harvest moon

love the coffee shop. it's practically an extension of one's house; a room to retreat to when you're tired of your decor (and mattress is...he has resisted putting up his typical room patterns and colorations because it is about time for something fresh to look at. well okay, he still has the tapestry). and on the plus side, the company, the music, the art, the delectables...these things are in a constant state of motion. one's apartment sometimes just feels sort of, stale, immobile; which is such a blessing sometimes, but not when the mind is on edge or kaleidoscopic. it's good to live in cultural hives, because they have the potential to catapult your mind somewhere else with every step. and not in a relentless, distracting sort of way. if it is distracting, it is only because synapses are firing in different tunnels of your mind, calling your attention towards different puzzle pieces than the ones you currently had in construction. sometimes the best way of getting through a problem is to refocus on something completely separate for awhile, and come back to it with a fresh set of wits about you that haven't been muddled by the innate disorientation of immersion. classic motherly advice.

matches is getting to the point where he is realizing that its alright that there isn't enough of any one mind or person to get around to everything. he would like to know everyone in the world, or in a town, or even in a room, but there simply isn't enough of him to commit to mapping all of that out, assigning them each a spectral set of tints that watercolor-swirl into a general impression of their style or mood. he's sure that everyone is indefatigably interesting, in whichever way one chooses to interact with them, but it would lead to nothing but scattered bits of a person (in both senses, both of the person exerting themselves trying to know everyone losing track of himself, and in the sense that one cannot commit much individual attention if one is constantly bouncing from acquaintance to acquaintance, from dancer to carpenter to philosopher). maybe matches is too much the solitary type. but spare him the exhaustion and decomposition that would surely result from such....extroversion.

it's funny how many crevices that this water sinks into, though. it's easy to be intimidated by a bookstore, because of the honeycomb of information that resides there. he thinks he has covered that point in the past, so he will spare you the anecdote. but truly, even if he was the most voracious and avid of readers in the world, even if he could devote an eye to each page and speed-read them simultaneously, instantly processing and piecing together and transposing such that it turned out intelligible....even then he could never get through a quarter of the books that have been written.
even if he studied all the majors, all the sciences, all the languages; he would fall short of the mark; m would fall down somewhere in the encyclopedia between 'cellular biology' and 'curmudgeon' and you would never hear from him again. so he picks what he likes, and perhaps he will skim some vague knowledgeables from the people he chooses to care about, and finding out what precisely it is that they themselves care about in turn. it is absolutely absurd, the depths that this world has....there is no way to keep pace, but that's just fine.

"but time, is on your side
it's on your side, now
not pushing you down, and all around
it’s no cause for concern"

but dizzying complexities aside, there is certainly an enjoyability to new things, to variations and to oddities. matches is not scurred to admit that he is a bit of a tea snob....he likes tea, it likes him; there is a reciprocal relationship acknowledged. and he has his staple brews; the ones that excite his palate in a particular or even reminiscent way....the exotic jasmine, the musked osthmanthus, the smoky lapsang souchong, the sheer joy of a quality white peony. but it is also so rewarding and enriching to branch out (*cough) into new varieties. teas are finite in a loose sense; the options are not a potential infinite. but then again, when you begin to treat them like, say, a wine...everything gets cloudy, astronomical. there are different mixtures and harvests, different climates and methods of curing the plants....the depth of it all is profound! but at a certain point, one just has to let go, to sense the retreat of the mind's desire to encompass and to welcome the blissful encroachment of pure enjoyment. there is no way antimatter will ever consider himself a real wine or tea snob....he juggles the term in jest. he doesn't care much for the difference between an '89 syrah today, and an '89 syrah tomorrow. he would rather live lucidly, and let the other factors in the room be determinate of his wine recommendations~ in that spirit, he recommends the 'red bicyclette' pinot noir, because he has had it in the company of the best of friends and times, and hopes that you shall, too.
cheers~