I'm a singer/songwriter and creative. I sing stories and ask questions. I like coffee.

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It was nearly midnight. The sky was clear and vibrant in that intriguingly mysterious hue between black and purple where all the stars twinkle brightly in the light of a hazy moon. The scene was crowned by the spires of the Ponderosas which stood tall and lithe against the glow of midnight and the wispy smoke still drifting lazily upward from the waning embers of my campfire.

I sat on a log in my teal green plaid shirt and stared at the glowing coals as the remaining flames danced between the crackles and pops of the burning pine. Everyone else had gone to bed but as usual I was still up, my night owl tendencies following me even deep into the forested foothills of Mount Hood in Oregon. The typical tension between insomnia, creativity and a normal life wasn’t present though. I was just there, taking in the moment, in no hurry to be anywhere or anything.

It was serene. It was alive.

I began humming to myself. A melody unveiled itself and I began to add words in a hushed voice under my breath. I realized I didn’t have my guitar with me. That was a bummer. But I continued humming and the words continued flowing. In a juxtaposition between nature and technology, I pulled out my smartphone and was greeted with an excruciatingly bright glare of blueish screen light which seemed to offend the amber glow of my fire. I hastily jabbed the brightness toggle and located the voice recording app. I didn’t have any cell service but I wasn’t there for the cell service. It seemed disingenuous to even dare bring out such an offensive affront to nature but the creative flow stops for nobody, not even a forest of magnificent Ponderosas. I also knew I couldn’t forget it.

I opened the app and hit record. In a hushed tone, I found the melody that had been stirring in my heart and began to sing the words that were leaping into them with a familiar ease, as if they’d already determined they belonged together.

“Oh, Wanderer, you don’t have a gypsy soul. You’re a pioneer in a peddler’s clothes. Oh, Wanderer, you don’t have a gypsy soul. You might be lost now, but you have a home.”

I closed the app. The melody tapered off as the brightness of the coals darkened. The pops and crackles of the burning pine began to dissipate while the soothing notes of babbling water from the nearby Sandy River elevated into focus. The scene was cinematic, melodic, cathartic.

What I didn’t know at the time was how prescient it would be for me and how my journey would unfold. An anthem born in the stillness and quiet would roar when I needed it most.

To be continued…

This is Part One in the Wanderer Series by Jacob Everett Wallace. The new single releases on August 28th, 2020 on all digital platforms. Pre-Save now!

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Brant Toulouse from Regiment Sound interviewed me about my new EP “Arrows” and my thoughts on music life and the creative process.

Check it out:

Jacob Everett Wallace pushes his creative boundaries on his latest Arrows EP, a follow up to his successful 2018 debut River Meets The Ocean. The newest release features his take on a blend of indie rock and retro style folk.

A highlight of the Arrows release is his courage to tackle the big questions in his life. The songs showcase his deep emotions, the never ending journey, and an inviting pace of retrospection.

Each track serves as the roadmap on his course of reflection and the steady mindset to push forward. His approach to music is evident, with a humble heart and an eagerness to grow.

I was super grateful for the opportunity to get to know Jacob Everett Wallace a bit more and talk about his evolution as a singer songwriter.

As a little background, when did you start playing music and what really inspired you to write your own music?

Read Full Interview on REGIMENT SOUND

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I told someone the other day that I write songs because I have to. They were surprised by that statement. I’ve been hearing the classic “don’t forget me when you’re famous” phrase more often now, to which I usually laugh awkwardly and mumble various versions of an extra humble but mostly sarcastic “yeah right!” or a simply demure “nah, bro.”

Actually, I’m not afraid of being famous. I have a feeling I won’t love it much, but the bigger platform and expanded reach is what intrigues me the most. What I am afraid of is not writing songs. I tried that once and it was an unmitigated disaster. I was miserable. I realized after enduring that lonely desert wasteland that songwriting wasn’t just something I did to do, it was part of my very essence. If I didn’t, I’d die. A slow, miserable death.

The wasteland years weren’t a total waste though. I discovered the two reasons why I have to write songs.

I’m not in music for the money. I’ve heard too many stories about how difficult the music industry is and I’ve experienced enough of my own already to know they’re not lying. Nonetheless, I’m driven to try my best to succeed. I wouldn’t be doing myself justice if I didn’t give it my best shot. I’m wired to critique the bajeebers out of myself and constantly be working toward new goals. That probably will never change. Any so-called success is just icing on the cake. Any money earned is going straight back into making new music. No, those are not the reasons I’m in it.

