I Like a Glass of Good Bourbon

I like a glass of good bourbon–every now and again. 

I like the velvety fire of just a sip at a time, curling across my tongue and unfurling into nothingness like oak-flavored smoke. 

I like the way a glass will give a mischievous glow to the more shaded corners of the mind, the way the Trivial and the Mundane seem to fall away, revealing the Important, the Meaningful, the Relevant and True. I like the way words are less of a struggle to let go of,  just enough inhibition removed to let them flow like fresh honey from the comb.

I like the slow burn as the bourbon blazes down into the depths of my body and sparks warmth across my flesh, and I like the faint brush of dew across my forehead seeking to quench that heat. 

I like the clarity that comes with knowing you’re a little fuzzy. The dichotomy of the experience.


Dancing Gracelessly

I hate the days that drag, the days I wish I could fast forward through. I hate how much I would miss out on if I could. 

How much do I miss out on, toe-tapping through the intolerably long hours, though? Trying to distract myself through cruel eons of tedium? Being present in the moment is a struggle right now. 

This year has been rough to be present through. A car crash, repeated injuries and illnesses, the loss of a coworker, the loss of THREE kids I’ve worked with in 6 weeks…it’s been heavy. Keeping my eyes forward, focused on achieving The Bright and Less Distant Future, has been all there is. 

It’s funny, sitting here in limbo, outlasting the days between now and that bit that gets built up in my head as The Beginning of The Rest of My Life…it feels stagnant, boring, oppressive like humidity. Three months, Autumn. Three more months, and you start walking that road.

Trying to string my thoughts together into coherent ideas has been harder than normal, and it’s creating some anxiety for me; words are my thing. Words are where I dance, graceless as I am in my physical movements. So to struggle with words is to feel extremely off-balance. 

In my frustration, it seems it would be nice to not care how the words come out, to regurgitate them before me and see them for what they are and make sense of it all afterward. But I do care, and so, in the absence of effective words ready to fall flashing brightly from the tip of my tongue (or pen, or keyboard), I fall silent. 

Silence can only be maintained for so long, though, before the excess builds up and spills out as Flighty, Distracted, Disorganized. It gets labeled “Quirky” and I continue to search for appropriate outlets for it. 

It’s been a few months of struggling to find the words and manage the excess madness. Here’s to happily finding words again, and to finding outlets for quirks, should the words fail me again.