A Tea House of the Mind
If you don't know anything
about these cafes, there are small bars (kissa) generally featuring an exceptional
stereo system and a curated collection of records. The music doesn't even have
to be jazz. There are jazz cafes featuring rock, noise, classical.
Here, patrons sip high-end
whisky while the owner smokes cigarettes in the corner. The mood is
reverent and contemplative. No one speaks more than a few words. They listen.
Or so I imagine. I’ve never been to one. I’ve read they’re becoming a thing of
the past.
It would never work in this
country. It’s hard to imagine a silent space where people listen rather than
speak.
But I had an idea. I began to put
together a nice stereo system, buying used components after researching how
best to go about the task. I sold my expensive, vintage Thorens turntable and
my record collection after the birth of my first daughter, but I kept an
extensive collection of CDs. I even began to modify my basement. My plan was to
invite small groups of friends to my house, and play music while I would serve
them tea. Just a place for people to come together and be quiet together,
without the metaphysical trappings of a meditation center.
And, of course, I would serve
good tea.
Since the pandemic, my collection
of tea ware has gathered dust. Once or twice, I’ve retreated to the basement to
listen to some calming music — Jordi Savall, Dylan, Dexter Gordon. Grabbed from
my disorganized racks.
And I let go of my impractical
dream. This is not sad. It’s not as though I wanted the headache of having to
operate such a business. I only wanted to imagine what it would be like: a
serene, shadowed island, smelling of oolong and the Phoenix mountains, where
you could listen to some old recording and hear the crack of the violinist’s fingers
as they scraped along the strings.
