Each ~ below is a cup of tea; the row lengthens as the afternoon does. (Pen) and (Voice) mark whether a passage was written by hand or spoken aloud. This is from late in the afternoon, several cups deep.
(long break)
My cat is sitting on my lap for tea about four hours later. His heart is right on the sole of my foot. I hear it beating through my leg. Each one a little reminder of sweetness.
Cup seven went down in delight. I often find the tea left to sit for a while packs a surprise punch on the 1st cup back then you really have to let it steep
Aha! The 8th cup has a sort of roasted honey thing going on that was not revealed before. It’s thinner, more cutting and enlivening.
The cat Oompa is an inspiring tea accomplice the way he curls. His tail is like steam rising.
The small teacup, ceramicized by a man in Marfa named Colin, is black with an uneven lip and a triangular shape that I find most impractical and pleasing occasionally for an offkilter tea. Somehow, I didn’t notice until now that it creates bubbles. Little bubbles keep coming up to the surface. I haven’t used it very much. they quickly rise, pop and then create a little waterwork, before quickly disappearing
I remember some Monk telling me a story about how two monks played with an old radio after sesshin. Despite the simple and banal nature of the activity, they were quite riveted apparently. my cat rolls on the pollenited boards of the screen porch, with a similar energy. And I am saddened that the bubbles have gone somewhere else. Such fascinations – are they a result of a cup empty or full?
Spiderwebs appear on the screen when there is sunlight. The sounds of tea get loud when my mind is quiet.
(Pen)
Profound is nothing without the ordinary. It pops quite quickly. anyway my love of tea lives in the ordinary.
Cup 11? I’ve lost track.
My love of tea is like a child: unbeknownst and flighty and yet all the more special for it.