intensity and determination do not mean speed, it’s a formula for concentration.  Grey matter needs exercise as much as red matter.  One thing that makes me smile every time is watching the act of being industrious.  Mind by means, making mother earth better.  It is not merely the acts themselves, but the actions entwined in those acts.

It is a pleasure to savour the labours of others.  Respect and reflect on the processes from body part to brain and back again.  Some repetitive, some talented, some unique, and some definitive.  From idea to design through implementation.  How obvious it is from the etymology, from the Latin “diligent” and “assiduous”.  Exactly how I saw it, and see it.

I am the opposite; I prefer the privacy of my mind while I persevere in my toils.  Me plugging away, solving problems and plotting my diligence.  To be the watched or the watcher both have their benefits.  I could have sat back and beheld for hours.  But here as I toil on one task, pondering another, my mind is discovering new techniques, subtle changes and alterations, new roads to the end.

I posited about the GNP a while back, it too is wrapped up in this.  There are so few with the drive for new different and the creation of objet d’art.  To me, any “thing” you have done is that described as such.  Colour, texture, material, materiel, medium, and the message all ooze forth from the crania of the masses.  You have to let it out after you excavate your brain.  Play with it and cajole it into that which pleases you solely. 

When the weight of the world is too great, the forces acting upon it will need to scratch that itch.  It will not be smooth, there will be jostling of the orb to reach JUST that spot.   Shrug as you would.

Rainy day Rhonda, make it a hot pour over today.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Sun and Swill on a Sunday

As the gold orb rose, and the Riff Raff rousted, plans proceeded preciously preening probable uses of the hours.  It only lasted a few, and I was out for it all.  As air nearing the lake to the east became cooler, we rode west young man.  Into the reserve not using mine.  The S was sipping but for a few needed twists to catch up at times.  And I did.

Fresh and nippy, burping and squawking at the beginning, expected after a long cold winter.  All that should and could tan did by all reports.  Some had donned too many and some not enough.  Herds and heards about as we wended our ways.   Each decision based on which was the turniest, and which would deliver the most fun. 

Hill and dale welcomed up at each juncture.  Some on muscle power had us using the French contractor routes.  Some gravel and some lined, most were free of encumbrances.  Sightseeing stops added and passed the golden orb hung up all day.  Stopping for a tube steak and pommes frites added a fresh resolve to rip’r again. 

Thinking of others and pass times of theirs, glad that all would be out that day.  As expected, vintage and resto’s shared the bitumen readily and often.  Shined up and ready for the ocular receptors.  Playing “my car, your car” in my head.  Would I wonder if?  Spring breezes pushing and pulling on my decisions on which direction would be next.  See a turn, miss a turn, take a turn for the better.

Each dodge and weave a new sense and sensibilia.  Winter begone my friend.  The super-tropics brings a shorts summer, stilted again this year with a shortened spring.  Eagerness to make rotations on the twos, decisions to be made on which ones.  I try to keep the wear and tear even, but sometimes the decision is made for me by the destination.

T'was good to get out twisting and turning till the sun tipped off the horizon.  Next day, next bike, next ride, next adventure.

Make the steam curl Maria, I like the aroma that way.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Quintessential Quilting Qualifies Quarterly as Quality Quakes

At what point does a quilt become a mosaic?  Both have a salmagundi of pieces and colours.  Both are assembled. Both can depict a scene. Both are considered both art and craft.  Both can be of varied media.  Both are an expression of performance.

I know of a few who partake in the activity in various mediums.  That which is appealing is that which is a manifestation of an idea, a fugacious vision retained and brough forth.  Placed in detailed orientation on a breadth and width.

The eyes of those that behold, all see a new form.  All see that which relates to their past and present danger and pleasure.  It is not the “I” that matters, it it’s the “eye” that sees and enjoys the vision.  In fact, the eye sees all as a quilt of reality.   The mind or brain derives its conclusion.

Whether or not the description belies the reality is of no importance: it is the act of placing an image in front of an ocular interpretation that arrives at a conclusion which has import for the world.  World views vary as do images depicted.  Whence has thou depicted that which you wish to show the world?

The one whom dost do that which comes from within, sees that which is of interest or disinterest.  The need to exude is unstoppable.  The need to show cannot be quelled.  It just comes out.  The product cannot be pushed asunder.   It is.  As you are: cogito ergo sum.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

I, Aye Aye the I for Ideology Ideally

In conversation, the directness of contact comes in many ways.  Some audible, some visual, and some tactile.  Which of it has the greatest import at what instant in the palaver?

During elocution, the receiver has an obligation to both absorb and understand.  Some information comes in the form of sounds, some visually, some tactilely, and some optically.  For me the eyes have it.  Deep understanding is tossed into me by the look.  I catch the intent and intensity of the point with my eyes.  Of course, the glove must be open to catch the ball.  Just looking is not necessarily seeing.

