…Thanks for the advice, Ir on the effects of 100 proof, or any booze, it’s only medicinally advantegous in times of the incomprehensibly, and unavoidably the only, and the last solution. Beer, then only chases the dreams left.
A bard once sang thus: ‘Loose Your dreams and you will loose your mind’.
At that point, not compensating, is worse then that, it is death; of the soul. The late Allen Ginsburg once said, 'if You drink, drink at home, alone.
I’m no longer wild and crazy. I miss that. “All my rowdy friends have settled down.”–Hank Williams Jr. but–the stories I could tell! Beer and nostalgia go hand in hand.
In the teeth of I hurt or I am lonely all philosophical considerations become null. Singing of the state of affairs seems to help. Finding a like-minded spirit helps.
It does, yet one tends to think that the early illusions work like Capital, they feed of the gifts which offer diminished return, as it was fodder, and most of it is wasted. (on the young).
Then the natural progression is disillusionment, unless…
The proper mix is found, a drink of the elixir, the manna, with the happy hour crowd’s tolerance.
Bob and I sing sadness. Will you join us, Jesus? Have a beer on us. Your life story was sad. And you, unlike David, did not cry out for vengeance. Neither do we.
The sad song is never again,
Not the vague it might have been.
No longer able to drink a beer
Because I cannot stop at one
Means more to Bob than me, I fear,
Means something I alone have done.
I would not have our friendship die
Because I needed to be dry.
Good to see you, Xunzian!!! I wasn’t referring to the Bob who posts on the philosophy forums, but to a step-nephew, who is a country music picker & singer. Beer and country music seem to go together.
Five years without a taste of alcohol. 2016 my last drink. My muse has left me with prose.
Bob still drinks, still plays country music. We are still friends.
I did poetry before I drank; maybe I can find it after.
Maybe somewhere , still crazy after all these years. in stead of drinking alone, parked in his usual place in a mysty, foggy pub, dreaming of a tomortow’s yesterday.
I met him once, he was the only ILP member to Come by, and Stuart.
Picked Stuart up in skid row Greyhound, he didn’t drink.
We didn’t hit it off.
Gototell about that some other time.
Now, i’m on the road again