Most days, I spend the early morning hours waiting for a French press epiphany, something that makes sense of the swirling chaos in my head.
This morning I made my way downstairs and stared out the window for awhile. Sunrise skies, the rumble of construction on Blake Street below. I dropped into my chair (chair, singular — I currently have exactly one place to sit in my living room in my new Fire Clay loft). And I waited.
I waited for an epiphany about an ass-kicking unresolved plot point in my novel involving a man accused of being a Pentagon spy, something I had stewed over into the wee hours of the night. For a return call from the HOA explaining how I have electricity since neither of us is paying for it. For insight into why I had seen the need to save the three moving boxes worth of photographic negatives I was presently using as a footstool. For the energy to get up and brew my morning coffee.
That coffee was going to set my day in motion. If only I had the energy to brew it.
After a half-hour or so had passed, I went into the kitchen. The stove was off but the stove light was on, indicating that one of the burners was hot. Great. I had cooked dinner the night before and forgotten to turn off the stove. Or, worse, I had appliance problems. I filled the kettle with water and set it on the hot stove. Then I noticed that I hadn’t cleaned out the French press from the day before. I poured the soupy liquid out into the sink. It was then that I realized that the coffee in the French press was warm.
Turns out I had already brewed my morning coffee. How’s that for a French press epiphany for you?
On an unrelated note, I’m not getting nearly enough sleep.
