Ironic as it may sound, I’m no longer very aware of the new coffee shops opening. Friends who visited me lately introduced me to Slow Mo’s and I couldn’t be happier. Thank God for friends. Ross brought and introduced me to Kookie—an afternoon of several beautiful exchanges.
For the last two years, I just can’t keep up with so many shops opening. And if I’m being honest, it’s really hard to tell how one is different from the other. When Ross started talking about this shop, I must confess I wasn’t really interested—until she mentioned the barista only prepares drinks he likes to make and drink himself. Then my ears perked up.
In my life, I’ve always been too conscious and insecure, trying to make sure I’m doing and making things because it speaks to me. Not perfectly, but more confidently now, I can say most of the time I only jump onto things that resonate deeply. It’s been a long while since I’ve learned about a shop that still carries that ethos. I’m really happy to have learned that that day.
Friends know what makes you tick and whom to connect you to.
Ross also introduced me to Kookie, whom I find to be someone who can talk like me in straight rapid succession when we want to. Kookie was speaking so fast that, to my delight, I blurted out: “Wow, Kookie, you talk fast!” Obviously not being offensive—I was genuinely surprised and immediately thought to myself, this is gonna be a great chat.
The entire conversation lasted for more than two hours, delving into art and commerce, and doing both without compromising the soul. How we’re also somewhat connected prior, and people we really enjoy—like Angeloops, for that matter. Later that day, they let me tag along to the event they are visiting and had more beautiful exchanges.
Going back to opening cafes and shop owners—which is a huge creative feat, and a sign of burgeoning creativity—a risk runs when we just keep giving in to what the market wants. Case in point: “fun,” aesthetic, sweet AF drinks we probably wouldn’t drink ourselves. These little yes’s, while innocent, eventually become second nature, and soon before we know it, we no longer have a clear grasp of what we really wanted. If we get lucky, the money pours in. But similarly, we wonder why the source, it this case, the the creative entrepreneur gets depleted, sometimes madness. When that happens, we lose our light and saltiness, and the market moves on with or without you. And when you’ve got almost nothing more to give, you’d be lucky if your bones can still be used as broth.
It’s a grim picture. It’s not that nobody talks about it—I don’t think that’s true. But chances are, we just didn’t pay much attention to it. Too quick to listen and too proud of our hubris.
If I’m being honest, this is why Rollo May (The Courage to Create, 1975) has been sitting with me. Not as a name to drop—more like a warning label. He insists that creating isn’t some cute lifestyle thing; it asks for courage, because the gap between what you meant to make and what you actually make produces a kind of anxiety. And if you don’t have the courage to stay with that tension, you’ll reach for shortcuts.
That’s when the “sweet” starts making decisions for you. And one day you wake up and you can’t remember what you really wanted—only what sold.