Allow me to start out by writing that the disjointed narrative that you are about to read (or not read) is partially inspired, in a way, by Starbucks. Some interesting information passed on to me by M.P.C. and A.C. Henry a short while ago clipped my whole-hearted disdain for the corporate coffee peddler many love to hate and hate to love. A.C. Henry had read in some reputable periodical that the Bux actually ensures the growers of their beans are paid well and treated kindly, and gives back to the communities in which they dig their caffeinated claws. Fair enough. The degree that I trust the American media multiplied by the faith and respect I have for friends’ opinions equals me buying, in concept, the affirmation of Starbucks’ more redeemable qualities. Add to that the not so unbelievable fact that Starbucks is the coffee purveyor most proximate to my living quarters, and the need for a quick brew during finals, and you have the ultimate result that I have been patronizing a business that I once believed to be emblematic of all things heinous in American corporate culture. While I remain steadfast in my preference for independent coffeehouses, I’ll take a Bux cup if my options are limited or my time is constrained.
The last Venti™ coffee I purchased was this morning at about 7:30, just before I decided to pin myself to the hard cherry of the chairs in the law school’s reading room, and cram for an hour before my Evidence examination. This was more than a cup of coffee. It had a message for me. The message read (click image to enlarge the photo):
I didn’t notice this liquid receptacle inscribed memorandum at first. Perhaps it was my general ambivalence for the white boredom of the Starbucks cup that kept me from reading the message, or perhaps it was the message blocking cardboard sleeve that promotes the Bux’s use of “recycled post-consumer materials” while shielding my flesh from the molten java that lurks inside. Who knows? But the words did catch my eye at about 8:30, long after the coffee was gone and coursing through my veins, but only fifteen minutes before I was to pick up my exam.
After discovering that my Earthly existence was not a gaffe, and that God was cool with me, I slipped off the now useless sleeve and read the rest of the passage, an excerpt from Rick Warren’s “The Purpose Driven Life.” As I read (all the while pondering why Starbuck’s would put such a non-secular message on a coffee cup (I ultimately decided it had something to do with money)), some odd coincidental occurrences swirled about around me.
The reading room, on a cloudy morning, is a place conducive to calm scholarship, graced with just enough light to keep a jaded third year student awake and studying. As I was reading my cup, the clouds broke and a beam of sunshine pierced the perpetual academic dawn of the reading room. I found this to be unsettling and creepy, rather than what one may have found a pleasant happenstance (or a sign from the heavens if you buy that sort of thing, which I don’t).
As the flukeish sunlight beamed, the fourth untitled track on Sigur Rós’ “ ( ) “ pumped in the dPod, through the ear buds, and into my ears. For the finals phase in law school, I have developed a pre-examination playlist. The tracks enshrined in this set, which I have maintained since the 30 minutes before my initial law school exam, are joined by their ethereal, atmospheric composition. Some contain lyrics (focusing on songs in which I feel the words blend with the sonic drive of the composition; songs where the vocals may as well just be another instrument). Others are wholly instrumental. To give an idea of what I’m failing to explain with words, some standouts are “Untitled,” Interpol, “How to Disappear Completely,” Radiohead, “Approaching Pavonis Mons by Balloon,” The Flaming Lips, and the aforementioned Sigur Rós selection. You dig?
Anywho, the bizarre part about this particular song coming on at this particular moment is that I associate this song (and the whole “ ( ) “ record) with a very specific, very traumatic piece of my life. This record (especially this track) was on perpetual repeat in my head in the months after my father passed away in November of 2002. The record is so profoundly sad. It appears easy for musical artists to write a sad song or a sad record, but “ ( ) “ is sad on a whole different level. The sound strikes at the core of this most central human emotion. An attentive listener can’t help but feel a wash of misery glaze over them. This is magnified by the fact that the meaning of language, at least language that most English speakers can comprehend, plays absolutely no role in conveying this sensation. (Certainly, however, the inflection of the vocalist is key in this sullen conveyance). Sigur Rós lyrics are some form of hybridized English & Icelandic, as well as a language that they invented. Whatever they are saying, you can’t understand it. You just know its not about sodey-pop and butterflies.
The songs of “ ( ) “ are forever tattooed in my brain as my companions on walks to class down Green Street in Champaign, Illinois; walks to class made in the bitter cold while hiding behind my black scarf, walks to class braving sharp winds that feel as if they blew from Lake Michigan, through cracked, harvested cornfields and straight to my face, walks to class in which I felt truly alone. I cherish these walks. I returned to Champaign to finish my semester just 5 days after my father’s funeral. Upon my return I had no drive to excel, no drive to impress anyone (for the only person I ever wanted to impress was now gone), and no drive to feel, to feel anything at all. This Sigur Rós record, so undeniably woeful, and these walks during which I fell in love with this record, helped me to start the very preliminary process of grieving on my own schedule, by myself, at school. Needless to say, it is a powerful and meaningful record for me.
So imagine my predicament, sitting in that damned reading room (a place I rarely go), reading a message from God on a Starbucks cup, envisioning myself plodding down Green Street as a senior in Champaign, preparing to take my second to last law school examination, an exam based on the most fascinating of legal topics, the Federal Rules of Evidence. It was quite the peculiar mental quandary in which I found myself immediately prior to a three hour period in which one really has to focus relatively intently on the intellectual dogfight in front of them.
What was I to do? Rather quickly, after jotting some notes to write this account, I was able to pull myself out of my own head and get to the task at hand, punishing my Evidence exam. And that’s it. That’s my story. That's how a passage about God, from a book I will never read, emblazoned on a corporate coffee cup, accompanied with some great music and the light from the closest star to our planet, made me think of my father and inspired me to write again. Anti-climactic, you say? I agree. I guess that's just the way life is sometimes...
(As finals draw to a close and free time once again becomes plentiful, I hope to write more frequently and with more regularity, aiight?. . . Thanks for coming back to DDCD).
It is May 11, 2006, and in Chicago, Illinois the temperature is a crisp 41, with gusting winds plunging the "Feels Like" meter to 32. That's freezing for all you novice meterologists out there. (0 degrees if you are a Celscius person). I wish there was a "Feels Like" meter that would give readings like: "Fucking cold, fucking wet, and fucking relentless." The green mass pictured above is swirling hatefully counter clockwise directly over my head. It moves neither East nor West, neither North nor South, it just spins and cries it's blowing, chilled tears all over the rooftops and roadways around me. It's starting to test my patience. Current conditions outside are not unlike the state of the atmosphere here in Chicago in the middle of November.
From what I learned in the best class in which I've ever been enrolled, ATMOS 120 (Severe and Unusual Weather), Chicagoans, Chi-subrubians, Milwaukeeians, Cheesers, Auto Workers, Steelies, folks from Ohio, and North-Indies are at war with a Mid-Latidue Cyclone. As defined by www.physicalgeography.net a MLC is a "Cyclonic storm that forms primarily in the middle latitudes. Its formation is triggered by the development of troughs in the polar jet stream. These storms also contain warm, cold and occluded fronts [in the above radar picture you can see all 3]. Atmospheric pressure in their center can get as low as 970 millibars." Now that is some low pressha!
Actual Diagram from UIUC's ATMOS 120
