coffee

Coffee

This is how the weeks went, except for those days when we drank coffee out rather than in, we would rise in the morning and after breakfast which is I think indescribable we would slip between the slivers of time, an hour or two spent planting trees and bushes, slipping between the shims of the machine of time, with the gentle precision that planting trees brings. And then in the late morning stopping, put down the tools and rejoining the others, the living, making coffee in the espresso machine and the red grinder, it arrived on the Saturday, an acute process — sometimes I made the coffee and sometimes one of the others, in which case I’d learn against the table with my elbows supporting me as i watch them make coffee, the black/brown liquid pouring from the portafilter into the 7oz cup, hot semi-skimmed milk poured chaotically into the cup, we know longer talk about the world, simply about the micropolitics that is us. Today we will talk about what it is to be the child of refuges, migrants. With half an eye I watch the changing structure of the walled garden. To then drink the coffee, talking about what you don’t know about since the world is outside of this place, the drinking is unexpectedly real, he offers you a still warm brioche that he made this morning, dipped into the coffee it slides into your mouth and down your throat with a memory of past mornings and nights, this, is, the appearance of the vague waiting for you, us to act on the world…