A mug sits on the tabletop, steaming, containing dandelion tea
Written in bold, in all caps, and Times New Roman, across it’s front it says
I hate this mug and the feeling of unease it gives me.
Staring at me, glaring at me, seemingly yelling at me what I do and do not know.
Frankly, I prefer the mug that simply says “CALIFORNIA” and has the profile of a bear on the front–one paw in front of the other, the back paws mirroring the front as if the creature were going to walk right off the mug and back into the forest whence it came–always on the move.
The California mug font shares the qualities of the San Francisco Forty-Niners’ logo and actually doesn’t have a bear on it, upon closer inspection. As if looking through a porthole, a landscape is plainly visible with sandy beaches, a couple of palm trees, some mountains in the background creating shadows in the body of water just behind the palm trees. A sun, blazing overhead completes the view.
The mug has colorings that remind me of my grandmother’s dish set, faded now from decades of dishwasher scrubbings–a whole palette of warm shades of brown that belong in the 70s.
I hate the
mug because it is foreboding
of all the possibilities I have currently chosen, California is one of them and not much else.
Now I recall the bear, an image in my head that was probably something I thought of because the California flag has that same bear, in the same stance, about to walk off the flag and into thin air. Anything is possible…