Farewell to Inventions 2015: Coffee Made Me Do It.

I’m debunking this as bluntly as possible - it is not the coffee. It seems that the black, bitter cup has nothing to do with why I love it so much. 

I am now hearing a rushing river underneath as I take this cup on a small store (tiangge) located at the foot of a steel bridge in Buenos Aires Mountain Resort, Bago City, Negros Occidental. ‘Kapehan ni Toto’ has gained notoriety among coffee hunters of all classes - bikers, trekkers, vacationists - in search for caffeine fix.  It is a cool morning, and with all the trees surrounding, the brew is magnified. It tastes better in higher places perhaps. By better, I mean a rich aftertaste, thicker concoction minus the slightly sour aftertaste common with wannabe-brews by wannabes (I left my phone in the room, forever losing the chance for a a snapshot - it would not come as a surprise if you'll have no idea of what I'm writing about)

But for all I know, it may not be the coffee.

I frequent Madge Coffee at La Paz Market in Iloilo when I can. Two - store -blocks of a time machine disguised as a coffee house. The family business has run for almost 60 years or so, handed down from generation to generation of the De la Cruz’. Clean, neat and unpretentious. It does not aim to dethrone the current trends of fancy coffee with creams whipped like Imelda’s ‘do. No. Yes, there are options for that type, but Madge’s thrives in the steady orders of ‘native’ coffee and local pan de siosa (local bread which looks like three-pack abs - seriously) with margarine. Their brew is lighter than Toto’s but still packs great taste. It passes on your tongue and most often, is misinterpreted by the brain as nicotine (No, I don’t smoke. But my brain has funny ways of interpreting senses and linking each, taste and scent, sound. etc.). I love the place, great customer skills, warm market vibe (sans the wet pavements i hate), and posters of products of yore. Okay, I’m hesitant - but I’m dropping this over-wrought and abused word just for that point - its purely vintage.

Now vintage has nothing to with coffee. I’m getting the hang of this.

I love early mornings in the local coffee stores. Fighting cock breeders, small groups after-morning-run sessions, the “kubrador” for the local lotteries, basketball, politics, boxing, networking schemes, tambays (a colloquial derivative of ‘stand-by’ or a bystander), drivers, pedicab drivers, basketball, art, music, plans, auto parts, more basketball, writers, blank drafts, thinkers and faux-thinkers, more and more basketball - name it. All of these and more, swimming in the endless flow of smoking black liquid poured ad- infinitum over swirling cigarette smokes cut by the morning light.

Coffee is the cushion by which all the dynamics and interactions of thoughts, arguments, and stories take off to insane heights.

The above meccas for coffee pilgrims do not have neon-lit signs, marquees, social networking approved pages (I may be wrong on this, as I write though) but their tables are filled while cups served always emptied.

The commoners - the grassroots - the bubbling dynamism - draw me to the endless cups and emerald glasses. The stories abounding, the place where people come as they are, slippers and sweat, greased hands or even those with expensive cars seeking the anonymity these places offer. In these crowds, there is no need to sport the latest iPhone. Fact is no one could care less if you whip out the 100^th incarnation of the almighty Apple box. Well, except for pickpockets.

Same act, different edit: Let us take the case of the fancy coffee culture. Espressos, drip, americano, macchiato, lattes, mochaccinos, camesa-ccinos - whatever. You spent a third of your days’ wages for that cup - surely there has to be something to go with a beverage that’s barely an ounce. How about a selfie? A Wefie? A snapshot for the food blog?

With it comes a culture of its own, a totally different world with its own set of rules. Yes, please come in slippers. But make them LOUD slippers - Havajavayamanas or whatnot, make it scream. Local neighborhood coffee doesn’t care if you come in shorts - fancy coffee welcomes you in shorts - the VERY SHORT shorts. To make the coffee experience complete, talk about stocks with hip back issue magazine at hand. Amidst the glaring mismatch listen to the talk about other people, auto parts, phone parts, latest downloads, basketball, books, vampires, witches, more basketball, exchange students, the exchange students on the other table, ideas, philosophies, gripes.

It is a parallel universe after all. We are basically drawn towards communities who stamp us a great deal of our identities by any means necessary: affirmation, confirmation, acceptance, empathy, sympathy, therapy couches, back-slapping, congratulations, families, affinities, free coffee, free-loading, advocacy, culture, and who knows what more. Take any of the elements and slap the final phrase “Coffee Group Meets Here Every (day/s of the week). We arrive and the smiles are familiar, the greetings programmed to be welcoming, the handshakes firm, and the coffee? Who cares? 

Coffee badly needs to take a backseat and get some rest it deserves.

Maybe it has been too hyped as the cure-all for know-it-alls. Multiple charges are filed daily in the court of the beverage kings. Counts on inspiring writers, artists, musicians, political leaders, making discipleship and fellowship better, creating revolutions and wrecking the status-quo, starting relationships, ending relationships, or fueling works to status of international awards.

Yes, it has switching and triggering capacities, but come to think of it : It was you who wrote the draft. Who pored through the problem and traced the flow and troubleshoot the things? You did. And - It is you who passionately spoke of boys, girls, cars, fishing, farming, deadlines, struggles, vampires, basketball teams, football free kicks, and who knows what else.

Maybe, at the other side of coffeedom, coffee beans convene too, over cups and chuckling: “Puny humans. So they REALLY believe we are primary responsible for their puny human activities?”

Wait - obviously coffee beans don’t drink themselves. Now if it isn’t coffee, anybody has an idea what’s in their cups?

Farewell to Inventions 2015: Who Changed?

There is nothing unique about today, being the first day of the year, in Gregorian timeline.   

The association we make and the dots we connect to describe seasons are purely subjective, at tad, personal. Some may ascribe hidden hints on this balmy morning (which is glaring, considering the stormy days before) as signs towards a better, brighter year. Whatever.

Take these, for instance:

• This is the perfect weekend.
• What a great day - a perfect vacation, by every inch of it.
• Really begins to feel like the holidays, doesn’t it?

These are the streets I grew up with. This small busy corner - which used to be the heart of the City, have cradled numerous parades, civic actions, political rallies, and too many a suburban rush. I took a snapshot of it - thirty minutes before an anticipated chaos. It is the late afternoon of the last day of 2014. It is the same scene though - like All Saint’s day, the local holidays, Valentine’s day, Christmas day, sale seasons, paydays. Come to think of it, the Christmas rush is exactly the same as people panic-buying in anticipation of a super typhoon.

The point? We provide the color and meaning into an otherwise steadily- moving and almost consistent flux called time, witnessed in silence by structures. We invented the rush, we came up with the negotiables - the pressures, the expectations, the madness - into the silently moving phenomena of life.

We may have celebrated, not celebrated, consumed in unholy volumes, got drunk, stayed sober, enjoyed, greeted, made up, stayed distant, been grumpy - the whole 24 hour lot and 365 days still rolled unperturbed. The same sun shone for all of us this morning because, like us,  it too does not have much of a choice.  

Yes, seasons and milestones should help us keep track of where we are, or hope to be in the future. Motion is beyond question, because it is meant to be. 

We move - but where to? Towards a past that we hope to redeem? To a future unseen? Or to a now, which waits for no one? We have progressed - in relation to what?

The street and its buildings remain inanimate. The ground, the sky, the stars, the sun, the moon - all quietly watch us fumbling moment after moment. It may help us to think that there is something immeasurable beyond. Something not measured by the Dow Jones, the GNP, the bank accounts, or the worldviews we possess. They say, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Lucky old sun.