The month of March has become my recovery month. I’m completely useless for the first couple weeks. I’m drained, I’m emotionally exhausted, and I’m usually scrambling to renew my car registration, which inconveniently lands in March, and try to remember where the pile of unpaid bills got stashed. That’s all because February is my songwriting furnace. I write throughout the year but February is crunch time. For 28 gloriously grueling days, I dig as deeply as my heart can bear and attempt to write as many songs as humanly possible for myself, the overall goal being at least 14.

There’s always a moment about halfway through my February where I reach the bottom of the barrel. Every year, when I think I’ve scraped the last drop out of whatever creative juices I had in me, I realize that I still have half a month to go and I haven’t reached the goal yet. It’s that moment where the coolest thing happens. I somehow dig deeper than ever before, past all my preconceived ideas and notions, through all the baggage, between all the rules, into the vast expanse of an unknown prairie, and a new song suddenly springs forth. I think the best part is that I’ve done this enough times where I already know how it’s going to go. I already know it’s going to happen. And it still surprises me because the song comes from some pure, unadulterated place in my heart that I didn’t know existed.

That’s reason number one. That specific moment could never be properly explained or recreated any way else. Those are the songs where I cry after I write them. Not because they’re great songs but because they mean the most to me.

Then there’s the “other” moment. The other reason.

I released my debut EP “River Meets the Ocean” on April 19th, 2018. To celebrate, I booked a venue in Dallas to throw a release party show and I invited all my friends and lots of their friends. The venue is a smaller-sized coffee shop so I wanted to do stripped down arrangements of all the songs on the EP. I rehearsed several times with my drummer and good friend Troy Pruett and we came up with a pretty great flow for just an acoustic, half-kit, and pads. I felt really good about it.

The week of the event I got slammed by an allergy attack (I haven’t had allergies since I was a kid) and so I had to go into emergency recovery mode in preparation for the show. Every singer knows what I’m talking about. You’ll try just about anything to force your vocal cords to cooperate. By show day I was feeling well enough to sing but definitely not at my best. Several people independently all told me the same thing: “don’t forget to have fun!” I really only wanted to give my best-ever, most electrifying, knock-your-socks-clean-off performance, but I focused on keeping their advice in mind.

Let me say, releasing an album, planning a release show, and all the stuff that goes with those two things is a ton of work. It’s a lot of pressure. I’m forever glad that those people told me to have fun.

The other moment happened a few songs into my set. There have been several of these moments, but this one was different.

The first couple of songs had gone pretty well. I was a little froggy but my voice was hanging in there, getting stronger actually, and I was starting to believe it was going to last through the set. I tapped my phone to move to the next backing pad track, introduced the song, set my capo and starting playing. I immediately realized the pad was in the wrong key and hastily stopped to change it. In my flustered-ness (not a real word) I then started the song in the wrong time signature. Instead of stopping again (flustered-ness) I compounded the issue by plowing ahead in the wrong lane, determined to make it work. Troy gave up after the first verse and let me do my thing. I did my best to save it and focus on the premise of the song, but in my mind it was a total disaster. I was literally counting the seconds until I could end that nuclear-grade mess and just start the next song.

After the show a girl came up to me and started telling me this story. She said she came into that coffee shop every night around 8:30 to get a Topo Chico and sometimes a coffee before going up to her art studio to paint. She’d been dealing with some pretty severe depression and sometimes she’d just sit there in her studio unable to really move or even think. She heard me setting up for my set and decided to sit down. My sound intrigued her so she stayed. When I got to the introduction to the disaster song, whatever I said basically exactly mirrored the things and thoughts she’d been dealing with in her life. She then proceeded to explain how much that song had ministered to her and changed her entire perspective.

I was stunned.

In my mind, that was one of the worst song performances I’d ever done, at my release show no less, and had immediately categorized it as a complete debacle. In what could only be attributed to God’s sense of humor, my weakest offering ended up being the perfect antidote to a random stranger’s nightmare.

I’ve always said, but perhaps never fully understood until that moment, that if just one of my songs touched one heart, whatever I was doing would be a success. Every penny spent on recording an album and getting it out there was worth that one moment.

So that’s why I write. For me, because the purity of a song unearthed from an undiscovered well in my heart is indescribable. For the one, because knowing that a song that was birthed from my own struggles, failures, and triumphs has touched the heart of someone else is an incredible honor.

