“Alcohol is the only drug that can make you forgo feelings of inadequacy for the same amount of time it takes a woman to extinguish your spirit.” – Me.
It seems that I’ve wandered into a dreamscape of booze and its prostitute cousin: temporary jubilation. In this waking reverie I’d like to examine the agonizing minutia of thought which seems to float like dandelion spores through the transom of my mind, where they often find no purchase.
I am talking about the ability to write – which seems to turn on and off.
Example: I will be writing – the train of ideas truckin’ along – and suddenly get to a word, and the idea stops, staggers, spins around, and starts looking for a better way to express itself. Why? Because the word I had in my head at the beginning of the sentence is now nowhere to be found. And so stammers my idea. Because now the next line is gone, too. So, now I have to go back, read over what I wrote and hope I can get back into the groove, so that the lost word may again show its stupid face by being coaxed to do so through the sheer momentum and rhythm of my natural diction. Which it does only sometimes. On the occasions where it does it doesn’t even matter, because the next line has lost its meaning, anyway. So, now I’m writing, and it feels false because I’m too conscious of the fact that there was a better way to say whatever the fuck I was trying to say. Even though the meaning is the same (I think), the phrasing is different – it’s contrived. But, whatever, I write through it. The next time I read it over (part of the process) it feels less contrived, and now this read-through seems like a new draft completely. But, still, there lingers the sense that there could have been a perfect first draft if only that one fucking word didn’t stray. Then I look back at the first paragraph and find redundancies with the third, and wonder why I keep insisting on using certain cadences based on using a colon. Then I’m close to wrapping it up, I can’t tell if it makes any sense, but try to read the words. They make no sense. They don’t even sound like words. Are these words? What the fuck am I even talking about with this piece of shit? I dunno. Still, I write, and get to the end, and having waded through the abstractions my brain has become potato salad. Hooray, it's done. What can I work on now?
Sigh. Yesterday wasn’t like this.
Yesterday my fingers were pecking conduits for the concepts and thoughts of what I believed at the time to be, quite positively, genius ideas executed brilliantly.
Now I just kinda wish I could climb into bed with a girl and have her roll over and ask me, half-asleep and concerned (because I startled her), if I was okay, just so I could say everything was fine. Which probably isn't a lie.
Note: the prior was written while intoxicated. In the interest of fairness and truth I have left it unedited.