Why is it that the most silent of all senses sends and receives so loudly?  At times I can feel this as much as if I was poked by a pin.  Not only in a negative way, which I have rarely experienced, but in a positive reassuring way: “Yes, that is exactly what I mean.”  No stare, no blink, no watering of the eyes, just a solid, “Yes, I understand.”.

Of course, there is always the incessant trap to fall into with some interlocutors.  To look and not stare can become a daunting task in itself.  The ones which mesmerize you may not be the ones that have that effect on me.  I know by rote those that influence me.  There is no discovery often needed through oration, a distinct look is enough and the words on reaffirm the already understood inferences.

To view is not necessarily to regard.  When we regard something, it is the act of taking notice.  Observing the import and export of the studied.  We take in what our filters allow.  Open filters will deliver more information.  Oft as I ingest the eyes of a dialogist, the sounds of speech disappear and wane and I glean a deeper understanding through sight.

Let it pour Liza, I like it café noir.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Frisky Friends Flinch at Foghorns

Following forecasts, the fellows who fry fingers at the chicken joint are acutely aware of over cooking.  Activity at its base, is the act of change over stasis.  Moving and manipulating ambulatory limbs is the minimum.  You can jig or jag, but there must be a delta in the equation.

The painter applies a medium to a medium, the art comes from the conjoining of those multitudinous applications.  While some appear random, the gist is obvious.  Depth and breadth create the third dimension in our minds eye.  The artist does not push anything, the image is pulled from within the medium.

Once on a stretch, the kernel grows into an image.  The image is then developed by the third party being you, the interloper.  Morphology transcends the objet d'art.  Sometimes the missing is that which creates the substance.  Visually and with tactile developments, the artist evokes both emotion and recognition. 

The “Chicken and the Egg” quandary comes to mind, was the vision there prior to execution?  Or was the vision only after completion?   Having seen, sketched and gestated upon, was that iconic piece finished with the exception on simply laying down some paste?  Conversely, was that final product in mind all along and the dreaming, sketching and cogitating was simply a road needed to be travelled to get there?

Cats on the other hand have no apparent volition.  Mere momentary mental mythical monstrosities managing their movement at any one time.  One moment calm and serene, the next a devilishly Tasmanian frenzy of motion.  The feline foibles are vastly underrated.  Unlike the, on first glance, method of application of a thick past on thin canvas.  Did Van Gogh paint in a flurry or in a slow intentional baste of oil on velum?

While I write in response, I see the digested words of others and wonder.  Can I or would I write in a way contrived to be desirable or even cogent?  I have.  Innumerable pages of it in past lives.  Dissertationous pablum directed at a small cadre of consumers.  I am beyond that now and simply inspired by the life in a day of what I see and experience.

Unusually a Cappuccino Corrine, make it emblematic.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Concerns of Coffee Confuse the Conscious

No goat will know better.  No goat will not eat cherries. No goat ate my coffee cherries.  Yup, they are not beans, they are roasted cherry pits.  The African villager who found frisky fonts of energy when he shepherded his flock away back, knew at that point he was in for some fun.  Lest it be known that the process was refined much later.

Whilst those in the know are aware, there are two “coffees”, the Arabica and the Robusta.  What you pour into your vessel now is either a blend of the two, a crossbreed of the two, or one or the other.  Both have functions in the flavour and aroma departments. 

Robusta the necessary part of the Crème for an espresso blend, the deep rich flavour of Arabica for the dainty an undeveloped palate.  Roasting methods and procedures also play a part in flavour development.  As well, the level of caffeine varies between the two with Robusta being the higher of the two.  Shape and other factors are more market sensitive and have no influence on flavour.

Futures on Coffee have nearly doubled over the past year, with Covid issues, fuel, transport bottle necks, and economic issues in general fueling the fire.  The future is fine otherwise, caffeinated for sure.  What has not changed it the roaster community growth.  While some are good and some are bad, others have consistency problems, on the whole the breadth of options has increased.

The down side of small independent operators and their numbers growing, is the certification and quality control of the final product.  Large producers know and can control chaff and shell amounts.  These are things in your coffee that make for bulk and weight but deliver no taste or quality.  Of course, the best coffee is milled in home immediately before brewing.  But who doesn’t love the aroma of freshly opened bags of ground coffee?

A big home brew mistake is getting a “basher” rather than a “mill” grinder.  A basher has blades that spin very fast and just bash the coffee “beans” apart.  A mill has two plates through which the “beans” are guided and slowly rolled apart to a certain size. 

Any way you lie your coffee, take the time to enjoy all stages from sourcing to drinking.  Take note of your likes and dislikes to avoid waste and distaste. 

