16 May 2009


i love mugs. maybe its my love of whats inside them - hot coffee, steaming hot chocolate and soothing tea. mmm.

ok. confession. i think i am a mug snob. My sister would understand. This becomes quite clear when i am at over at friend's places and a warm steaming mug of coffee is placed before me, in a stir-scratched grey-white John Deere mug. i look up to see if there is some playfulness, surely, some coment that the dishwasher is running and they're down to the dregs at the back of the cupboard, but nothing is said. My host lifts her mug to her lips, and without any self-consciousness, takes a sultry, life-giving sip from a Hacker's Life Insurance mug.

Is the mug not sacred? You draw upon it with your lips, there is a triangular connection - from mug, to lips to soul - according to the Scriptures of Corroeli, the mug expresses your inner topography, an other worldly vessel to contain hope for the day. I always go for the thin porcelain ones of delicate blue glazed see-throughness, the rough hewn mugs of a potter's wheel who's roughness you can feel between your lips and recently, I have been tempted at Florida gas stations to buy a name mug with Marcy on it, with classic kitschy abundance-of-exotica designs :a palm tree, a flamingo and a white crested turquoise ocean. how neat and lovely a world can be. A mug is a pining, an insistance that a better world is just around the corner of your coffee break.