Sean McDevitt
Consumed in Key
The leaves on our trees are turning a bright red. There was a rush of cold air for a few weeks, and it felt like Fall, but today, it’s going to hit 71 degrees outside, which makes no sense. The grass is a full shade of green and probably needs to be mowed a few more times. We are ten days from November.
In the morning, always without fail, my wife drinks her coffee at the island in the kitchen. She gets up first to enjoy the quiet before her day. It’s a moment of peace before the chaos that will be the rest of the day. I kiss her several times. She smiles. Our connection has never been better than it is right now. My brain is still sleepy. I need coffee as well, but the dog needs walking first. It’s dark and only 40 degrees out at this hour. The combination wakes me up faster than caffeine.
I make my first cup of coffee despite wanting to wean myself off the stuff. I wish I liked it black. I add a dash of special creamer to bring in a touch of vanilla, but no sugar. I might never stop drinking coffee, but I should push myself to drink it black. A well-brewed cup of coffee doesn’t need anything added, but the effort and expense to make something splendid is not in the offering. Maybe someday.
Several Halloween decorations—pumpkins, webs, and more—are out in our neighborhood. Houses now have elaborate lights reminiscent of Christmas. When I was a kid, decorating for Halloween might have meant some cardboard window decorations and a carved pumpkin.
It’s too cold to sit on the deck and enjoy my coffee. Maybe this upcoming weekend, I can take the time. My wife and I have made a small effort to walk around our neighborhood on Sundays. We should make a note of trying to do so again.
I make eggs for breakfast before work. I hardly ever do this, but I’m a little hungry, and four eggs should do the trick. I should fast, but I don’t feel like it. That requires a concerted effort that I’m not ready for yet. Maybe at the start of the new year.
On my computer, I’m playing an album by Chilly Gonzales. I have never heard it before, but it came out just last year. From the start, it’s a mix of minimum techno with a grand piano. It’s atmospheric. Doing a tiny bit of research, I see that it is “A reimagining of Plastikman’s 1998 magnum opus ‘Consumed’, as a new collaboration between original artist Richie Hawtin and Chilly Gonzales, executively produced by Tiga.” That means nothing to me, but I like what I’m hearing so far.
Everything can be music. The tires on the road. The wind through the trees. The mechanical sound of the space heater. While I might enjoy something soft and minimal, I keep returning to the classics.
I saw Foreigner last night and I enjoyed the show more than I thought I would. The band is basically a cover band trotting out nearly 80-year-old Mick Jones on select dates (but not mine), but the songs are so good, and Kelly Hansen can still sing. I wish they would have played longer, but I was home before ten o’clock. My old bones needed sleep.
Thoughts of money come to mind, and I am reminded of everything we still need to do for this house. A new dishwasher. Fixing the siding. Painting. One thing at a time.
Soon, I will have to write other things. I love writing. It doesn’t always come easily, but that’s the trick. It should always feel like it came easy.
I need more coffee.
