December 1, 2011

Pickled Coffee

Coffee, put in a pickle jar, held tight by fingers protruding from cut-off mittens. A hat, with feather, perched over sharp eyes and a loose beard. Something about that is right. Coffee, had with no pretense, in whatever and however. But mostly, coffee, had with a certain contentedness and happiness.

This contrasts, more than a little, with the aesthetic presented on numerous other occasions. But it's something like the ideal I imagine. Not the beard, or the gloves, or any of that. But the picture, which somehow is more than the sum of those parts. A picture, which can results from innumerable other ingredients. It's an aesthetic that has nothing to do with how it looks, and everything to do with how I see it.

If this makes no sense... well, there's really no "if" about it. This certainly makes no sense. It's an idea floating around in my head, of what coffee should be, of what it should mean, that carries with it an entire set of otherwise unrelated connotations. Generally, the lack of pretense is an agreed upon virtue. But how we go about perceiving that is much less a shared trait.

And that's ok. We'll agree on that too, probably, if nothing else. But still, coffee in a pickle jar. How can you not smile?

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