My father drinks Wild Turkey about once a year, the only time he really drinks at all, when his brother comes to visit. They sit in the tobacco shed, pack bowls with Burley and who-the-hell-knows-what-else, and drink Wild Turkey until the sun rises. Sometimes they come in with sheepish grins on their faces, sometimes with glistening trails of tears that have been held in for decades.
I don't write anymore. I hate sitting in front of the computer, or this computer, anyway. Meredith's Macintosh monolith, all ivory and porcelain, pristine and sterile. Nothing flows the way it's supposed to, the tarantulas ain't dancin'. They retreat from the light like cockroaches.
I miss my computer, the piece-of-shit Frankenstein's monster PC, crammed to the gills with nothing but billions of bytes of music, not a single program running efficiently or effectively. That's a machine with which you can get some writing done. Last winter, a steady diet of vodka and canned beans, and sitting at that pathetic machine, taptaptapping away until the sun started to melt the icicles that had formed on the end of my crooked Jew nose. Broken heart, bad teeth, good company.
There's a point to all of it, but it seems trite to delve too deeply, so I won't. I am the most stable I have been in possibly my entire life, but looking back, I regret that not a single time this summer did I drink, smoke, dance, and cry until the sun came up. I was wary of consequence. I enjoyed the company of friends, to be sure, and I enjoyed carnal sinful overindulgences, but nothing like the old days. The poisonous old days that take on such a golden hue in hindsight. The vomit smells of rosewater, the exhaustion becomes elation.
Sometimes you need to undo your britches, pull your dick out, and take a piss on the carpet. But I've been house trained. House broken?
It's all too domestic for me. I'm a hyena, or at least a werehyena, and it's been a while since I've roamed the streets looking for innocent flesh. Shea and I are planning something Massive, Westward, Beautiful, Ludicrous, and Necessary, but I fear it won't come soon enough. The looming responsibilities of Work, Bills, Horseshit, Chickenshit, etc. frighten me into shameful impotence. Fifteen hours, cut like a hot butter knife through the guts of Kansas. 957 miles.
I need a handful of wheel. Or sweet-smelling hair or beer can or bad gas station coffee in a styrofoam cup. I fear this won't be the only thing I write tonight.