Working towards identifying with all three gives me a new appreciation for the people behind the scenes of some of my favorite books, and I keep asking myself, “What were they drinking?” As I get more crazily into the idea of how I can properly become an alcoholic, I do my best to focus on the healthy state of falling in love with a sweet liquor called strawberry cordial, when I was ten.
I buy shirts with beer logos on them, brag about my consumption of it, hang out with drunks, and hope for the best. Sometimes if I need a pick me up, I’ll get toasted, write something, and then publish it online. In the morning I’m shocked, worried at the inappropriate exposures, and look for fall-out. Thank goodness I don’t have much traffic, and the result is only a couple of worried telephone calls from close friends or family that I have to reassure.
I do wonder how the linkage is set up in my follower’s emails though. Do they get the original version, or just a link? I hope it’s the latter, so that when I sober up and improve on the silliness in my expressions of casual fun and research, I can redeem myself in their eyes.
The first alcohol I thought might be a good thing, came in the idea of a drink called strawberry cordial. It made sense to me as a kid, and now twenty some odd years later, it still does. I like to tell my mentors in this pursuit, that as I am not a bitter person, as I enjoy sweet beverages. Give me a Stout, watch me enjoy a Pina Colada, tease me with a Scurvy Medic, or give me straight alcohol and I’ll gag it down trying not to taste it.
I’m gathering steam behind this idea of alcohol as medication, and each time I write about it, I gather more evidence that it may just be, a venom that fixes my skill.
Here’s some of the coal that stoked the engine in my train of thoughts on this:
Heart Mending For The Dosage Of Medicine To Be
At times I wish there was enough alcohol in the world to kill what I have. It’s an Irish blessing, and a curse that curls my toes to cramp.
As a wild-eyed nimble-footed pony on a slide down a shale covered cliff, it whips aside my pride, bares my bones to the sun, and sleep is gone in another day-dream that may bleed into the night.
It’s desperate high hope bottled up in a mixture with followed through despair, corked by a lifetime identifying with underdogs.
I don’t care if I tip over in this moment and foam at the mouth, there’s not enough smoke coming out of the chimney of this train that is me, as far as I can ever see.
On the horizon I will be hungry, a stomach growl my only concession to a dissatisfaction with the ostrich that buries its head in the sand, which is my passion for art.
We are human, so we make more babies as ramekins for the meal of time, who grow up to be like us, and then we die.
What artisan-ship we make on a good morning, the sweet enterprise of hello world to a friend, a neighbor, and the community that we call home.
Good afternoon as a passing glance at walls of remembering who I once was. I love this canvas…but where is the German beer, British mead, and Scotch whiskey, because I party in my heart, and cry at it when it’s undone.