I don’t know what the future holds. I do know that I will always write. Because I have to. And if I get to share them with others, that’s even better.

Why do you write? Or if you’re not writing, why not? Comment below.

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I don’t remember exactly when it happened. Somewhere along this journey that is both life and the process of songwriting, I adopted a writing mantra. Find your vulnerability. I’ve championed it to myself and any who would listen. I stubbornly maintain it to be good advice. Mostly because it works.

It’s a slight modification to the advice I received back in high school when I tried my hand at writing a sports article. “Have a take,” the anonymous internet user said, “and don’t suck.” He liked the article though and I never forgot it. Essentially it meant be yourself and do it right. It was kind of a revelation for a super-creative but super-competitive high school kid who wasn’t sure of himself but had to put on airs that he was.

But I wasn’t.

I started writing songs around 9 years old. On a $10 truck stop guitar, I learned how to play and songwriting was a natural progression from it. I still remember the first real song I ever wrote. It was called “Two Ways to Go” and our family still references it. I couldn’t sing worth a darn and only knew 4-1/2 chords but I kept at it. Somewhere along the journey I found songwriting to be the outlet that I needed to express myself. I still wasn’t sure of myself but I was just stubborn enough to keep going.

Somewhere in that awkward time of being a squeaky-voiced teenager wallowing in the throes of puberty, I was still writing but singing was a problem. So I submitted my lyrics to an online critique group in an effort to get better. Something deep within me knew this whole songwriting thing was where I was most “me” and I needed to get better at it.

They ripped me to shreds.

It was a little shocking but I decided right away I was going to take any and all advice they gave me about a song with a grain of salt and immediately apply it to the next song. I was still a kid. I was learning.

High school was a weird time. I was always kind of the independent first-born child who paid his own bills but was deathly afraid of making big mistakes. Aside from trying to figure out the whole being an adult thing, jobs, navigating newfound interest in girls and relationships, starting a punk band with your buddies (true story), there was also that whole idea of adopting theology and life principles for yourself.

It didn’t go well. I kept those airs going pretty well but inside I was spiraling. Like when the tub water is just low enough where it starts draining faster and creates a little hurricane effect down there by the metal ring that’s supposed to be silver. The sickening sound of that last bit of sludge being pulled into the dark abyss of a tub drain was where I found myself at the ripe old age of 16.

If you’ve heard my testimony, it was a song that pried me out of that quicksand. “Redeemed” was the title and I grabbed hold of that like nothing ever before. The follow up to that whole nightmare was a time of healing and restoration in a little room above a garage that I turned into my first little home studio. I spent a lot of time up there. I wrote a lot of songs. I had them all critiqued. I learned about the tenets of songwriting. And then somewhere along the way, somebody told me I’d have to at some point, just like in real life, throw it all out and adopt those tenets for myself. If you want to be real and honest you can’t follow some formula, there’s no “recipe” for success. The only way to be true in songwriting is to emote with no barriers of preconceived ideas in the way. You gotta let go. Let it fly.

I nodded yes but I didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t long after that when I started uploading recordings of myself to other songwriting groups. There was a couple of a good ones in there but the overall response was mild. I think they all saw what I hadn’t discovered yet. Just a kid who doesn’t know who he is yet. It was a little frustrating. I just wanted to be taken seriously. That’s what I needed, right?

No.

What I understand now is it doesn’t matter if I’m taken seriously. It doesn’t matter if the whole world knows my name. Am I honest? Am I true? That’s what really matters. Anything else, anything less is ultimately inconsequential. I guess that can be a difficult pill to digest. At least for a stubborn son-of-gun like me, who is still battling those airs that like to stand in the way of finding himself.

But there was some turbulent tub waters still in the way. Somewhere along the way I was discovering that I needed to be myself, but learning how to do it right was becoming more and more challenging.

What do you do when all that supposed confidence is smashed to smithereens and all that’s left is some fragment of your identity that you don’t even recognize?

OK, this whole finding your vulnerability thing might be harder than I thought.

(to be continued)

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I want to be a hipster. Not that kind of hipster. A new kind of hipster. The original hipster.

You might say, “What in the non-mainstream world could you be talking about?”

