On The Merits of Drink
It was with a peculiar sense of fulfillment and agony that I arose this morning to attend to the effects of the previous evening's entertainment. It is only recently that the morning combination of dehydration and sugar withdrawal have been apt to inspire physical and mental manifestations of bliss, along with the standard sensations of pain, throbbing, and the pressing need to evacuate a much maligned bladder. I am of the mind that this phenomenon is not dependent on the context of the causal inebriation; this preceding night was neither excessive nor carnally fulfilling, it was merely a pleasant outing with persons both well known and well liked, ending without incident, apart from one friend's accusation that I believed in Truth (an accusation bearing so little resemblance to truth of the matter, so to speak, my honor could hardly take the offense to heart).
Imbibing that most regal and legal of intoxicants often brings on an intriguing combination of joys: the non-judgemental recollection of memories good and ill, and the sheer enjoyment of the present state. My peers were told frequently, through mediums direct and indirect, that to base one's present pleasure on pleasures long past is to do a disservice to the present and future, but I submit that this is not the case during an intoxicated evening. The act of recollection is a mere facet of the moment's immediate sensory abandonment, and exultation of past engagements shares equal time and relevance with attention to the moment at hand.
I wonder if this is in part due to one of the common effects of all intoxicants, namely the inhibition of the mind's ability to track the passage of time. This is not unique to artificial chemicals; consider an analogous situation: two young persons entertain one another in courtship. Presuming the evening goes well, in that the conversation and travel of the pair is unhindered by anything other than hope and growing affection, vast tracts of time may vanish, and much of that time will, in the common scenario, be spent discussing the past. In fact, as the length of time spent courting increases, the discussion moves toward events increasingly further in the past, until the focus shifts toward the summary interpretation of those events upon the current state mind. Yet, when the courtship itself is recalled at a later date, it is not so much these discussions that are recalled, but the content of action and events that provided the context of the courtship.
Alcohol is simply a much less demanding courtship with oneself, and whomever occupies the immediate vicinity. As the breaking of inhibition progresses, I argue that the memories that compose an individual cease to become as much memories, but take their natural, unreflected place in the current composition of the individual's personality. Memories integrate naturally with flow of thought, and, more importantly, with the flow of expression, and the discussion of memory is used, and acknowledged, as contribution to the moment, and not necessarily an act of narcissistic self-validation.
I am aware that this is not always the case. Indeed, narcissistic exposition (a sin I have committed no small number times) is the common description included in many a case against drinking, or against others' drinking. I suggest that the balance of memory and moment I describe stems in part from the natural balance of person's disposition, but that the act of drink can and will redistribute that inherent balance, for better or worse, but in drinking among many, the new balance brought by drinking noticeably slips toward one that engages a communal spirit more than personal affirmation.
It is at this juncture that I must, in the spirit of honesty, admit to having drained a fair number of spirits over the course of writing this piece. I feel this will lend a hand to the quality of the commentary, even if it lends some unsteadiness to the hand. At the moment, I feel a slight tingle, and most curious, a fair amount of relief from several issues which have weighed no small burden on my mind of late. It seems cliche to accuse alcohol of lifting spirits (whether they should be lifted or not, given circumstance), yet I wonder at the mechanism for this transformation of emotion. Losing an ability to care, release of inhibiting doubt, and a certain warmth of the body come into play at varying points of awareness, yet loss of wariness seems insufficient to account for an immediate improvement of disposition.
Unless, the relief spirits provide is relief from another kind of bothersome spirit: that ghost in the mind that accounts for the "second guess" and all the most prevalent forms of existential despair. For too much thought, above all else, promotes a pondering of possible events to a handful of graceful outcomes, and a much grander host of unpleasant futures.
Still, this alone shouldn't account for alcohol's hold on the member of joy... perhaps I choose my metaphors unwisely... this alone shouldn't account for spirits' natural improvement of spir... mood. Perhaps it is a loosening of the tongue... or mind. Perhaps the loosening of the mind loosens the tongue. Or vice versa. Vice... versa. Versa's'o'vice. Versususus. Vice versus versas? Vice vs. Verse.
But I digress. Vice is a good topic. Seems odd, yes? that alcoholism is a vice. Well, no, I mishpeak, that aloholsaverse. Alcoholism's nosso good. But when this life's so cold, and it's bloody cold, cold as a bitch's witch, a good drink warms the liver... liveliness, and makes butterflies out of soup. Or the other way round. Or backwards. Alcohol good. That's the point. I think. The point of what. Sword? Strange saying. I wouldn't be so interested in the point if it was the point of a sword. Seems like the edge will do the job anyway. Wonder if club cultures have points.
Vummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Yes. Alcohol. Shgreat. I love you all. Every freaking one of you. Cept that guy in the corner. He's a bastard. Mummy had a few too many when she spit him out. Yeah, what? Go back to your damn drink. I'm jusht being honest. Straight. Alcohol makes you straights. Straightish. Doessit mean queers's crooked? Bent? Whassat allsbout? Nawww. Don wannem marry em off. Thas what you do with daughters, why not everyone elsh you don't like? What was I saying. You all look soooo... what's that word. Good. Gorgeous. Except you. But you... well... I could squeeze those all night. C'mon. Love. Alcoholshlove. And niceness. Nice. Why can't we jushtbe niceish? No one's gettin nailed to any treesh here... you... you'd have to go all... the way way to park to find a tree. Too late for hardware stroe... sot... storesh. Ands'cold. Better to be nice. Could be nice to you. Really nice.
Truthsh? You again. Lemme tell you bout truthsh. Truthsh'sh whatcher lookin at. Swat yer lookinthrough. Swat you wanna see. Alcoholsh good for truts. Trute. Tru-UTH. Whatever you call it. Makes you true. Truetowhat you lookin throughs. Wordsh are nothing. Swat you're saying. What you mean. Truthsh with a CAPitual T, huh? Yeah why not. This bitch i'n't capitulating anyway. I remember sis girl, right? She's copulituated. Copulituated like the fuckin movies. Nah, other moviesh. She wassa cunt. But fuck, y'know? Fuck. No. No TURUUEth. Juswhatchu see. Truthshs whas left when you starsh forgettin how to hide whas you mean. Forgettin to say all the thingsh around what you're sayin. Just sayin what you're sayin. Thash trush. Whas left when you're not thinkin hard enough. Fuckit. Going shome. S'fuckin cold.