more, never-again, agh—What was beautiful and clean yesterday has irrationally and unaccountably changed into a big dreary crock of shit—The hairs on his fingers stare at him like tomb hairs—The shirt and trousers have become glued to his person as tho he was to be drunk forever—The ache of remorse sinks in as tho somebody was pushing it in from above—The pretty white clouds in the sky hurt his eyes only—The only thing to do is turn over and lie face down and weep—The mouth is so blasted there’s not even a chance to gnash the teeth—There’s not even strength to tear the hair.
And here comes Ron Blake starting off his new day singing at the top of his voice—I go down by the creek and throw myself in the sand and lie looking with sad eyes at the water which no longer friends me but sorta wants me to go away—There isnt a drop to drink left in the cabin, all the goddamn jeeps are gone with all its healthy cargo of people and I'm alone with an enthusiastic kid on a lark—The little bugs I'd saved from drowning just because I was bemused and alone and glad, now drown unnoticed within my reach anyway—The spider is still minding his own business in the outhouse—Alf lows mournfully in the valley far away to express just the way I feel—The bluejays yak around me as tho because I’m too tired and helpless to feed them any more they’re figuring on trying me if they can, “They’re friggin vultures anyway” I moan with my mouth in the sand—The once pleasant thumpthump gurgle slap of the creek is now an endless jabbering of blind nature which doesnt understand anything in the first place—My old thoughts about the silt of a billion years covering all this and all cities and generations eventually is just a dumb old thought, “Only a silly sober fool could think it, imagine gloating over such nonsense” (because in one sense the drinker learns wisdom, in the words of Goethe or Blake or whichever it was “The pathway to wisdom lies through excess”)—But in this condition you can only say “Wisdom is just another way to make people