The hipster subculture typically consists of white millennials living in urban areas. The subculture has been described as a “mutating, trans-Atlantic melting pot of styles, tastes and behavior” and is broadly associated with indie and alternative music, a varied non-mainstream fashion sensibility (including vintage and thrift store-bought clothes), generally progressive political views, organic and artisan foods, and alternative lifestyles. Hipsters are typically described as affluent or middle class young Bohemians who reside in gentrifying neighborhoods. – Wikipedia

Just like every new generation of young intrepid souls, a sector of the current “Gen-Y millennial” has created a lifestyle vibe in an effort to stand out and be unique. At the core, it’s the natural inclination and desire to make a mark on the world, but as each one before it, the “hipster” culture is just another fad that will eventually fade away and morph into another fad as a new generation arises. But who was this “original hipster?”

Jacob was the original hipster.

Not yours truly, but the Jacob of Biblical times.  Oh you thought he was just a lying crook who stole stuff that didn’t belong to him? His brother Esau would probably agree with you, but you’d both be missing the bigger picture.

Aside from being misunderstood, Jacob was stubborn. He was passionate. He was a fighter. How do we know this? Here’s the account from Genesis 32:

“And Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day. When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he touched his hip socket, and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, “Let me go, for the day has broken.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” And he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, “Jacob.” Then he said, “Your name shall be no longer called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed.” Then Jacob asked him, “Please tell me your name.” But he said, “Why is it that you ask my name?” And there he blessed him. So Jacob called the name of the place Peniel, saying, “For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life has been delivered.” The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip. – [Genesis 32]

What would it be like to be able to say that you literally wrestled with God and then He broke your hip? But you were persistent, weren’t satisfied with the ordinary, wouldn’t give up until He blessed you, and wouldn’t give up until the breakthrough was made.

I’ve often wondered at what point during that epic all-night showdown that he began wondering, “Who exactly is this guy?” Historical Hulk? Ironman? Captain Canaan?

Jacob had just finished preparing a massive “don’t hate me” gift to his brother Esau out of fear for his life and family in hopes that Esau wouldn’t kill them all. Jacob gave explicit instructions to his servants to butter Esau up as much as possible before they arrived face to face. It even says that Jacob was “greatly afraid” and packed up his wives and kids and sent them across the river for protection while he stayed and waited for the arrival of Esau.

Isn’t that just like us? Fearing for our livelihood and making plans to thwart our imminent ruin as best as humanly possible? How many times have we done that in our own lives?

Then the crazy part happens. God shows up. Of course, like many of us, Jacob didn’t immediately realize it wasn’t Esau trying to strangle him to death. Only the fight or flight instinct kicking in, propelling him forward to fight for his very life.

Suddenly, after an entire night of wrestling he feels a sharp pain in his hip and realizes that his socket is out of joint. I’ve never dislocated my hip, but I’ve got to imagine it must be pretty painful. And that’s when he goes for broke and declares he won’t let go until he gets blessed.

That’s an incredible story. Jacob limped for the rest of his life as a mark and reminder of having encountered God face to face. The great preacher Jonathan Edwards once said:

“Resolution One: I will live for God. Resolution Two: If no one else does, I still will.” – Jonathan Edwards

It’s easy to get caught up in the trappings of the next big thing, but how do we anchor ourselves in the midst of the many shifting trends of our time? I believe it’s a matter of being intentional about where we set our hearts and affection. Every human on the planet has to choose where their affections will rest. For the believer in Jesus Christ, our highest affections must rest in Him.

I want to be known as this kind of “hipster:” the one marked by the uncompromising pursuit of God.

 

(Disclaimer: This post is not intended to bash hipsters or those who proclaim themselves to be such. I too drink only black coffee and wear beanies and plaid shirts. miffed? Inspired? add a wonderful comment below!)

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The eyes of a heart awaken from a deep respite made mandatory by the perils endured in recent conflicts. Great were the obstacles to be climbed, secured, and overrun. None would allow themselves to be removed easily, giving back in full the measure by which they were assaulted. Scars and battle wounds were mere trifles in the light of the raging fury by which they fought for supremacy.

But the bear, the lion or the giant cannot prohibit the Warrior Heart from beating the drum of war and declaring the sound of a victor; the sound of a courageous man who is ready to conquer his fears and stand for his beliefs. He is not strong in strength alone, but in the strength of his will to never back down or retreat; a passion to protect his kingdom from the advances of his foes; a desire to drive his neighboring demons into the sea until they are vanquished; and a resolve to conclude every battle as the unquestioned victor.