Coffee for the Nation today Clarissa, Make it national.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Lets Loquate about Ludicrous Lockdowns

There are three types of lock-down.  Type one is languishing.  Type two is lovingly.  Type three is ludicrous.  Each on its own can be desirable or destructive.  Once implemented there is not switching form yon to fro.  Stone etching is as permanent.

Exploring alone will glean insight and instruction.  Once I was on a beach in a far-off land west of here.  I had no resources to leave, desire to move, or ability to select other options in life.  The sand, white and warm, slipped through my toes like four little hour glasses ticking off the duration of entrapment in granular form.  There was glee and glasses as we swam in the sunlight and saltwater.

The desire to depart was unknown.  The want of tergiversation into ways of olde had vanished form our cranial reserves.  Sated on the sand was our stead.  Gladly locked down on a nearly vacant stretch of sand in a far-off dominion.  Thus was our way, opted in willfully and with wanton need of the environs.

Locked down into love with that person who returns the affection is also done uncompromisingly.  That lode of thanks for lust lets one languish in time.  We spare nothing to bring what we need to the other.  What one speaks the truth to unfalteringly.  We could harvest hours of pleasure just in that company.  Crave for more as our eyes turn shortly away.  Return to look again and be even more in need of the same.

Passing the ticks of time is endless yet unknown.  We can pronate here until time immemorial.  Or till that time as we all pass on.  Further and farther, fonder and for ever.  The locks of this jail are willingly left clasped together.  The key not sought and the lock rusting over.  Glad of our stead in life.

The final lock-down is ludicrous.  Un wanted, un willing, un wished for, un washed, and un worked.  The raison d’etre and sanctification is that not of our doing, but that of others.  Wanton wry wrist constraints, mental or physical are not ours.  We posit options and opinions erstwhile denied.  Say that which our druthers expect.  Unfortunately, the shackles are clasped too tightly to shake. 

The key unknown and tossed in the detritus of life.  Speed forth and solemnify extrication.  We are leaving.  Lost and listless.  Southbound and slipping the light fantastic in our loins.  Get me hack home.

List it as a Latte and froth it up Lily.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Yen and Yearn for Your Yesterday

When what I did when comes around, I polish off the old and revel in the new.  The platitude, “get back to normal” is in error.  What I yen for is a new day where masks and protocols are not in the mix.  Why would I go back?  Where would I lead me?  I want to break free, to quote a good songster.

They yore of yesteryear will never return except in your yearnings.  Worry not of the past, not of the future, but of what you can control now.  Dr Leo Buscaglia posited this some 35 years ago.  It holds true today.  The coming year will determine following years.  Will things change?  Yes.  Will they be something you know now? No.

The tomorrow of wishers is the fluff filling the interweb thingy with trash.  Trash talking the world away will get you less of the more.  Working your world into what you want will guide you to that which is desired.  We all desire something different.  We all wish for the nought and the hole.  Wish for the torus, not the void.

Substance is that which you can, vapour is untouchable.  Could the secret service use it and find the money?  Nope.  Only consume what you can use, use it wisely.  Only purchase what you can carry, employ, or ply.  Storage lockers around the world belie the folly of the past.  “I though I would.”  “I was going to.”  “I need that.”  Fair estimations of decisions fraught with fallacy.

The future is not going back to “normal”. It has been to long, move along. Move with stealth, determination, and fortitude.  The fray is not to be joined, but to be directed.  Move with earnest tenacious resolve.  This will pull and sway that which you want closer.  Anything less is imprudence. 

In chess, the game, your move is unreturnable.  There is no stale date, no period of limitations, no undo function.  You will survive the board if the process of movement is correct. Your King will fall to folly.  Flake that bark off gently, the tree survives by covering it base.  Scarring and marring will lead to dried out membranes and life loss.

Perked piques my palate Paula, Pour slowly.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Ire Isn’t Always Instantly ad Infinitum

Muse what you might from misinformation.  Mine came as a mind storm of mania.  While I am rarely in a state of Ire, at times it’s a good vent for steam in the cranium.  The flushed face of irritancies shows well the extent of one’s pulchritude.

Not my place to judge, my place to allow the effluvial nature exude.  The delight of seeing calm within a stormy offering allows the writer to delight.  It came as a realization when having a parley.  Observation is all part f the act of listening.  You can hear with your eyes and ears.  Similar to tasting with your nose.

Mine is not the Ire I mention, its other’s which is more pleasing.  Whilst I can dredge up that situation which can push you into the state of which we speak, that is not the direction to which I might leadst thou.  Mere mention of a mnemonic might make you muster or mutter.  My favourite from years in higher education was FSYLDSSRB.  Call me if you know.

Don’t let your Ire out if you don’t.  The only flushed face this season should be on the red togged sorts.  Relinquished rallies of rants brings the beauty of colour of your mien.  Are you the emotive type internally or externally?  That within is with all.  I can visually ingest that for days or nights or both. 

Short today Shirley, make it strong.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.