Voicemail.

[chef_chocobro]

"You have reached the voicemail of Ingis Scientia. I am unavailable to take your call at this moment, but if you would please leave a message, I will assuredly get back to you as soon as possible."

**BEEEEEEP**

___________________
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Comments

Tuesday Night Message

[deathsmajesty]

Regardless of whether or not Ignis and Liliana spoke Tuesday evening, Ignis received a message informing him that he had been given the gift of an audio book - a book of poetry by Mahmoud Darwish. And accompanying that message was a voice text from Liliana as well.

"My darling, there was an excerpt of one of his poems in the book you gave me and it was enough to convince me that you should become better acquainted with his work. Do listen and let me know what you think - though I will understand if you wish to wait until your vacation is over before listening fully. He is a man who knows warfare and loss."

While most of the book was dedicated to the prose poem that gave the book its name, there were several shorter poems before it, poems that included phrases like:

'On the train we swapped seats, you wanted the window and I wanted to look at you;'

'The image of love reveals itself there; in a profoundly present absence;'

'They asked "do you love her to death?" I said "speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life";' and

'And you became like coffee, in the deliciousness, and the bitterness, and the addiction'.

And one could see why Ignis might have thought those were the poems that convinced her he needed a copy of the book, but true understanding couldn't come until he got to "Memory of Forgetfulness". A series of prose poems about a man who lived under siege, his hometown the focus of brutal warfare, and how he coped by turning to the little rituals of his life, particularly that of brewing coffee, to keep himself together through it all - the violence and the fear and the isolation and the death.

It started with the words:
Coffee should not be drunk in a hurry. It is the sister of time, and should be sipped slowly, slowly. Coffee is the sound of taste, a sound for the aroma. It is a meditation and a plunge into memories and the soul.

Coffee dripped through the poem, transcending the brew itself and becoming a weapon that Darwish used to fight back against the bombs and the bullets, a way to keep himself whole and true to himself as the warfare tried to unmake him, physically, mentally, and emotionally:

They can aim sea, sky, and earth at me, but they cannot root the aroma of coffee out of me. I shall make my coffee now. I will drink the coffee now. Right now, I will be sated with the aroma of coffee, that I may at least distinguish myself from a sheep and live one more day, or die, with the aroma of coffee all around me.

He explored an ordinary task like making coffee and showed how it was art; the art of combining different ingredients to create something new:

Gently place one spoonful of the ground coffee, electrified with the aroma of cardamom, on the rippling surface of the hot water, then stir slowly, first clockwise, then up and down. Add the second spoonful and stir up and down, then counterclockwise. Now add the third. Between spoonfuls, take the pot away from the fire and bring it back. For the final touch, dip the spoon in the melting powder, fill and raise it a little over the pot, then let it drop back. Repeat this several times until the water boils again and a small mass of blond coffee remains on the surface, rippling and ready to sink. Don't let it sink. Turn off the heat, and pay no heed to the rockets. Take the coffee to the narrow corridor and pour it lovingly and with a sure hand into a little white cup: dark-colored cups spoil the freedom of the coffee. Observe the paths of the steam and the tent of rising aroma.

One section of the overall poem, written on August 6th, held his anger

I measure the period between two shells. One second. One second: shorter than the time between breathing in and breathing out, between two heartbeats. One second is not long enough for me to stand before the stove by the glass facade that overlooks the sea. One second is not long enough to open the water bottle or pour the water into the coffee pot. One second is not long enough to light a match. But one second is long enough for me to burn.

and his yearning for normalcy

I want the aroma of coffee. I need five minutes. I want a five-minute truce for the sake of coffee. I have no personal wish other than to make a cup of coffee. With this madness I define my task and my aim. All my senses are on their mark, ready at the call to propel my thirst in the direction of the one and only goal: coffee.

and just his love for coffee, the dish that nourishes his soul.

Because coffee, the first cup of coffee, is the mirror of the hand. And the hand that makes the coffee reveals the person that stirs it. Therefore, coffee is the public reading of the open book of the soul. And it is the enchantress that reveals whatever secrets the day will bring.