in conversation / Twenty-one days with my Father – 2026

The most irrelevant question I am unable to ask has bearings on your whereabouts. The natural state of being in conversation with you is nothing more than said irrelevance itself. Writing to you, not about you, is the essence of my undertaking. Neither do I intend to comprehend what is real, much less aim to stand face to face with truth. It is more of a dance – dancing as best I can, with the light and sounds and words I believe to know best. To dance as close to truth as truth allows me to.

Beyond anything known to man, conversation is life, holds life, frames life. Love precedes it, love is within it, and love is its only possible aftermath.

Had I Served You Coffee is a compendium of conversations. A conversation may be a dissection of memories, it may be a list of recipes, a bouquet of harvested fruits, or a sincere question, not with the expectation of obtaining an answer but out of mere curiosity for seeing how close to truth we may dance.

You shall see, my dear father, that in all the pages I may write to you, not even a title on an “i” will contain reproach, anger, or dissatisfaction about life with you. And I know well how you would respond to that — a tilting of the head to the side, with a mild lifting of your eyebrows, and a mouth movement swaying between astonishment and a smile.

Had I Served You Coffee — in process, content, notes