There are nights when all is quiet
and the moon comes through the blinds
to leave a beam of moonlight
with a bluish tint across the sheets on my bed
or the whiteness on my face.
The blanket is off of me, and then on,
and then off again.
I am up, of course, and awake as usual.
I am thinking of random things
which somehow multiplies
into other thoughts
that take on a direction of their own.
And here it is, another day in Paradise.
They say that we are expecting a solar eclipse
which should happen at some point
down here in Purgatory; in which case,
the world has gone mad,
and everyone is expecting the worst.
Maybe this is a combination of controversy,
like say, the earthquake, which just took place
and the problems we have with
both social and medical diseases.
It’s the end of the world, some say.
But I’ve been through the end of the world
more times than I can count.
I was thinking about a man I knew.
This was a person from my days of “way back,”
as in way back when I was young
and sifting through the ideas of life or manhood,
or what it means to be a man,
or what it takes to stand up straight
and take the heat.
I can say that he was a friend.
I can say that he was young,
as far as old men go.
He was charismatic and wealthy,
and there was always someone around
to bail him out—both literally
and figuratively speaking.
We met in the drunk rooms
where people go to clean themselves up
and withdraw or, at least for the moment,
this is where people go to dry out
or get out of trouble
or play pretend, as if,
this is what they want to do now;
to quit drinking, follow this thing, we called
“the 12 steps,”
and save their liver or their lives,
at least for a little while.
I remember him well,
and with a smile. He was kind and crazy,
to say the least,
but he was unlike anyone else
I had ever met before.
He quoted Grateful Dead songs.
He knew that his position was unsettled
and as for drinking, his view was simple.
He would compare his drinking to be something like,
“Great sex with a bad girlfriend,”
and no matter how bad she was to him,
or how low she took him,
or hurt she left him,
he couldn’t let her go—the drinking,
I mean.
It’s just a box of rain, was his typical quote.
Of course, this was his Grateful Dead quote,
which he frequently used,
regardless of
if the news he’d receive was good or bad.
“It’s just a box of rain.”
I was thinking about my old friend
and wondered where he is now—if at all,
he is anywhere, alive, I mean
and I wondered if he would remember me.
I wondered if he would remember our talks
or the times we spent in the drunk rooms,
or the late night talks we had
about rolling up cigarettes,
or taking doses to see colors
for hours on end.
I wonder if he would remember us
talking about old times
or the thrills that neither of us could shake
or stop on our own.
It was interesting to see him go from dark to light
or happy to sad, to which he would return to his
charismatic ways, as if to laugh off his pain.
I was interesting to know the ins and outs
of his humor,
or to see him go from hopeful to doubtful,
and how he’d tell me a story from his life, wild and crazy,
yet—the romance between him
and his illness was life threatening and sad,
but like he said—it’s like having great sex
with a bad girlfriend.
You feel good when you feel good,
but when you’re down, you’re down low; that is
until the drink lifts you up again, or in his context,
until the bad girlfriend offers you some skin,
then when the thrill is gone
and the juice is spent,
you’re down so low again that you can hardly stand it!
And you swear off “the life”
if for no other reason
than to regain some kind of sanity.
“Ah, but she knows me too well,” he used to tell me.
“She knows my little hiccups and my tricks.”
“And I know hers too—and I know when she’s lying
but, she’s just so good at it
which is why I just can’t let her go.”
I remember asking him,
“Which? The booze or the bad girlfriend?”
My friend smiled at me
and answered
“You mean, there’s a difference?”
It’s just a box of rain, is what he would say.
And today, it’s just another solar eclipse.
The other day, it was just a little earthquake,
and today, well—
Today is only Monday.
And just like the Grateful Dead used to sing.
“Believe it if you need it . . .
. . . or leave it if you dare.”
I believed it when I needed it.
But I chose to leave it
when I was brave enough
to dare.
The Written Addiction 