Thursday, February 7, 2013
I taught myself to drink gin. I made it my drink. I still drink gin. On occasion. But it’s not the sacred sacrament it once was. Before I was an author, when I wrote only for myself, in tantrums and fits, I drank gin. I drank gin because F. Scott drank gin. I drank gin because Ernesto did. I drank gin because my heroes died drinking it and we follow our heroes.
Time and new drinks and new drugs. I drink bourbon because Hunter did, juleps for William, gimlets for Raymond. I explored the flowers because Ken and his Pranksters led the way. I considered poppies to see what Sir Arthur saw. I cataloged and dared, and didn’t dare, the depths of Jack, Phillip K. and Aldous, and felt kin to them all.
I still drink gin, on occasion, and wine and rum and whiskey. At night I count the wolves in the shadows and fall into dark places. At consciousness, I feel the sand slipping away and rush to express the inexpressible - the terror, the delight, the altered states, the will to live, the desire to create, to make others see what I have seen, to make truth through lies. To scratch the surface, mark the wall, and then try to forget that time will erase every word, every memory, every thought and deed. Kindness and cruelty. It will all go. In time.
I'm better at this now. I can know this and not tremble. So I don't drink so much. But I still drink gin. On occasion.