Drunk a Bit


“To sit alone or with a few friends, half-drunk under a full moon, you just understand how lucky you are; it’s a story you can’t tell. It’s a story you almost by definition, can’t share. I’ve learned in real time to look at those things and realize: I just had a really good moment.”

— Anthony Bourdain, In his Final Interview

What a great photo and wonderful sentiment. Interesting how so many people in their comments objected to the “half drunk,” feeling that something was lost due to the alcohol consumption. I took the time to explain that there are so many things to be drunk on besides alcohol. The wine of the Universe, or Rumi’s drunk on Spirit (and he was always drunk) as examples.

So today:

The Irish soda bread is back! I overindulged and ended with a lump for a stomach.

I got pink chopsticks at China Wok to use with my fried rice. They are wonderful.

It snowed. Today it is winter when it has been spring for a week with temperatures in the high 60s. And the birds were carrying on while the old folks had opened their windows. It’s rather fun…spring…winter…spring…winter. Nothing is permanent.

And why, so many people wonder, did Bourdain kill himself? Because it never leaves, that blackness that travels underneath. Always it comes back to that. No matter where you go or what distraction occupies you, sooner or later, it calls. That thud. The landing. And you feel it surround you and you are alone with it. That black anchored pull. Sometimes you just can’t fight your way out.

I wonder if as many people understand that as do not. Maybe as many as those who get drunk on the Universe. Maybe as many as those who dance with Spirit.

Happy Birthday

To one of our fine fellows, as posted by Poetic Outlaws. And we do wish that he had chosen to remain with us, but the monster inside would just not be silent. It was not of mean spirit that he stopped his life here. When the torment cannot be withstood or silenced by alcohol or drugs or personal heavens, then the only option is suicide. Did you know that by far the depressive’s way out is a gunshot to the head? To silence the monster.


It’s not always what it seems, this depression thing. It’s a matter of yes but then you’re not talking about what is called “clinical depression,” or the big D. Lao is the man, as is Buddha, as is the Tao for the get-up-in-the-morning-and-sing variety of depression.

But the decent into the Great Blackness—which is a very different color of Black—that’s something else entirely. When your mind takes hold of itself into a grip with an iron fist that repeats words and phrases and threats and obscenities that are more than a word like Torture can convey, that’s Depression. Imagine buried alive in a coffin of darkness. Imagine a jail filled with horrors beyond Bosch. When the only way out is to silence the thought-hell entirely, that’s Depression.

Whatever. When not there you do not want to conjure it. It’s the film-flam of the Devil. So until then, Lao Tzu will do. Until then, this works.


Posted by Quantum World