The Warrior Heart is not a ferocious warmonger only; he savors the simplicity of a morning sunrise as a symbol of his own dawn of a new day. He appreciates the beauty of the turning leaves as a new chapter of his existence. He sings along with the melodies of the wind and waves, lending his own baritone mark to the script of their brilliant symphony.

But not for too long; on the distant horizon the battle flags of the opposing army are seen emerging above the hills. The Warrior Heart is not afraid though. Rising slowly from the lush foliage of his own hill, a grin of subdued yet eager anticipation spreads across his still ruddy yet war-beaten face. Much slumber is not a thing of the wise. The Warrior Heart knows.

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It came quickly and deadly. Like a tiger crouching in wait, it sprung with such ferocity that few were prepared. Most were caught off-guard. Perhaps it was a testament to the unpredictability of nature, perhaps more so a fresh reminder of the unreliability of the national weathermen to keep track of the biggest storm ever seen in this modern age

And nobody saw it coming, or at least nobody bothered to care.

What began as a joyous celebration upon the sighting of rain clouds forming toward the east, ended in some sort of incomprehensible hellish nightmare that dashed newly raised hopes and buried them in mountains of rubble and ruined dreams.

It was odd how despair could breed desperation enough to drive a man to his knees to implore a deity he didn’t believe in to save him, yet after he surfaced and began treading water again, sent that same deity to the back of his proverbial burner.

Odder still, were the widely different reactions the same adverse circumstance could produce in those it affected. Some responded well, others poorly, but few ever just gave up outright before the fight began. Perhaps it was the freedom to shake a fist and roundly curse their own existence that generated strength to persevere. Perhaps it was merely an indescribable inner resolve that could never be explained but always could be counted on to rise up in the the hearts of at least a few brave and courageous souls in the hour of affliction.

Courage was that rare commodity of which very few had in abundance, yet in the hour of affliction it only took one determined stand to infuse the hearts of the weak. In the same manner that evil arose, so also did the hero with enough faith to stop it.

It was strange how calamity could knit together. Disaster made for strong thread. It was more a question of who could work the needles.

Stranger still, was how some could see light where only darkness stood. Fire attracted to itself. Perhaps it was more a question of who had the willpower to kindle it.

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I’m in Houston. It’s three miles from the apartment to the coffee shop that has internet and the white chocolate mocha that I’m craving, but it’s raining during 5 o’clock traffic which has only exonerated an already pushy crowd of drivers.

These drivers are different than those found in Dallas. I’ve determined that they’re most likely second cousins with New York City drivers; they’re unafraid to use the horn for even the most minor annoyance. It seems an accepted practice though. Nobody sweats or loses their cool, and once disembarked they’re the genial, calm and collected classic Texan with plenty of Southern hospitality to spare.

Several wrong turns later, I finally arrive at my destination. The proclamation that ‘everything is bigger in Texas’ seems to take more precedent the further south you go; this coffee shop could easily house three of the shops from Dallas.

There are a few outdoors-inclined customers outside in the patio enjoying the light mist while seated under the oversized white table umbrellas. Inside, I’m greeted by the greatest expanse of bean community that I’ve yet encountered; a regular mecca of coffee drinkers, business people, laptops, and shoulder bags. A long narrow bar-like table spans nearly the length of the large open space, outfitted with electrical outlets underneath and two-dozen stools surrounding it. Nearly half of them are occupied on either side, almost all with an open laptop and a stack of study books. It seems summertime isn’t all fun and games.

I merge to the left side of the long bar to enter the line and look across the room to take stock of my surroundings. One half contains a large conference table and many smaller tables all occupied by clusters of suits and shorts. The suits are decked out in finely tailored jackets, gelled hair and and actively gesturing toward the spreadsheets on their laptops in intense discussion. The shorts are sporting hip arrangements of designer t-shirts, flip-flops and canvas shoulder bags as they chill on their own laptops that are heavily decorated with stickers.

The other half of the room is set up in several circles of stuffed leather chairs, love seats and side tables with a large ottoman in the center. This crowd is of a wide age range, some of the younger wearing headphones and earbuds, some of the older relaxed with a cup of steaming espresso and the day’s newspaper. All, however, have one thing in common that I’ve come to realize is part of the essential nucleus of the bean community: a cellphone.

Every culture and race is represented, but they all are either on their phone or just recently pocketed it after checking for new messages or notifications. It’s the “handshake” of this modern dialup connection, it’s what drives this whole central indoor crossroad.

