We’ll have to drink despair out of us. Deliquesce it. Let it flow away. Turn it into exhilaration. We’re good at that.
We’ve never drunk enough, that’s the problem. To release philosophy. To let it flow through us and away.
And our drinking is part of it. Our drinking is necessary.
Descent. To reach chthonic rivers. Rivers that pass through the earth. That descend.
Rivers that only we can reach. Flows that only we know about. That catch us up – only us. That steam through all things. Secret currents, to which we are attuned.
We are part of it, somehow. We belong to it, who knows how or why. We’re of it. We’re its ambassadors on earth. We’re its avatars. But only when we drink! Only when we keep up our drinking! Only on our endless nights.
Alcoholism – pfff. It’s training. We’re travelling. There’s somewhere we need to get to. And this is our means.
There’s a journey we have to take. Our trial. Our hero’s journey. Our drunken journey. Which begins tonight. And every night.
Our vehicle. On wine’s wings.
There’s a capacity for drinking – for great drinking – which we had, according to Cicero.
Positively Eastern European, she called them. Reminded her of home, she said. Are we sure we didn’t have any Hungarian blood in us?
We were like Hungarian peasants, she said. Something of the gypsies that will survive civilization. Though of course, our survival skills had probably been bred out of us. A great shame, Cicero thought.
Work in Progress 