My hands keep working pretty well when I'm drinking. My ADHD mind is more problematic.
by Bill Mehlman
I've tried to avoid this, largely because I think that according to whatever code of scribal ethics I do, or should, observe, it's reprehensible.
Nonetheless — and this might well have summat to do with my having read about one of my literary heroes, W.H. Auden, sitting in a dive bar on St. Mark's Place sucking down the VSOP all day long, no doubt fending off propositions from Ginsberg, writing away. I can't do it. I believe I've made that clear.
If I haven't, here's the dilly-o. My hands keep working pretty well when I'm drinking. My ADHD mind is more problematic. Of course, my mind is problematic in the best of situations. I sure as hell can't control it.
So it's snowing here in Gotham. It would be an excellent night to find a nice ginmill and spend the rest of the evening consuming a pride of beers and a couple of packs of Marlboros. Except for (1) I don't smoke any more and (2) even if I did, you can't light up in bars here in the city.
There were a couple of pints in the refrigerator when I got home from tai chi, and they went fast, so I had a couple more. All to the good. I can feel the universe narrowing, feel my interest in my own thoughts burgeoning, and feel the external noise fading away. The thirst is far from satisfied, amigos. But that's it for tonight. I know where I stand, and where I'd stand, or flop, if I had a couple more pints. Nowhere good, I assure you.
The issue of creating, even on the abcedarian level at which I compose, and drinking is complex. It's like juggling sushi knives. One slip and you're not witty, you're exsanguinating. Remember the scene in Deer Hunter where Walken was playing Russian roulette? Not quite so severe, but a loss is a loss.
So I'll be signing off now, chillin' like Bob Dylan. When I review this tomorrow, I may have more to say.