Drunken Ramblings As How I Wrote Them on 7/9/25

Disclaimer: This body of work I typed while inebriated on scotch and coke, this is exactly how I typed it, typos and mistakes included. I aim to keep the viscerality of it intact.



Happiness upon sobriety and hapiness upon inebriation? Nay. Meer contentment in my head and spirits as the pains and sufferings and worries of the world wash away under a blanket of hard satisying hooch. An alcoholic some might call this, others a Drunk, but I simply call it my mind. A mind that races is soothed by the calling of Johnnie, Jim, and Jack. A refreshment of ancient times calms the mind of a writer, a poet, a soul seeking entity the likes of Kerouacian at heart and Cassadian at mind. Mayhaps it lead to an early grave but while the time betwixt said grave and birth of the being well lived, well worth it it be. I now pause to take another shot.


Westward in nature the same as Westward in mind. As the skies of the desertive west of America opens like an endless can so too does the mind. Earth nature and Human nature are nestled in the same nest, meant to be curated and nurtured one in the same, grown together, a yin and yang so to speak. The West, it's unobstructed vast skies is more than a natural beauty and wonder, its a Mind's Eye opening call to freedom of the mind. A mind must be completely free so as to speak its true truths upon the world. It needs its perfect environment to grown and prosper and unleash. Cultivate the man he is meant to be, build his destiny, whatever destiny that is to be we do not know, but if we build it, it will come (Field of Dreams).


The human brain acts much like a book or tome, its pages unending, the pen or pencil still at write until the story comes to a close, until death rings its blackened bell and our souls are chartered to its chosen resting place. The pen is in our hand, as the popular saying goes. Mayhaps our endings are written in stone upon birth, but that isn't to say we just idle by and let it occur, whatever we change so to changes the stone, the Creator that wrote our stories did so in pencil so that with ever inherently human choice we make, he or she can erase and edit. That is life, that is the true nature. Pause for another swallow of goldne nectared booze.


Often times I find myself questuoned life, it's reasonings, and its meaning. But I always find myself venturing back to the answer I forged many moons ago: life is simply what you make it. Sorry tonot have a more mystifying answer, but I find that answers often lie in what is directly in frint of you, simplicity is the best teacher and it provides majority of the answers. Whatever YOU choose life to be is your meaning, within human reason I shouldn't have to add. If one chooses to live a life of work, have a wife, raise kids, have the two story house in Suburbia, with the shiny cars and the picket fence then so be it, that is their human choice and a damn good one. That is their meaning of life. Should one choose a life of peregrination, a life of footing it on the road from one place to another, then so be that their meaning. However one chooses to spend their God given life is their meaning, thus is humanity.


A red label flashes upon me as I sit back and wonder where this is leading and where to turn to next. To be honest, I have no idea. I'm merely undertaking a drunken bout of spontaneous prose, a chance to type and type away while spilling my heart (not guts so as to keep things clean) upon a notepad so as to say what I mean and yet say nothing at all (not to be confused with the Keith Whitley song). It's my philosphy in writing that if one just says what comes to mind when it comes to mind then they are writing. It may not be the conventional wat of doing so, but Hell with that. Must everything require rules and regulations? Why must poetry rhyme when the world never does? The natural rhyme is coincidence and while coincidence does exist, why abse upon it? Just write, write what your mind, heart, soul,  what that ether world beyonf us tells you too, and in my eyes, that is the truest of writing. I think I'll pause now to rest my neck, perhaps swig another snoot of hacha! 


Sanctum cubiculi mei, sanctity in my room. I return from a trip to the kitchen for a snack of pineapple slice, as well as a sojourn to the back porch for rest and to wave my father off to work to earn his sorry dollars. While out there my cat came up and I pet her. I find myself daydreaming of a cat's life. Oh to wander the streets and alleys, spending my days frolicking and exploring, fucking and fighting (its all the same according to late Bradley Nowell). To be a cat in the wild must feel as pure if freedom as one can attain. Much life Buck in Call of the Wild, to give into your natural instinct to hunt, to kill, to eat, to run and jump, to venture the wilds as a free being is a dream many dare not to dream and fewer realize. That is my dream. To be aboslutely free, or as close to it as I can in this modernity we call the Future. Damn the Future, I want what was!


I know I type and talk and bore of my want to travel in almost every piece I write, but its because that feeling burns so  bright and so hot within me. I want it, I need it, I yearn for and desire it. Pause for another swig, a small one with chaser of that Georgian soda. Recently I spoke in prose of how I wish to find my tribe, a group of likeminded people, people who write and share and poem their true unediting thoughts and feelings. A group I can be the true me in, the sober me, the drunken me, the sociably and unsociable me, the me. I have had this dream, both in sleep and whilst day dreaming of being in the desert, the night sky engulfing view like a blanket of theatrics, a campfire cracks in the middle of a gaggle of parked vans. And amongst the flames are us, this tribe I preach of. Music fills the air and we're drinking and drugging, smoking and festivaling, we're simply living. I'm drunk, and I'm high, and I'm with a girl and she is beyond beautiful. We're singing, and dancing, and laughing, we're being. That is my dream, to find my tribe of people I can let loose with, be myself and they truly understand, share my stories and prose and poetry with and they truly get it. I feel as thought the Wes tholds my tribe, as the West has always been the calling card for the romantic and the explorer, since the days of conquistadors, and mountain men, and cowboys, the hitchhiker and the rodeo man. The West calls to me as it did thousands and millions before. Now I must pause to let my meowin' storm of a cat out and to perhaps indulge once a'more in that spicy liquid known Walker.


The pussy doth free, but I have yet to shoot another shot. Mayhaps I'll take an extended break of drinking and musicing to revamp my thoughts and energy. Til then.

Comments

  1. GussoOctober 13, 2025 at 2:15 AM

    You are a good influence. I need that in this world of harsh realities. I am an author and I hope to be frenz. I come with no expectations or anticipation, I am here only for the need for human connection that improves my life. Nice to meet you, I am a "poor communicator, who is rich in spirit."

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