Rainy day music is needed, though we’re more apt to get snow. I wouldn’t know if either is happening, as I spend every day in the basement, working from home.
But rainy day music is called for just the same. Melancholy, doldrums, dolorous ennui. No reasons required, oh no, not for my psyche. These are the days that call for a bottle of Jamieson, sipped neat and nursed so you can find that fine line betwixt sense and oblivion, that comfortable numbness as you watch the world move in slow shadows and shades.
You hold that center point long enough and it is likely you will find more than a few ghosts that will sit down and share a couple of fingers with you, tell you their story before moving on. Most of those stories are as maudlin as those you are keeping to yourself. No one wants to here those stories, even were you to divulge them — too frightening and final.
I miss those ghostly conversations, but Jamieson will have to wait until I am on my deathbed and don’t give a fuck about staying sober.
I hated how they treated my alcoholic grandfather when he was in hospice. The family wouldn’t let him have a drink (cirrhosis is what what killing him). I smuggled a bottle of Windsor to him when no one was looking and gave it to the nurse, who made sure he didn’t drink it all at once. He was already one foot in the grave, dammit — let him have his poison those final couple of days.
They got mad when they found out. It didn’t change my black sheep status one wit. My grandfather told me for the first time ever that he loved me, so I still notched it as a win — even though it may have been the booze he loved more.
But I’m going to put it into my goddamn living will that if I am in hospice, I will be allowed beer and/or good whiskey. Maybe a Cuban cigar.
I’m going to the darklands
To talk in rhyme
With my chaotic soul
As sure as life means nothing
And all things end in nothing
And heaven I think
Is too close to hell