The Art of Doing Absolutely Nothing With One's Life
Immeasurable cups of tea, and I'm still nowhere on this paper. Having an online journal now seems pointless to me, a voyeuristic narcissism that I'm not entirely comfortable with. But why else do we write? In the vain hope that someone will read and validate us? Well of course that's part of it, but it's definitely got more to do with navel-gazing than anything else.
Tea is a wonderful thing, and largely under appreciated. A good cup of tea is an art in itself, evocative of tenderness, warmth, love and security, all within the bounds of a simple china mug. In its many incarnations, tea can call up a myriad of memories; brown rice tea reminds me of convalescence, while my standard yorkshire tea with milk makes me feel like a proper writer, cloistered in my cluttered room, hunched and pensive at my desk. Alternately it calls up memories of England, of listening to Rogue Wave in the morning light, absently scratching Sally or Caspian and reading some silly Philip Pullman story.
Tea was one of India's main exports, one of the British Empire's biggest harvests from that mythical, beautiful country. It's incredible to me how the East still retains its magic for most of the world. One can only hope that globalization doesn't ruin this completely, systematically deconstructing the mysteries of the earth until one day all lies before us, naked and apparent, all anticipation and wonder removed.
That's actually a really pessimistic statement. I can't believe that there won't be wonderment in the world, even if all its unknowns are uncovered.
The tea burns my throat as it rushes into my stomach and rests uneasily, a reminder of all that I have yet to do. Procrastination once again has gotten the better of me, and I'm not sure whether to blame the internet or my own obvious inadequacies. I wish I could write this essay on something I understand. Something tactile yet poetically elusive. Tea. I wish I could write this essay on tea.
Tea is a wonderful thing, and largely under appreciated. A good cup of tea is an art in itself, evocative of tenderness, warmth, love and security, all within the bounds of a simple china mug. In its many incarnations, tea can call up a myriad of memories; brown rice tea reminds me of convalescence, while my standard yorkshire tea with milk makes me feel like a proper writer, cloistered in my cluttered room, hunched and pensive at my desk. Alternately it calls up memories of England, of listening to Rogue Wave in the morning light, absently scratching Sally or Caspian and reading some silly Philip Pullman story.
Tea was one of India's main exports, one of the British Empire's biggest harvests from that mythical, beautiful country. It's incredible to me how the East still retains its magic for most of the world. One can only hope that globalization doesn't ruin this completely, systematically deconstructing the mysteries of the earth until one day all lies before us, naked and apparent, all anticipation and wonder removed.
That's actually a really pessimistic statement. I can't believe that there won't be wonderment in the world, even if all its unknowns are uncovered.
The tea burns my throat as it rushes into my stomach and rests uneasily, a reminder of all that I have yet to do. Procrastination once again has gotten the better of me, and I'm not sure whether to blame the internet or my own obvious inadequacies. I wish I could write this essay on something I understand. Something tactile yet poetically elusive. Tea. I wish I could write this essay on tea.