[Video]
[Sitting at his dining room table, surrounded by legal books, paperwork and other evidence of his toil, Diego is taking a break to make a cup of coffee in a french press (her name is Lupita.) There seems to be some bizarre ritual to the process beyond just putting in the grounds and water-- he measures with a tiny spoon, putting in quarter and half spoonfuls at a time, then picks up the kettle. He swirls it around six times, and then begins to pour it into the pitcher, swirling as he pours. Then he lets it sit, though keeps changing its position on the desk several times.
He does all of this while speaking, without missing a beat.]
Someone once said that pain is the only indicator that one is still alive. A rather depressing notion, I have to say, but not one without a bit of merit to it. The sweetness of life cannot be without the bitterness of pain. Bitter black pain, the sort that boils in a man's blood and threatens to consume him from within.
We keep that pain to ourselves. It's our own burden to bear, our burn to receive, forged in the fires of our own sins and mistakes. We don't spend all our time spilling it in others' laps so they can feel how hot it is. You'd call that person cruel, weak... even mad.
[He seems to be watching the water boiling with the grounds. Well... maybe. It's hard to tell what he's watching, really. After an obscure amount of time (exactly 1 minute and 23 seconds, if you're keeping track) he sets his hand on the plunger and begins to press, slowly.]
And yet, there are those who say that pain is best shared. Spilled freely on those poor souls who volunteer to be burned. Spread out and splattered without courtesy or thought for the bitter brew that others may be carrying of their own.
Because, they say, if it boils too hard, too hot, too bitter, if one drop overflows, the whole brew will come flooding out all at once, destroying everything--
[] The coffee comes dangerously close to overflowing from the press (and all over his paperwork), but doesn't. He snatches the press up and expertly pours it into his waiting mug, with no shortage of panache. He picks it up and inhales deeply.]
Something to think about, I suppose. My thoughts on the matter aren't especially cohesive.
[At last, he takes a sip.]
So, all of you out there in NV land. Do you share your coffee?
He does all of this while speaking, without missing a beat.]
Someone once said that pain is the only indicator that one is still alive. A rather depressing notion, I have to say, but not one without a bit of merit to it. The sweetness of life cannot be without the bitterness of pain. Bitter black pain, the sort that boils in a man's blood and threatens to consume him from within.
We keep that pain to ourselves. It's our own burden to bear, our burn to receive, forged in the fires of our own sins and mistakes. We don't spend all our time spilling it in others' laps so they can feel how hot it is. You'd call that person cruel, weak... even mad.
[He seems to be watching the water boiling with the grounds. Well... maybe. It's hard to tell what he's watching, really. After an obscure amount of time (exactly 1 minute and 23 seconds, if you're keeping track) he sets his hand on the plunger and begins to press, slowly.]
And yet, there are those who say that pain is best shared. Spilled freely on those poor souls who volunteer to be burned. Spread out and splattered without courtesy or thought for the bitter brew that others may be carrying of their own.
Because, they say, if it boils too hard, too hot, too bitter, if one drop overflows, the whole brew will come flooding out all at once, destroying everything--
[] The coffee comes dangerously close to overflowing from the press (and all over his paperwork), but doesn't. He snatches the press up and expertly pours it into his waiting mug, with no shortage of panache. He picks it up and inhales deeply.]
Something to think about, I suppose. My thoughts on the matter aren't especially cohesive.
[At last, he takes a sip.]
So, all of you out there in NV land. Do you share your coffee?