It's out there...

Sometimes it's chrome with big fixtures.  Sometimes it's a grassy field one hundred yards from victory. Other times it's your fingers laced through your hair on a therapists floor.  Other times it's a sea with no boundaries. Whatever it is... FIND IT. 

Find the hard spot, the place with no give.  Find the difficult gift, the place that forces you to suffer to find pleasure.   Go there again and again.  Turn off the television, close the gmail account, abandon your religion, and go there.   Choose that which you worship.    

We found ours.

Ours is the cupping table.  Ours is big and black.   Ours stands right in the middle of everything.   Ours is where we kneel to the Gods of coffee and inhale the all of life.  With one blessed and chilling gust of force over and over again, we slowly track our greatness through the fading footprints of life.  

You wanna be great in the coffee game, this is the jump-rope you get.  I have found no more important a matrix in the game. This is where your sweat falls against the canvass.   This is the place.  This is the situation. This is where all the concentrated forces of human and environment begin get down.  A cocktail party of the nose.   A empty gym of the mind.   A lover's tangled bed-sheets of notation.

To interact.  To cause.  To influence.  This is where the change and development happens in the craft of roasting.    Without a serious cupping routine a roaster loses it's soul.   The metaphorical priest who has lost his way in a desert.   Without a cupping program all becomes darkness.   Might as well roast em all to the big paul buynan man degree of: "I like my coffee dark and strong.  BOLD...RICH..."   Appease the masses.   Yikes!   No..

The cold hard steel.   The soft white porcelin cups.   Those regular buddy like timers.  Note-pads.  Smells.  Spits. Over and over and over again, running through the morning.   Foggy sneakers.   Cup...Cup...Cup....Cup.... 

Through repetition emerges expression.