Sunday Project
The coffee is helping with my current
headache; it's about 10:30 on Sunday morning, the second Sunday in
November, and it's been about 16 hours since I drank any caffeine,
which is too long. I took a couple migraine pills before I went to
bed, and I slept very well; woke up in the middle of the night, high.
Very happy.
Smooth jazz, non-music. I want to play
music that when you ask someone about it later, they don't remember
that any music was playing. There is an excellent bar here at
Holman's. I'm sitting at the bar. If this was a diner, it would be
the counter. It's technically a counter, but since we're in a bar,
and there is a bar behind the counter, this counter is also a bar.
(Look this up in the dictionary.) Being here makes me mourn the loss
of drinking liquor. I never could afford it, and still can't, but
that's little consolation. Right now my choice would be a small glass
of Maker's Mark Whisky. I like how they call it whisky—it's
bourbon, but in their mind, bourbon is the only whisky, and it's
spelled Whisky, not whiskey. I will sit and meditate for hours,
repeating the work “Whisky” over and over until I can taste the
taste of bourbon, and smell the smell. The smell of the remains
inside my Dad's Beam's Choice bottles, the fancy ones I saved.
Neat. All I need is a small glass—the
only way to drink liquor is in a glass, neat. One would think that a
person could drink a small glass of liquor on occasion and have only
beneficial, medicinal effects. Or like dessert, on occasion. But I
know it's not true, and that's so sad. It has nothing to do with
quantity, unfortunately. There are those, perhaps, in chaste way, who
limit themselves to one glass, maybe one glass a day, or week, or
whatever. This seems just as sad, in a way—enforced
self-discipline, and why? It is because of fear, maybe not of one's
own alcoholism, but of what they have seen in others, in the
alcoholics. They don't believe it's the alcohol; they believe it's
Satan; though they know, instinctively, or in their own heart, that
it's alcohol. They say it's a tool of Satan, but I know there is no
Satan, and there is only alcohol, and man. Back to the small neat
glass—I want the small heavy shot glass. It's all I need. I can
rule the world from a small heavy shot glass, one at a time. It's the
color of the liquid in the glass, and its clarity; the glycerin
climbing the sides. The smell is the most important, the most
important thing of all. The sight of the glass, the color of the
liquid, and the smell in the air. The complex relationship of the
smell, then, mixing with taste, and then the burning sensation,
especially on the tongue. It's all down-hill from there. I can do
without the rest.
“What's the dishwasher's name?”—from
the waitress, one of many—a bad sound coming from a waitress's
mouth. I can guarantee she's not asking him for a date. Scotch is
next in line of things I miss. After bourbon. Especially Pinch, in
the crazy, three-sided bottle. And then Drambuie, the king of all
liqueurs. There's gin, not my favorite, but think of the complex
flavors in that Bombay Gin, and the cool persona of Tanqueray. The
weird effects of ouzo, and the mythology of tequila, and whatever it
is about cognac. I've got to get out of here—home, and read my
Bible.
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