I give my order to the smiling cashier who passes my yet-to-be-filled cup to the easy-going guy running the espresso machine. He confirms my suspicions of the Houston traffic relation to New York City, even though he’s from Kansas and claims that they win the award for the craziest drivers. Every city I’ve ever visited makes that same claim though so I just smile and laugh in agreement as he puts a lid on my drink. Coffee in hand, I navigate to a nice just-opened chair in the back corner; a perfect vantage point.

I look up from my own laptop several minutes later and find almost an entire new crowd gathered in their respective clusters and corners. Looking around for awhile, I notice others doing the same. It’s hard not to gaze around at the gamut of people here, it’s what makes this world so interesting. Every race, tribe, and color; all partaking of the coffee bean. It’s a viable peace treaty.

Take note world.

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Gusts of heavy wind blow through my already-tussled hair as I get out of my car. Combing my shaggy mass with my fingers, I quickly pop my Texas Rangers brim cap over top of it to keep it down. I grab my laptop case and pat my pockets to determine possession of my wallet and phone before I shut and lock the car door. I’m at a vintage-hip coffee shop in the similarly styled metro city of Dallas known as Grapevine, Texas, and I’m here for the same reason everyone else is; it’s a cool place. And it serves fantastic coffee.

Walking from my parking spot toward the front sidewalk sitting area of the coffee shop, I’m thinking I look pretty fly with my just-washed and still-tight jeans and cool t-shirt. Probably not, though, but why should I trifle over such a triviality?

There are several tables and chairs arranged outside the shop and several loyal customers are seated around them drinking coffee and chatting amiably. I smile just slightly to those who look at me as I encounter the front door. I let my eyes adjust to the dimmer light source as I enter and nod to the employee whose friendship I’ve gained as a semi-regular customer. He’s a nice guy and he nods in return as I keep heading toward the back of the surprisingly large and long tube-shaped store.

It’s the people who make a place into a community. And this coffee shop has a variety of them. A middle-aged couple is sitting and chatting in the upholstered chairs near the front window. The barstools pushed under a wraparound shelf on the other side of the front chairs are empty, but they won’t be for long. It’s still only 4 o’ clock. At the square tables situated in the middle section of the store are more varieties of coffee drinkers; mostly creative types. The bits of conversation I overhear as I continue walking to the back point toward two amateur moviemakers discussing a new deal at the first table all the way back to a laughing group of college kids huddled around a small table playing scrabble while probably supposed to be doing homework. I notice there are new paintings on the wall opposite my habitual spot as a lady in a ball cap is working quietly on her laptop just underneath them.

Ah, my favorite spot is not yet occupied. Plopping my laptop case on my table, I head back toward the cash counter and gaze undecidedly at the chalkboard menus while knowing full well which drink I’m going to order; I always order it. I’ve only ordered one other drink, and that was the pretty-good mocha before I discovered the rich beauty of a raspberry chai latte.

The nice guy behind the counter already knows my name and order. I grab a couple of handout peppermints as I pull out my debit card. This place requires a signature on the receipt which I horribly mangle. No worries though, it’s not like it’s an autograph or anything.

“Mug for here, right? he asks. “Be right out.”

That’s another addition to the likable rawness of the place; who would actually sit down to drink coffee in a paper cup? It just seems absurd. One needs a mug and a table at which to sit to adequately appreciate the atmosphere.

Back at my table I unzip my laptop case and carefully remove my Apple MacBook Pro. My big oversized headphones come out next as I situate myself and my gadgets in preparation for a long sit. Free wi-fi is another attraction to the geek and business culture here. For me it’s the secondary reason that I come, or possibly the primary, but I try to be loyal to the in-house roasted beans that form the foundation of the coffee shop.

From my perch near the back I always sit facing the entrance and thereby gain clear view of incoming customers. It’s a male trait that requires one to never have his back to a door. It just wouldn’t be right if I was betrayed by my posse and shot in the back, would it? Completely outdated Wild West, I know. But regardless, it’s still the perfect place from which to observe life.

Communities from ages past gathered around the fireplace. Any establishment that offered a roof and a warm fire was the place to meet, swap gossip, and hear about current events. The roof has remained true, but in today’s modern comfort the centerpiece of sociality has morphed from burning firewood to roasted beans.

As I work on my laptop I look up from time to time and look around at the constant movement of this community. Stretching, I check my smartphone for new messages before taking another sip of my raspberry chai. It’s an interesting place. Somewhat odd, but a thriving one nonetheless. It’s a community built on the demand for beans.

Strange.