Booze and Mood

Booze and Mood

Who says booze is bad? Not when you consume it sparingly, with discipline and on a stomach that has some foods which contain high-protein, some fat, and a smorgasbord of fruits, nuts, and vegetables thrown in. Then you will be marveled at  how wonderful this concoction of fermented sugar will do to your mood and psyche. You will feel light, carefree, mellow, serene, social, and may I say it, even happy. But as I've said time and time again, the secret of real happiness is moderation, not excess. But Man is a momentum animal. He's wired for excess. Without a propensity for excess, humans wouldn't know much about his world and himself. Monomania serves its purpose. But where am I? Ah, I was talking about the benefits of moderate intake of alcohol, the nectar of enlightenment, the elixir of happiness, however brief it is. Without booze, many lonely humans would have died a long time ago. Booze gives them a brief indifference to pain and suffering. It numbs the senses. It brings on a delusion of peace. Too much booze, however, lands them in a private prison, the haunted house of demoralization caused by loss and failure. 

I am drinking Merlot now, a second glass in three hours. And that's it. The wine slows me down a bit, making my habitual impetuosity easier to manage. I fancy that I even think a bit better. I am thinking over what a bitch just wrote to me. She was annoyed at her lot in life. Being average in some areas and less than average in others, she has not accomplished anything worth writing home about. She is truly a nobody while she lives and will be forever an unknown after she dies. She knows that and I know that. She talks a lot about dreams and wishes, but does not have an ounce of willpower to carry them out. All she does is to talk and dream. I have told her so many times that she needs to get off her fat ass and starts doing something. So far what she has done is to wait for death to come so she can be relieved from the burden that's called living. She knows she's unhappy and is grasping for the proverbial straws. I can't help her anymore. She's beyond help. She doesn't understand my words. She projects herself into them. All she sees in my words is the negativity, not the poetry. I speak a language she does not comprehend. She's not bright enough. I don't feel sorry for her anymore. She has got nasty. She is going down swinging and screaming. There are many like her. I refuse to be one of them. Starting today. Outside, the sun is still shining. Birds are still singing. I am still imagining I am a happy and rare man. I am leaving something distinctly my own behind. I am leaving my words. And I am reproducing here a masterpiece of mine. I will keep coming back to it to remind myself of what I am capable of:

voices to voices, lips to lips

              with  heavy borrowing from and homage to e.e. cummings

voices to voices, lips to lips

i swear to you and to everyone else

that they make up the undying

of this sentiment that refuses to sleep

what's beyond logic 

can only be magic

in this moment that even God

cannot compete 

i bring you no flowers but only

the scuplture of my words

if you close your eyes

you'll miss their kiss

voices and lips are more than just for songs and kisses

who cares if some sons of bitches

insist that Spring be the opening

of hearts and smiles

i am not afraid to dream that and this

nor am i afraid to fly

Wissai

October 6, 2013.