The Coffee Guy's blog

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.

Productivity Problems Plague Populations

The innate need for nations to produce has been lost in the th9ought that we can be come an information world.  Get this, nothing can be done without labour.  Nothing can be done with out resources.  Information and technology are not labour or resources.

The big lie is that we as a nation can be thought of, and driven by, Information Technologies.   There is no measurable production from this sector.  Why, now after some A.C. 750 plus days into the world of Coronus pandemonium, do our leaders promote our failing economy with “work from home” mantras, “green tech” platitudes and such like pabulum of the oratory? 

The resourcefulness of entrepreneurs stifled by bureaucracy and NIMBYism.  Get out of my way and life.  Most of the first world a is governed by what we might affectionately call a representative government.  Unfortunately ALL these electees defer to the “staff” studies, reports form their underlings, research done, introspection and consultations out the wazzoo, and nothing from their brain.

These people have been elected because of that THEY said they believed and stood for.  W e did not elect them because of the staff on hand.  “Unproductive” civil servants are there to execute plans and not create or define them.  They produce nothing.  They are a net loss against the productivity of the doers.

If it is not tangible in a tactile sensile way, you have not produced.  Hence the weakness of economies.  GDP is the strength of and economy.  GDP is what a country had produced as a whole on AVERAGE per person.  The more tech and information and no producers we have, the lower the GDP and the weaker our economy will be.

Get out of the way!

Make a Macchiato Margie, froth it up.

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.

Vituperous Venting Violates Virtues

Whilst I can use expletives at Will or any other person, it is no my will to wile away the hours with wanton wry comments.  I pursue more puritan platitudes to place my mind at ease.  Definitive speech comes at a cost.  The frontal cortex works harder when the emotive parts of the cranium are at rest.

I could F**k with this and that. Pull up the rest of the seven words you couldn’t say on Television.  Slay the soothe with vernacular from Shakespeare.  Go at the worst of my banes with atrocious verbiage.  But I would rather formulate furtive flailings with flair and elan.

The regression to slang is sighter than the cue.  Even the dreaded text speech the young’ins of you spout and spiel, to be such a schlemiel is not my want. Speech must convey, script is meant to be read and understood.  All that and it needn’t always use the vulgar.

Of course, there are time where a nicely stropped cussing is needed.  Honed and to the point.  The, Less is More, is more important, and brings forth the intimation deeper to the heart of the matter.  It’s the drug of choice for the cranially challenged to browbeat the brethren incessantly with impiety.  Impudence receives nothing from those that need a scolding.

Speak truth to power with clarity.  Your, “How dare you!”s will only spurn disgust and disbelief.  You need to coddle the odd cudgel close to get your conversation heard.  The beaten brow holds not bead on the goal.  The dared, dared not. 

On the global stage the actors wage war on the unwashed.  We are that which we have described ourselves as in speech.  If you want the gold it is bought with honey and honour. The beasts are those that get the blood.  Bastards bleat with unbounded anger at the thought.  Not of the thought of it.

No Vente here Veronica, I prefer a Verona, dark and smooth.

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.

Educate and Emulate, Encourage and Enlighten

The term 'education' is the noun form of the verb educate. It comes from the Middle English educaten; coming from the Latin term educare, educatus meaning 'bring up, rear'; linked to educere meaning 'to lead forth' or 'bring out'. The suffix 'ion' refers to a particular action or process. It could also refer to the result of the same.

What the result is, is learning.  As it turns out, from the Middle Dutch leeren, Dutch leren.  Is it by coincidence, nature or nurture that we have a revelation that from information, you can get to knowledge?  Cogito ergo sum.  This does not mean that just because you are here, you know.  It must be either delivered or encouraged to be brought forth from that which has already been given.

From what we give, is what can be gleaned.  Nothing given, nothing gained.  The zero-sum game played here is unnerving at best.  What is it that we should give?  What is it that we are trying to deliver?  Air, water, land, sound, sight, touch, and taste.  All methods of conveyance.  The receiver must be aware there is something on the way; “I sent you something, didn’t you get the tracking number?”.

My German supplier has a subtle way of delivering the tracking number for which I wait endless days, weeks, and months for consummation of the contract.  Here in the instant world of the interweb thingy and Amazonian deliveries, I ponder the image of arrival.  Daily I get no education from this.  Perhaps weekly there comes a smidgeon of Pidgeon droppings of information bringing my level high.

To end the process of education, one needs to lack cognition.  Lacking cognition means you are no longer there.  Dementia proves this wrong.  It’s the delivery method which must change as well as the receiver.  We still orate, “pick up the phone”, “dial the number”, “tape it”, and many other phrases from the past.  No referential exercise to learn this from other than the intention of language.

Intonation and visual clues lead to odd conclusions.  Even in trended linguistic learning occurs on the streets of the virtual world.  We need more people red pilled into the fact we are at A.C. 646!  Keep your distance.

Make it eddy Edith, some movement in my Cuppa would be nice.

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.