Inebriate Life

Sobriety is overrated. 

Some of the best art, music, and literature all came about while the author was semi-conscious, inebriate, high, doped up, or otherwise encumbered. That is not to say I condone making oneself delirious with illicit substances, but what it does mean is that I do not fear it, and recognize that it even happens with those who consider themselves "sober." Just think about it. If you're really tired, you're body starts to act as if it were drunk. Your speech becomes slurred; everything is funny; you're more relaxed; your social inhibitions start to fade. And, it's not a bad thing.

How many times have you woken up in the middle of the night with a fabulous idea, only to discover the next day that it was nonsensical or only half-conceived? 

But, on the other hand, sometimes those ideas are brilliant. There is a small path and gateway in between the conscious and subconscious mind. One side makes the other relevant, and both can act in a limited but ingenious concert. 

I write my best poems at night after just going to sleep. I solve logistical life problems often after being konked out a little while. So, in my less than sober insomniac state, I solve the seemingly insolvable problems of the conscious "real world." 

And, sometimes its just fun to ride a magic rocket ship with your dragon friends.

The Morning After

Today is like the morning after. The streets are quiet, the drunks are still konked out, and the merriment has subsided. We had to take out the trash and do the laundry and tidy things up a bit to leave the cabin this morning, and now I'm just idling by the Silver Maple again, waiting for the load of laundry to finish a block down the street. The vendors are mostly still asleep, and having already bought a Hawaiian backpack and some books from the library, I think I've done my duty.

Among the books I purchased were biographies of James Dean, Winston Churchill, Benjamin Disraeli, and Henry Kissinger. I also got a book on Australia circa 1968 (I don't think much has changed since then - well, that's not true, but it had cool pictures). The books cost five dollars in total, and the backpack cost fifteen dollars. I needed to buy the books to fill the backpack. Made perfect sense. Oh, and I bought a photograph of the Bridgeport valley with the sawtooth ridge in the background. That will be shipped to me, and in a week will cost me forty bucks, but it's signed and I'll put it in my room or office. The lady who sold me the picture is from Lemoore, California, just fifteen minutes or so west of Visalia where my Dad grew up and around which most of my family lives. So, the world grows smaller.

I have no real anecdotal irreverence this morning, but I'll fill your basket or bucket soon.